A novel's first chapter carries an extra burden. With a compelling first chapter, chances are you'll have a satisfying novel (at least) while a bad first chapter lets readers know that your project isn't worth their time. Bardsy recommends devoting 40% of your effort into perfecting your first chapter for this reason. It's really that important - really. The good news, though, time spent on its development counts double because having a great first chapter makes finishing your novel much easier.

A great first chapter begins your story even as it offers a holistic sample of your novel. In analyzing hundreds (if not thousands) of first chapters, we've discovered four, common-sense specifics necessary to fulfill these two functions:

This piece covers these in some detail; moreover, your book's beginning can't meet these requirements haphazardly; a truly compelling chapter delivers these in a coherent package. Before discussing each, we'll go over its twin missions. Then, we'll attach a quick test that you can use to assess whether your first chapter meets its four requirements at the end.

Obviously, first chapters start stories. More precisely, they introduce your story's elements: character, world, conflict, theme and plot. Further, these five intros must synergize, i.e. work together, to be coherent. And, if you're not familiar with Bardsy's approach, coherence powers success. It, for example, rules out writing long prologues, which ask readers to invest in a false start. (We'll save this topic for another day.)

Beyond introducing the story, your chapter has a less recognized task: to convince a skeptical audience that your novel is worth reading. Indeed, this goal defines the word compelling. Before you recoil in the face of commerce, realize that selling books is just another side of great storytelling. Amazon and other marketing channels take this idea literally; potential readers get one chapter for free. Seize this opportunity; it's your best chance to make a sale. Moreover, don't misinterpret your task; it's not a tease. It's a test drive. Your first chapter must deliver a satisfyingly full taste of your delicious novel.

Think of your first chapter as a promise. It sets expectations of what's to come - the clearer, the better - by letting the reader see what your story's about. This is no trivial task because setting the right expectations determines your novel's success. Initially, your potential reader's purchase depends on how well your first chapter addresses their wants. Put simply, if it tastes right, they'll click buy. After that, the rest of your novel needs only to meet these expectations to make a happy reader. Better yet, exceeding them yields the elusive wow that signals bestseller. Meanwhile, failing to meet those expectations wastes your marketing and generates bad reviews. So, make (and keep) your novel's promise.

Few authors can produce a polished sample early in the writing process. Why? Knowing the story comes before filling in the following slots. Best practice suggests writing a placeholder and returning to it after substantial development. Bardsy's MCS helps! Be prepared to produce (and test) many drafts on your way to success. Further, these drafts should not necessarily be refinements, finding the right first chapter often calls for testing different approaches, radical alternatives in the presenting elements and fitting them together. Again, it's forty percent of your effort. Rest assured: having a chapter that does its job pays off. That said, here are the four requirements.

Every marketing study shows genre to be the leading cause of book purchases. Examine your own experience. Horror readers buy horror books, and readers of mystery, romance and so on follow suit. Crossovers exist (another worthy topic), but the quickest sales come from hitting one of Amazon's roughly hundred thousand genres dead center.

The prerequisites for a bullseye include selecting your genre, committing to it so you understand its conventions and writing to this target. Some authors think that this approach stifles creativity. They want to create something original, often a novel that appeals to multiple kinds of readers. We strongly recommend calibrating your ambition, especially in a debut. It's hard enough to get one genre right, let alone two or, worse, more. Know that a book that "appeals to everyone" will compel no one. Your potential reader wants to enjoy a mystery or fantasy; please them with that kind of great story. Meanwhile, failing to deliver on a genre promise leads to anger. They paid for romance, dragons or whatever; giving them anything else - no matter how good - is false advertising.

This reality dictates that your first chapter, your sample, should confirm a reader's genre expectations. Often this comes in the form of tropes, common category conventions. For example, a fantasy's beginning calls for magic while horror demands a foreboding tone. Don't overdo it; you only have to let the reader know that they're in the right place. Failing to do this, typically by saving the "good stuff" for subsequent chapters, encourages readers to take a pass. Yes, it may be a curse of contemporary society; however, delaying gratification doesn't move merchandise. Readers want to see a demonstration of your skills to make a confident purchase. Can you write a fight or a sexy scene? Show them. There are dozens of competing books no matter how niche your product. Concretely establishing your genre goes a long way to ensuring yours ends up in their cart.

Fortunately, you confirm a genre through your story elements; thus you can pass this hurdle with little extra work so long as the next three items align with your target category.

Successful novels prompt empathy, an emotional state where readers and characters' identities overlap. Truly great novels provoke total overlaps; reader and character become one in a deep empathy we call grokking. Less profoundly, know that your audience looks for themselves in your main characters and vice versa. Strive to make that happen. The opportunity to live vicariously, escape, or (getting technical) simulate another way of being motivates readers; it's fiction's main spring and why reading is so enjoyable and important.

A compelling first chapter kicks off the empathy journey by introducing your main character. We strongly advise against delaying an intro, e.g. prologuing. To be crystal clear, a sample that doesn't feature your main character is a mistake. In addition, the best intros resemble Goldilock's porridge, neither too long nor too short.

Your creature must leap two hurdles in relatively few words: authenticity and investability. To be authentic, readers have to relate to your fictional being as a real person. This first threshold is relatively easy. Humans readily anthropomorphize rocks, so getting readers to do the same for your character doesn't take much. Authenticity, though, is just a first step.

Concentrate, instead, on your character's investability. Either through their identity, situation or both, you have to win the reader's attention. This jumpstarts their willingness to contribute time, money and - most importantly - thought; the latter brings your creation to life. Remember, your character only truly lives inside your audience's mind. Thought leads to all good things: familiarity, love and empathy. Don't bore them with details, like irrelevant backstory. Instead, figure out what few (up to three) story-relevant details tie reader and character. The best selections seduce the reader into seeing the character's experience as their own. Naturally, you must know your character (and audience) well to perform this magic, tasks for which our upcoming guide - Publishable Characters - is immensely helpful.

Your world forms the rest of your novel's foundation. Relationships demand context; put another way, your beings can't exist in a void. Again, not too much. Anchoring your world in the familiar works wonders. A spaceship, for example, can take its cues from an ocean liner. This idea works for historical dramas; fireplaces, gowns and stagecoaches are known though increasingly rare experiences, too. Branch out from this shared background to articulate your world's critical features. Show the reader why this is the only possible setting for your story. A few well-delivered details, such as social hierarchies, weather patterns or technology, does the trick. Aim for an organic welcome by having the most important world fact arise at the outset. Then, steadily yet unobtrusively add a souçon to what's already established. Leave the rest for future chapters.

Your first chapter's worldbuilding is another introduction. It also has to be enticing in terms of the story; after all, it frames every action. Whether your story takes place in our time or one far, far away doesn't matter as much as creating a relevant context that the reader can imagine and embellish with their own details. Put another way, sketch a pertinent picture and let the reader fill in the blanks. With proper framing, they love to exercise their imagination. It's another balancing act. Successful authors portion out information appropriately, providing enough to ground readers but not to overwhelm or bore. Your first chapter should give your audience an intriguing but stable footing, no more.

The old adage holds no conflict, no story. It's true. To provide a real taste and start your story, chapter one must set up its conflict. Conflict supplies the energy it takes for your audience to engage. Put another way, the typical story's other four elements revolve around conflict.

Along with the drama, the conflict you set up confirms the genre, moving the potential reader closer to a confident purchase. Keep in mind that a conflict that sets up one genre may not be as effective in another. An awkward date, for instance, is more devastating than a destroyed planet to certain readers. Everyone seeks conflict that suits their taste. Thus, your conflict has to align with your story, genre and marketing.

Conflict itself is an emergent property, which originates in your story's construction. For example, you engineer a character's goals to pit them against whatever obstacles you place in their way. So, you're not creating the collision, you're setting up the motivations and situations that make collisions inevitable. The leading role vicarious empathy plays in reader satisfaction dictates that conflict involves choice. Your conflict should organically appear in every decision. It's this agency that imbues conflict with psychological meaning. Always, always spell out a character's options, not to mention the stakes. Jointly experiencing these crossroads bond readers to your character.

Clearly, you can't serve the whole conflict enchilada in your first chapter. To be compelling, give the reader enough for them to appreciate the shape of the struggle to come; it also tells them what the story is about. Theme parallels conflict; envision it lurking in the background. In coherent stories, theme and conflict intertwine. Themes make reading a richer experience in providing insight that readers crave. No heavy-handedness; subtly nurture your story's message for it to slowly surface. It should be readily apparent by the novel's end. And, in landing with impact, that message sears your work into the reader's memory. Chapter one needs to point the reader in the right thematic direction with an accurate hint. Once again, this gesture reinforces your genre and sets the reader's expectations.

We've saved sharing your character's first choice, the most important requirement, for last. Center your sample on this deliverable. It's so vital that it gets a name (along with high school English coverage). Say it loud: the inciting incident. Though everyone knows the term, too many authors get it wrong. In constructing this moment, it's a mistake to ignore the choice; in fact the character's decision has to be salient to establish empathy.

Remember, choice gives agency. A coherent story's characters don't bounce from one random event to the next. Likewise, your characters can't be reactive rubber balls (or punching bags). Such caricatures win sympathy (or pity). Empathy demands an illusion of free will, a being who bears responsibility. Of course, the options you construct must have stakes, in line with your genre, for the choice to matter. Make the decision difficult, too; it has to be hard to make the conflict clear. An easy choice is no choice at all. It takes a grave dilemma, one with no good options, to really get readers going. Packing empathy and conflict into your inciting incident yields a winning combination, the final ingredient in a confident purchase.

Constructing your inciting incident is not a sterile, academic exercise. A potential reader has to vicariously experience the choice. For this to happen, the decision, including all the options as well as the stakes, must be apparent. Then, that pivotal moment (and consequences suffered) propels the story. If your plot is a rocket, then this choice is blastoff. A key storytelling tenet holds that each choice should lead to the next. Readers need to see this causality to understand your story to make sense and for it to build. Blastoff leads to a trajectory, taking readers from the inciting incident, through the peak, to your resolution. All words you know, right? With empathy, readers join your ride. If you orchestrate well, they'll gain a satisfying experience with lasting impact. It begins with a memorable opening step, the inciting incident your first chapter presents.

Here's a tip: avoid cliffhangers. The choice and its consequences have to be revealed in full to be a satisfyingly real sample. Sure, it's easy enough to end your first chapter with a cobwebbed door opening and the "to be continued" phrase. More than a majority of readers won't fall for this. They'll see it as a lazy, hackneyed money grab. You need to provide real value in exchange for their time and money.

Time for your bonus: no matter how well you think you've done, only the reader's opinion counts. Coherent storytelling has three steps: fixing the story in your mind, transmitting it to the reader in writing and, finally, letting them experience it. You have no control over the last part apart from the words you write. Your test is whether the reader can find the story within them. This flow applies to first chapters, too. There’s just one way to know if your first chapter ticks all the necessary boxes, and it requires enlisting a friend, family member, or acquaintance.

Have a volunteer read and retell your first chapter. Watch them while they read it and evaluate their facial expressions, looking for signs of confusion. Once they've finished, ask them to re-tell it to you. Note what areas they place emphasis on and which are forgotten. You'll also want to ask them where the story is going and what genre they think it is. Any other questions you ask should be open-ended, such as, "What is the protagonist like?" "What did you learn about the story world?"

If your reader can enthusiastically retell the story, including the essential information about your protagonist, story world, conflict, and theme as well as identify the genre, you’ll know you have a solid first chapter, one that will be a compelling sample. If they can’t, then you’ll know which areas need finessing. Above all, remember that this is a test for you, not the reader, so take care not to lead their answers. Above all, don't think you can perform the test yourself. As the story's creator, you know the story (hopefully). You'll never be able to view it with fresh eyes, so an outsider's perspective is absolutely necessary.

If this seems like a lot, it is. Nevertheless, meeting these requirements, coherently, produces a first chapter that's light years ahead of your competition. Know that with effort, you can do it. Bardsy stands ready with guidance and support. A good first step is to enter our first chapter anthology contest. You'll receive a professional evaluation with recommendations as well as the chance to win money and see your work in print. Keep an eye out for our next contest announcement.