Nabokov's Favorite Word Is Mauve

by Ben Blatt

  Deciding upon such a strict structure, even before the first book in a series has been published, may sound overbearing at first. But what happens when an author doesn’t plan so far in advance? What happens when a new author finds himself with a bestseller on his hands and in need of a series?

  Recent history suggests that establishing a Collins-like structure after the fact is a challenge. Consistency of length is rare. When authors find themselves in a bubble of popularity, book inflation is the norm.

  The clearest example of this phenomenon is Rowling’s Harry Potter series. The first book, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, was released in 1997 and measures in at 309 pages (about 84,000 words). In 1997 interviews, after scoring a six-figure advance for the American rights, Rowling stated that she planned to write seven books. However, until the release of the first book she and her editor had no idea the books would achieve any level of success. The original advance for the first book was under $3,000. At the time J. K. Rowling was an unknown author and there was little fanfare to the event. Ten years later the final book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, was published in what was perhaps the most awaited book release of all time. And that final book was almost two and a half times longer than book one, at 759 pages (about 197,000 words).

  The fourth Harry Potter book was itself more than twice as long as the original and ended up breaking a record for initial print run. Coming off that success Rowling wrote Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. At 870 pages long and three times the length of the original, it turned out to be the longest in the series. While doing publicity for her sixth book, Rowling said in an interview with Time’s Lev Grossman that “I think Phoenix could have been shorter. I knew that, and I ran out of time and energy toward the end.”

  In similar situations, where an author with a hit finds themselves in a publishing pandemonium, the results tend to follow the same trajectory. Consider the Twilight series by Stephenie Meyer, Fifty Shades of Grey by E L James, and Divergent by Veronica Roth. Stephenie Meyer wrote on her blog that as she worked on Twilight she “wasn’t planning a sequel” and Roth said she wrote the Divergent novel as “a stand-alone novel with series potential.” Like Rowling, all three authors had never been published before their first book found a massive audience. And like Rowling, all three wrote longer and longer books as their series progressed.

  Unless there’s a plan in place from the start, in each of these cases the books seem to inch ever bigger (unless, as Rowling did in book six, an author starts to fight back against their own book inflation). And when we look further, we find that it’s not just blockbuster series where book inflation is apparent.

  Amy Tan was 37 years old when her first novel, The Joy Luck Club, was published. Tan was not a known writer but The Joy Luck Club found immediate success in all ways. It was a finalist for the National Book Award and for the National Book Critics Circle Award. It also spent 32 weeks on the New York Times bestseller list. The novel, which is divided structurally into intersecting stories, is not long. It’s 95,000 words and in its first edition was 288 pages.

  Tan’s next book, The Kitchen God’s Wife, was 163,000 words. That’s 70 % longer. Tan has published five books since The Joy Luck Club, though none of them have quite replicated its critical acclaim and popularity. Her first and shortest book remains her best known and best reviewed. Tan’s most recent book is more than twice as long as her breakout hit.

  In 1980, those who award the Pulitzer Prize for fiction started to announce finalists in addition to its winner. Since then, 25 writers have been fortunate enough to see their first novel receive immediate recognition as either a Pulitzer winner or finalist, or as a winner or finalist for the two prestigious awards that honored Tan: the National Book Award and the National Book Critics Circle Award.

  Imagine being a writer who has spent years dreaming of writing a book, selling the novel to a publisher, and then having critics fall in love with it so much that they name it one of the best books of the year. It’s a far-fetched fantasy, but for 25 authors since 1980 it’s been a reality. How did these writers follow up their massive breakthrough success? Of these 25 first-time novelists, 18 came back with a second novel longer than their first. Seven came back with a shorter novel. It turns out that book inflation recurs throughout the literary world.

  Twenty-five cases is not the biggest sample set, but if we want to examine just the case studies in which the author went from an unknown to a literary star overnight then we’re constrained to study a small patch of anomalies. Even so, that 72 % of these authors wrote longer books is a substantial trend.

  The five authors who had their first novel nominated for a Pulitzer all came back with a second novel longer than their first. William Wharton’s first novel, Birdy, was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in 1980. Wharton was over fifty years old when it came out, so it’s not like he didn’t have time to think it over. Still, after a half-century of not publishing anything, he came back three years later with a second novel, Dad, that was more than 40 % longer.

  It’s worth noting that not every increase was as large as Tan’s 70 % leap or Wharton’s 40 %. If we break down the sample more, the results are perhaps a bit clearer. Below I’ve set a 20 % change as the arbitrary barrier between the second novel being “Much Longer” or just “Slightly Shorter” (as well as the barrier between “Much Shorter” or “Slightly Shorter”). Forty-four  percent of these breakout authors, almost half, wrote follow-up books that were “Much Longer.” Only about one in ten authors wrote a follow-up that was “Much Shorter.”

  Book inflation is real, and the examples point to several possible explanations. When a book is as massive a success as Harry Potter there might be less incentive for the author or editor to aim for a shorter book. If the unknown Rowling had written an 870-page version of the first book in 1997, it would likely have had a much harder time getting published (and getting readers to pick it up). But after that first hit, once fans are invested and eager for more, any initial concerns about length become far less pressing. Indeed, by the last few Harry Potter books, many readers didn’t want the adventures to end: more pages (i.e., more story) was a blessing.

  When a writer is starting out, it’s fair to say that there is a bottleneck against the length of books they can readily publish and sell. And if this is the case for a given author, then perhaps their first novel is not “short”; instead the second novel may be “reverting” to the author’s natural book length. Likewise, if you are a breakout literary phenom lavished with praise, maybe you now have the chance to aim for a more epic and ambitious story on the next book than you could afford for your debut. It’s also possible that writers who are nominated for prestigious awards on their first attempt feel they must top themselves to create a separate work of even greater import.

  In the award-winning debut novel sample, it’s impossible to answer if quality declined as length increased. In that sample of 25 writers, by definition, the first books were home runs. And, if only first books with substantial praise are examined, we know the second books will have a lower “batting average,” since there is nowhere to go but down. There would be no way for all 25 authors to maintain their perfect record.

  While the majority of second novels were not as praised, there are a handful of successes among this larger bunch. Marilynne Robinson’s first novel, Housekeeping, was published in 1980 and was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. Her next novel, which came out 24 years later and with about 25 % more words, won the Pulitzer. Alice McDermott’s second novel was 20 % longer but was nominated for the Pulitzer just as her first was. There isn’t enough data to say book inflation is bad. All that is certain is that even among literary authors, word counts creep upward after a first hit.

  Whether you are J. K. Rowling or Amy Tan, book inflation is common. Stephen King’s debut book, Carrie, was a massive hit and since then he has published over fifty novels under his own name. Only three have been shorter than Carr
ie. Romance writer Nicholas Sparks was an unknown when he was paid $1 million for his first published novel, The Notebook. His 17 books since have all been at least 25 % longer. A successful author can publish books of whatever length and scope they please, and if their goal is to explore a bigger creative space, then perhaps the extra length is needed in many cases. But no matter who you are, before you write in that extra character or plot twist, it might be smart to take note of the trend that book inflation reveals—and perhaps to remember the simplicity that got you to great heights in the first place.

  * * *

  I. According to a 2013 Mental Floss article, the paperback version, released a year after the hardcover, was responsible for most of the huge sales volume.

  II. In cases where writers work as a true pair, the first author listed on the cover was considered as the “author” in the chart—even if there is no other indication of him or her being the primary author.

  “That was the first sentence. The problem was that I just couldn’t think of the next one.”

  —CHARLIE IN THE PERKS OF BEING A WALLFLOWER, BY STEPHEN CHBOSKY

  What makes a great opening sentence?

  In response to a question on Twitter about her favorite first sentence in literature, novelist Margaret Atwood answered: “ ‘Call me Ishmael.’ Three words. Power-packed. Why Ishmael? It’s not his real name. Who’s he speaking to? Eh?”

  Many consider the opening to Moby Dick to be the best first sentence of all time. It’s one of a handful of openers that people are expected to know and recognize. Almost any list of either the best or most iconic novel first sentences ever written will include Call me Ishmael.

  Atwood’s justification—“Three words. Power-packed”—tapped into a common sensibility. Stephen King, in a 2013 interview with The Atlantic, cited his favorite three openers, and they averaged a mere six words long. Brevity can make for a phenomenal opening.

  But what do the numbers say? In each book, a writer only gets one first sentence. What do you do with that opportunity? Do you go long or do you keep it short? Is one better, statistically, than the other?

  As a first step, I looked at what each writer in my sample has chosen to do throughout his or her career. The results, to no surprise, vary enormously.

  The median opener in Atwood’s 15 novels is a compact nine words. Her first lines to The Handmaid’s Tale (“We slept in what had once been the gymnasium”) and MaddAddam (“In the beginning, you lived inside the Egg”) are typical of her style. And openers like “Snowman wakes before dawn” and “I don’t know how I should live” lower her tally even further.

  Nine words, as a median length, is on the extreme low end of the scale when it comes to first sentences. Atwood’s median is just one-third that of a writer like Salman Rushdie, whose median opener measures 29 words. Here’s his 29-word opening to Shame.

  In the remote border town of Q, which when seen from the air resembles nothing so much as an ill-proportioned dumb-bell, there once lived three lovely, and loving, sisters.

  That’s a lot more clauses than any of Atwood’s. Much like Rushdie, Michael Chabon goes long, holding a median length of 28 words. Out of the seven novels he has written, three have had openers of lengths of 41, 52, and 62 words. Only one of the seven has an opening sentence shorter than the average sentence length in the rest of the book.

  Chabon and Rushdie are closer to typical than Atwood. Compared to the 31 other writers in my sample with at least five books to their name, Atwood comes in as the writer with the second-shortest first sentences, just behind Toni Morrison.

  AUTHORS WITH SHORTEST FIRST SENTENCES

  MEDIAN LENGTH

  Toni Morrison

  5

  Margaret Atwood

  9

  Mark Twain

  11

  Dave Eggers

  11

  Chuck Palahniuk

  11.5

  AUTHORS WITH LONGEST FIRST SENTENCES

  MEDIAN LENGTH

  Jane Austen

  32

  Vladimir Nabokov

  29

  Salman Rushdie

  29

  Michael Chabon

  28

  Edith Wharton

  28

  Only authors with five books were included. The variation is high when each book only has one data point.

  Some authors have no set pattern in their first sentences: The first sentence in Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities (the one that starts off “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”) measures in at 119 words, 17 commas, and an em-dash. The first sentence to his A Christmas Carol is six words: “Marley was dead: to begin with.” Both sentences are classics.

  But the data reveals definite choices in other authors’ careers. Including her 2015 novel, God Help the Child, Toni Morrison has written 11 books. Here are her opening sentences—she likes to keep it brief.

  Toni Morrison’s First Sentences

  The Bluest Eye (1970)

  Here is the house.

  Sula (1973)

  In that place, where they tore the nightshade and blackberry patches from their roots to make room for the Medallion City Golf Course, there was once a neighborhood.

  Song of Solomon (1977)

  The North Carolina Mutual Life Insurance agent promised to fly from Mercy to the other side of Lake Superior at three o’clock.

  Tar Baby (1981)

  He believed he was safe.

  Beloved (1987)

  124 was spiteful.

  Jazz (1992)

  Sth, I know that woman.

  Paradise (1997)

  They shoot the white girl first.

  Love (2003)

  The women’s legs are spread wide open, so I hum.

  A Mercy (2008)

  Don’t be afraid.

  Home (2012)

  They rose up like men.

  God Help the Child (2015)

  It’s not my fault.

  While individual authors vary widely in their choices about first sentences, a larger trend emerges when we look at the 31 authors as a whole. Of all the books they’ve written, 69 % of these books begin with first sentences that are longer than the average sentence throughout the rest of the book. That is, the standard choice for authors is to write long rather than short for their openers.

  Does this disprove the theory that short is better, boiling it down to just a matter of personal choice? Or does this mean that most authors should cut down on their winding introductions?

  To find out, I decided to go one step further and look at what are considered the “best” opening lines in literature. I’ve gone through eight different publications that ranked the “best” or “most memorable” first sentences. Twenty openers were on four of these lists, a consensus. Below are those twenty openers.

  The 20 Best First Sentences in Literature

  BOOK/AUTHOR

  FIRST SENTENCE

  Pride and Prejudice / Jane Austen

  It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

  Moby Dick / Herman Melville

  Call me Ishmael.

  Lolita / Vladimir Nabokov

  Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.

  The Bell Jar / Sylvia Plath

  It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York.

  Anna Karenina / Leo Tolstoy

  Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

  1984 / George Orwell

  It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.

  The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn / Mark Twain

  You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter.

  Murphy / Samuel Beckett

  The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.

 
Ulysses / James Joyce

  Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.

  The Stranger / Albert Camus

  Mother died today.

  Slaughterhouse-Five / Kurt Vonnegut

  All this happened, more or less.

  A Tale of Two Cities / Charles Dickens

  It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

  Gravity’s Rainbow / Thomas Pynchon

  A screaming comes across the sky.

  One Hundred Years of Solitude / Gabriel García Márquez

  Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.

  The Trial / Franz Kafka

  Someone must have slandered Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything truly wrong, he was arrested.

  The Catcher in the Rye / J. D. Salinger