Great first sentences are tough to come up with. That's why we'd like to dedicate this contest to examining the first sentence of your novel.

Here's the total deal:

In an email with the subject line: FIRST SENTENCE CONTEST, send us the opening line of your novel.

Format of email: Opening sentence, genre, finished or unfinished novel, brief synopsis (think back of a book) if you can come up with one easily. That's it. Send to flourishediting at gmail.com. Remember the correct subject line, or it might get lost in our inbox.

Does it have to be a finished novel? Well, we have no real way of knowing, but if it's a sentence you made up out of context, it may or may not be good. So please have at least half the novel written before you send the sentence.

Any genre of fiction; memoir is also acceptable.

Top three entries will receive a free critique of their first chapter and we will post the top three first sentences here with authors' names.

We will also post a list of reasons why the sentences submitted were most commonly eliminated. This information will be anonymous and without actual sentences, but may be helpful to you as you hone your manuscripts.

DEADLINE: January 30th. Sentences will be judged by February 7th. Rewards will be awarded by February 14th.

Send us your sentences!

The title of editor can apply to a person performing a number of different tasks. Acquisitions editors seek out stories and novels for publication. Copy editors make corrections to text, varying from fixing typos to cutting out unnecessary or confusing language. A proofreader simply looks for any small flaws in a final text. (Strictly speaking, a proofreader compares the publisher's final layouts to the printer's proof pages, to make sure the printers got everything correct.)

So what do we do here at Flourish?

We address the issues in a manuscript that weaken your story, novel, or non-fiction manuscript. Our primary job is not to find typos. Depending on what service we agree on, we'll make notes on your manuscript that will help you understand how to resolve the most significant issues in the writing on a line, paragraph, scene, and story basis. These could be flaws in logic, inconsistencies of fact, or incorrect usage of words. There might be issues with the organization of a paragraph -- or of a whole series of events. Fiction traps we commonly encounter include characterization errors, scene structure, and overuse of exposition, also known as summary narration. We deal with every aspect of the writing, from pacing, tension, purple prose, appropriateness of tone, and unclear tense, to genre requirements, plot structure, and more.

What an editor doesn't do is totally rewrite your story to make it "correct". An editor marks up your text to point out areas that need work, and provides all the guidance you need to fix the problems that exist. Small edits might be made in red for you to agree or disagree with, of course. The difference between an unedited manuscript and an edited manuscript can be quite startling.

We do all this while trying to maintain the author's voice. It's all about making you shine, after all. If there isn't a clear authorial voice at the beginning, then often by the time we're finished, in collaboration with the author, it will have become clear.

In other words, what we do is what the story editors at large publishing houses do, except that those editors only work with writers they've already agreed to publish. We can help all writers who want to become professional develop the chops to achieve that goal. In the short run, the work we do with you will help you improve your story. In the long run, it will make you a better writer. Of course, that requires you to do some work yourself.

Many of our clients have gone on to get published. Several have signed contracts with small presses. One was published by Harlequin, and her novel has been nominated for an award. Harlequin Teen wanted another client's novel, but she had already sold it elsewhere before they got back to her.

The thing is, we really care how you do. We want what you want. That is, we want you to be happy with the finished piece and we hope that readers and publishers, if you decide to submit to them, will like it too.

by Salome Jones

This week Elmore Leonard passed away. He was 87. It was a great loss to literature. Mr. Leonard, who lived in Detroit for his entire life, was a fine writer of pulp fiction.

His ten rules for writing have been passed around on various websites including social media these last few days, and one of the rules inspired this post.

I want to talk about Rule 6: 'Never use the words ''suddenly'' or ''all hell broke loose.'''

Mr. Leonard says in his notes that this rule doesn't require explanation, yet this or something very like it has required explanation to my writing students more times than I can count.

At this moment, I just want to talk about my own use of the word 'suddenly' in the context of its use elsewhere. This isn't intended as an argument for peppering your prose with time adverbs. But rules always have a tendency to be over-applied by some. It seems prudent to determine the spirit of the rule and where it might differ from its letter.

I'm going to be a heretic now (please forgive me, Elmore Leonard) and say that you may use the word suddenly on occasion. Fire will not rain down on you from the sky. Your lodgings will not crumble to dust. Your readership won't abandon ship in spite of all the sharks clearly visible in the dark waters of not reading your book. Your lover* won't kick you out of bed (*possibly excepting a purist like Damien G. Walter).

On rediscovering Mr. Leonard's rules, I began thinking about the word 'suddenly'. I was sure I'd seen it in the book I've been working on most recently. I often edit it out of my clients' work, but what about my own work? When might I feel justified at leaving it in and... well, was I justified?

I did a search for the word in the two books I'm working on. One of them is a collective novel, written by a lot of people. I didn't have total control over whether suddenly was used. I found it. A lot of it. I started to look at each instance in terms of why it was there and whether it could be removed. Two thirds of the time, I felt I could take it out without any change in meaning. It struck me that in those cases 'suddenly' was actually redundant. The very statement of the event clearly showed the sudden nature of its occurrence.

The other third of cases were more difficult. What this rule doesn't say specifically, but must mean, is that you can't just pull out suddenly and replace it with another adverb or adverbial phrase. That would be the same problem only slightly disguised. No, instead, you'd need to rewrite the sentence so that the suddenness became apparent.

For example: 'He was walking along the edge of the street, taking care not to step on any of the tiny frogs, when a loud bleeeeeeep startled him.'

You can probably see where someone might want to put 'suddenly' (probably right after 'when') but you can also see as easily that the sentence would be weighted down with the word.

Now, I'm going to take a piece of my own text and show you an example of suddenly that's not so easily replaced. And these are the ones I sit on the fence with. It's all about THE FEELS. Realizations, the way feelings and new knowledge dawn on us, the way with the flick of some invisible emotional trigger, we change an opinion or come to a decision. This is where a rare suddenly, to me, can save a boatload of trying to explain.

_________________
I stopped talking when I saw the girl who’d opened it. She looked about nineteen. She had long red hair, and she was wearing a miniscule pair of lime green underpants and a scooped out, nearly transparent white muscle shirt that barely covered her breasts.

I stood there with my mouth slightly open, sorting my thoughts into two piles. Wrong apartment? Or WTF, Brown?

Before I could manage a coherent sentence, the girl said, “Brown told me to catch you before you yelled ‘Open up, police.’”

“Um…” I laughed through my nose. “Okay. Can I come in?”

The girl stepped aside just as Brown came out of the hallway into the living room. He had something pink and shimmery draped over his shoulder and a sequined bra hung around his neck by one shoulder strap.

“Did I happen to mention I was doing a shoot today?” he said. His arms were full of other frilly and brightly colored bits of almost nothing. He dropped the armload of clothes into a chair and untangled the bra and what turned out to be a see-through pink robe trimmed in feathers from around himself, adding them to the pile.

“Not that I remember. But no worries.” I closed the door, but kept standing in front of it with my coat on and my briefcase in my hand.

“Cassandra’s in there picking out her shoes. You should go in and see what you can find that fits.”

I snorted. “Who are you talking to now?”

“Jade,” Brown said.

“Me.” The girl put her hand up.

“Oh.” The entire situation suddenly seemed hilarious to me and I felt a huge grin spread across my face.
__________________________________

So you see the suddenly in there. Last sentence. This one takes a bit of stepping back. Actually as I looked at it, I decided the first part of that sentence could go. So now it will just read, "Oh." I felt a huge grin spread across my face.

But in some instances it's not so easy to resolve. I'd argue, as is my usual argument, that if you have to write a really convoluted sentence to get across what you can with one word, it's probably better to use the one word. The caveat that goes with this is, you might have to try hard to succeed in some cases, or before giving it up.

You'll be missed, Mr. Leonard.

by Salome Jones

What writer Chuck Palahniuk said (among many other things he's said) in this article can be summed up as, 'for six months don't use thought verbs.' He gives a list. I always panic slightly when I see articles like this by prolific, famous, accomplished writers. OH NO. I've used thought words. I'm DOOOOMED. Then the part of my brain that actually thinks kicks in.

So then I realize he's showing you how to show, not tell. Often when you're trying to teach a writer to do something differently from the way that is her/his habit, you suggest they stop doing something completely. Like, stop using 'to be' verbs or adverbs. The reasoning, I think, is that it's much easier to see what's wrong if you stop doing the thing that's causing the problems. It's like you tell an alcoholic not to drink any alcohol instead of just cutting back. Most people can't manage if they cut back. They need to stop entirely before they can get a grip.

What I don't think Palahniuk's saying  is 'never use thought words again.' He's saying, learn how to show.

I also don't think he's saying, 'don't reveal a character's interior.' He's saying you won't actually reveal it through summary. But that's a difficult concept for many to actually apply. So he gives it in more concrete terms. If you avoid using the words he mentions in the article, you're far less likely to resort to summary. You'll be forced to spell things out. (CP hopes you will anyway. I'm not sure. It's still a hard concept for people to grasp. I'm imagining some very inventive ways people will find to keep using summary, carefully skirting those particular words.)

Probably now isn't the time to mention this but I will anyway, lest you get carried away. It's okay to tell sometimes. There are definitely times when you would bore the pants off everyone if you spelled certain details out in an effort to always show. For example: 'It happened again the next day' summarizes something you already spelled out. If you wrote out the whole thing again (and this becomes more true the more times this thing happens) just to avoid using six words of summary, your book might burst into flames. Or maybe that would just be the readers' heads.

So if you like writing interior characters, I'd say don't panic. And don't hate Chuck Palahniuk. His advice is solid. Just see it for what it is.

by Tim Dedopulos

A Mary-Sue is an over-idealised fictional character that exists as an extension of the writer’s wish-fulfilment and ego drives. Despite all the talents and powers of the rest of the cast, Mary-Sue still somehow manages to be the crucial lynchpin in every situation, solving all the problems, directing the action, and totally overshadowing every other character. Ultra-competence on a character’s part is a symptom of possible Mary-Sue contamination, but it is not a definitive mark. S/he has no real flaws, is adored by all characters, frequently makes flagrant use of deus ex machina, and may share physical traits, tastes or names with the author. Generally, the presence of Mary-Sue will pretty much destroy the story.

A Mary-Sue character is usually the mark of a naive or inexperienced writer. The term originates from fan-fiction, in which enthusiasts write amateur stories based in the worlds they love. There’s plenty of great fan-fiction of course, but many Mary-Sue characters literally are the author as she dreams of being, dropped into the pre-existing cast of a story setting. The name comes from Paula Smith’s cutting 1973 parody of bad Star-Trek fan fiction, “A Trekkie’s Tale”.

Note that despite the origins, some professional original fiction characters have been criticised as being Mary-Sues. The most notable in fantasy are widely held to be Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake of the “Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter” series, particularly as she appears in later books, and Eragon, from Christopher Paolini’s “Inheritance” trilogy. Outside the genre, Wesley Crusher from “Star Trek: The Next Generation” (Wesley was even creator Gene Roddenberry’s middle name) and Dagny Taggart from Ayn Rand’s “Atlas Shrugged” are often considered two of the most egregious examples.

by Salome Jones

I follow and am followed by a number of indie writers on Twitter. Occasionally when a new one appears on my list of followers, I’ll go to their website to investigate. Sometimes I find something intriguing. But to be honest, it’s almost never the writing.

Here’s the problem. I’ll use myself as an example. When I first started writing, all the things I loved about writing and all the writers I loved, I perceived to be using all of this eloquent descriptive language.  The way we interpret it as readers is as a telling of what happens in the story.

But the real way it works is that the writer makes us as readers see the unfolding of the story. Then when we have to formulate it into words, we tell it to ourselves or to others. We summarize the events of the story which are contained in pictures in our heads. The writer did something very clever. The writer came up with words that allowed our brains to imagine a visual story. These written words slipped past our conscious minds and activated our subconsciouses. That’s where dreams happen and it’s also where the fictive dream happens.

 Meanwhile, our conscious minds have a completely different way of reporting the story back. And that’s where most new writers start. They are reporting the events that they imagine in a story. They’re doing it in lovely language, some of them. But what they aren’t doing is writing in the code language that lets the reader’s subconscious take over in a visual way.

The lure of beautiful language distracts the reader in us, the reporter of written stories we’ve seen, and makes us think that it’s all about the shiny, showy surface. But actually, that surface is what can prevent writing from working. This is a hard lesson to learn, because as readers, it’s utterly unnatural. What writers have to do is create pictures with words. Then readers turn them into that eloquent summary in their heads, but only after they watch your story unfold.

Exposition is the language of readers. A writer’s language is best when it disappears. That’s the zen of it.

 by Salome Jones

I remember it vividly. I was standing behind a grad school classmate in front of the writing teacher’s table after class got out. Said classmate was one of my roommates. The particular teacher, already mysterious with his white hair and black eyebrows and his moody countenance, uttered the following words: “There are two Is.”

My roommate stared at him. I looked back and forth between them, squinting. “Wait. What? Did you just say there are two Is?”

“Yes,” he said. He had a smirk at the corners of his lips, a whimsical little gleam in his eyes. Kind of like Santa Claus when he tells you he knows when you’ve been naughty. “That’s not the same I there as here.” He pointed to the pages in front of him.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Those are two different Is.” He said this as if it was rife with meaning. Which I suppose it was. But it sure as hell explained nothing to me.

This is the approach of some literary writers to the conundrums of teaching certain aspects of theory. In hindsight, i see it as how they keep themselves in work. They could explain such mysteries clearly. The trouble is, they seem to find some value in not doing so.

There are probably hundreds of these little bits of knowledge. In a way, you don’t want them all to be revealed. It’s nice to have some zen, mysterious quality about writing that you can’t explain. After all, if you could walk down a length of rice paper and leave no trace, what would be the point of getting any better? You’d already by Kwai Chang Kane.

It was much later when I understood the mystery of the two Is. It wasn’t nearly as impenetrable as I would have thought from the way it was presented. I’ll tell you what it is in a second, but first I want to tell you what I really learned from this incident. Here it is: I don’t want to be that kind of writing teacher. I want to cut to the easiest, most readily grasped explanation of a concept.This may require reframing it several times and over a period of time. Not everyone understands things the same way. It may not immediately sink in. Learning one thing may be dependent on learning several other things first. But I refuse to be the kind of teacher who makes something more mysterious or academic than it actually is. My goal as an editor and writing teacher is to help people understand concepts and apply them.There you have it. The short version of my writing pedagogy.

Now on to the two Is.

In a first person narrative, two time periods are going on, though only one is immediately visible most of the time. The narrator is the person telling you the story. The story is set at some point in the past (with rare exception.) So let’s say we’re sitting here and I’m telling you a story about something that happened to me when I was twelve. My twelve year old self was much more naive than I am. So some of the things I could tell you would come from that point of view. Yet you’d know that I, the one sitting in front of you, found it funny, because I am not that twelve year old any more. So when I say, “I went to the window and looked out” there are two Is. The one telling you the story and the one the story was happening to.

You may ask why this matters. Now that’s a longer story. And I have to get to work.

We wrote this article for the Random Writing Rants blog where it appeared several days ago, but we figured it would be helpful for all of you as well.

by Tim Dedopulos and Salome Jones

Point of view in fiction is simply the way the narrator sees the story that’s being told. There are several different points of view from which you can write. Most modern fiction is written in either first person (“I”) or third person close (“he”/“she”), sometimes called third person limited. There are other points of view, of course. Third person omniscient used to be very popular, but has largely faded now. The same is true of confessional first person, the viewpoint of diary entries. Second person (“you”) and first person plural (“we”) do exist, but they’re rare and mostly used experimentally, so I won’t dwell on them. 

There are still a few omniscient stories out there in our literary history, maybe even a few modern omniscient stories. If you’ve stumbled on one or two, they might have given you  the impression that in fiction the narrator always knows everything, can see inside every character’s head without restriction. 

Indeed, in an omniscient point of view, the narrator is generally a neutral, unnamed entity who can see everything. This can work for fairy tales and some fantasy stories, but there’s a method to it. It’s not as random as it seems. There always needs to be a focal point. In omniscient, you can think of your point of view as being like the camera in a film. The problem with it is that it’s not very personal, which distances the reader from the text. Do note that you can’t just claim omniscient viewpoint and write willy-nilly through every character’s head in your story. If you want to know about how to use omniscient properly, I suggest this article by Charlie Jane Anders. The short of it is that for the most part, omniscient voice is very difficult for a less-experienced writer to pull off successfully.

Both third person close and first person allow for the viewpoint character’s thoughts to be included in the story. No other character’s thoughts will be available, except in the same way that you or I can find out what someone’s thinking: they tell you, you guess or give them truth serum or, since we’re discussing fiction, possibly you use psychic abilities or other such devices. A lot of third person fiction has moments where it shades towards the loose, however, providing some wiggle room for other interjections. This just isn’t acceptable in first person.

Coming back to first versus third, viewpoint problems are much more likely to show up in third person. First person is simpler to stay accurate in; we all instinctively know how to correctly tell a story about ourselves. The flip-side is that it’s sometimes (foolishly) considered less worthy of respect than third person, particularly amongst publishers and other authors. “Oh, yes, you write first person” is not a compliment.

The most common third person issue is ‘head hopping.’ The author steps out of the point of view character’s head and into another character’s head, maybe just for one line or one paragraph. This has a jarring effect on the reader, because it’s not how our minds work. We can guess or wonder what someone else is thinking about, but we can’t know, and we certainly can’t instantly jump to another person’s thoughts. It feels unnatural when this happens on the page.

There are other things that violate point of view, of course: If your narrator character sees something that’s happening behind his or her back; if she describes her own face or appearance (something we just don’t do in normal life) to herself; if she talks about what’s happening somewhere else (that she can’t see); and so on. These are all major POV violations.

The same principles apply in first person. If I’m sitting in a café and I’m telling you about what’s happening and I say, “I looked like I’d seen a ghost,” I’m violating point of view. My eyes don’t have small hovercrafts attached to them so that they can zoom across the room to look back at me. That’s someone else’s POV, someone who’s looking at my face.

One way to think about the difference between first person and third person close is that third person is one step removed. It’s as if someone told you their first person story and you’re telling it again, using their words, their reactions and so forth, but all you have to go on are their personal experiences and observations. It’s a little more distant, with a little more room for uncertainty than first person. You’re still inside the viewpoint’s head in third person, but you’re a passenger rather than a confidante. As such you get to see the things that maybe their conscious mind doesn’t notice. By contrast, in first person, you are restricted entirely to things that the viewpoint character is consciously aware of. If it’s not something that someone like your first person viewpoint might plausibly think to themselves in that situation, then it can’t be on the page. No excuses!

There are advantages to both first and third person. First person is cozy and intimate. It lets you build up a strong sense of the viewpoint character, and encourages the reader to identify with the character. It’s quite claustrophobic, however. If your viewpoint wouldn’t hear those words in her head, they can’t be on the page. Most of us stumble through life preoccupied with stuff, so rich description, background exposition and impersonal asides are all unsuitable. Third person, by contrast, is lush and detailed. It allows for deep thought, careful observations, misdirection, and a degree of freedom in pacing. You’ll get to know the viewpoint character very well, very truly. It’s a little standoffish though, not as warm and friendly as first person. It’s not quite as accessible, either. The appropriate viewpoint for your work will depend on the story you want to tell.

You can, of course, write a story using more than one narrator. This is probably more common than a single-viewpoint in novels, particularly in third person. However, certain rules apply if you choose to do this. The most important is not to confuse the reader. If you’re going to use two points of view, then doing it in long stretches, like chapters or at least several pages, is preferable to switching back and forth every couple of paragraphs. If you do change points of view in the middle of a chapter, you should use white space – a skipped line – to indicate it. (By the way, the other time to use white space is when you make a significant leap through time.)

There are other things I’ve seen recently that bear mentioning. When two people are having a conversation on a page, point of view doesn’t switch back and forth with the speaker. When you’re talking to someone, you don’t become her just because she opens her mouth, right? You still see things that way you see them, including what another person says.

A subtler thing to consider is that if you have two characters sharing the narration, ideally they’ll have slightly (or even very) different voices. They won’t have the same thoughts or feelings, and you won’t use the same words to describe their actions. They won’t use the same types of similes and metaphors in description, and may see the same object in very different ways. You want your reader to hear your character in their heads. This is true whether or not it’s written in first person. Yes, third person narration will be a little more distant than dialogue, which is exact speech, but even narration needs to be colored by the point of view character’s way of thinking. Don’t jump between first person and third person in the same book, by the way; it unsettles readers, and throws them out of the fictive trance. (There are rare exceptions where this can work, but they are truly rare.)

The example my editing partner and I often give of clunky viewpoint in critiques is what’s become known as ‘the mirror moment.’ This is the point where a character sees herself in the mirror and launches into a lengthy description, saying things like ‘Kelly wasn’t very attractive despite being 5’8” tall. Despite her shoulder-length blonde hair, blue eyes and cupid-bow lips, she was thick in the middle, had crooked teeth and didn’t know how to dress herself.’ When is the last time you looked in the mirror and made a laundry list of your flaws? Isn’t it more likely to go like this?

‘Kelly bared her teeth and leaned close to the mirror. God, that gap between her front teeth looked horrible. If only her mother would let her get it fixed. She sighed. She’d probably have to earn the money herself before that would happen.’

We hope this has been helpful to you. Feel free to ask your point of view questions in the comments.

by Salome Jones

I wanted to point out a few errors I see all the time. These aren't writing errors so much as spelling and punctuation errors, but to a trained eye, like that of an agent or publisher, they'll leap out in an otherwise well-written page (or make a not so well-written page look even worse.)

Things About Numbers

Numbers used in text come with their own rules. The numbers one through nine are always written out in letters. Numbers ten and above are written as numerals. The exception is that when you have both, you must choose to either write them all as numerals or spell them all out. Except where it's unweildy, numbers used in dialog should be spelled out. (This doesn't apply to time, which has its own rules as well.)

When making numbers plural, as when talking about the nineties, you can write the word as I've done here, or you can use '90s. Note that there's no apostrophe between the zero and the s. That would be a possessive. It's the same with the 1990s. No apostrophe between the zero and the s.

Making Acronyms and Abbreviations Plural

I see a lot of people using an apostrophe s to make a series of capital letters plural. Actually, all you need is an s.

She learned her ABCs.

In researching this, I even found a 'grammar' site instructing people to use 's to make numerals and capital letter abbreviations plural. That grammar site is mistaken. Be careful when consulting smaller websites. For such issues consult one of the known sources of grammar information ,such as the Chicago Manual of Style or the Blue Book (grammarbook.com). If you're writing a university paper, you might be instructed to use the MLA Manual and Guide to Scholarly Publishing. These are for Americans. Wikipedia has a list of style guides for other areas of the world here.

These books are updated and revised editions are published periodically to keep up with any agreed upon changes in the rules. I check in frequently and notice that things I had become used to have been changed. Our usage evolves because new things enter the world and old usages become inconvenient or confusing.

The 'All Right' Versus 'Alright' Issue

There are grammar geeks out there who will smugly inform you that alright is not a word. Some will go on to say that it's never been a word.

Because I live on the cusp of two worlds on opposite sides of the Atlantic, I've been made to feel some confusion about this word. The British use 'alright' more commonly than Americans do and many knowledgeable people have informed me that it's not incorrect.

I've begun to allow 'alright' to stand in some British manuscripts under very particular circumstances. These are, in written dialog and in some first person narratives, where the intention is a less formal usage. I justify it with this from the Oxford English Dictionary people.  I also take into consideration the fact that many Britons I've spoken to have expressed that for them 'all right' and 'alright' have different nuances of meaning. For Americans this isn't true and I don't consider it acceptable usage in American English. Neither do any of the American grammar guides.

by Tim Dedopulos

When most people think of ‘real’ fantasy, they’re thinking of high fantasy. This is the heartland of the genre, the place where sweeping epic narratives tell of the heroic struggle of good against evil. High fantasies are set within vivid, detailed worlds which never existed – not magical versions of history, not the places that legends occurred in, but in entirely separate realms of magical wonder. In fact, the real central hero of a high fantasy is often the land itself. While a broad range of heroes and villains struggle against one another, it is the land that is truly in peril, the land that is there in every page, and the land that forms the emotional backdrop for the story. Tolkien referred to these realms as ‘secondary worlds’, a term which has gained some common use with fantasy scholars.

High fantasy is also referred to as epic fantasy or heroic fantasy, and these names give a clue as to its real nature. Tales of high fantasy are epic in scope, heroic in the breadth of their vision. There may be a main hero, but he or she will encounter a whole cast of other characters, and their actions and interactions form a web spanning both story and land. The world itself has a specific culture, history, geography and bestiary, and the story would fall apart without it.

High fantasy usually comes in big packages. Novels of 500 pages and more are common, and frequently form part of a trilogy  – or more; some core sequences have run to a dozen books. At some point though, the nature of the epic story requires a resolution. Even the longest high fantasy series must eventually come to a recognisable end. For a while, anyway. It’s not uncommon for an author to follow a core trilogy with a sequel trilogy, a prequel trilogy, or even a parallel ‘sidebar’ trilogy.

Although JRR Tolkien is the author who made modern fantasy what it is, the father of high fantasy is generally agreed to be William Morris. “The Well at the World’s End”, written in 1896 and running over 500 pages in the 1975 reprint, is a fantastical quest-romance written in archaic style. It was not particularly popular when released, but it inspired great devotion in a number of younger writers. These authors – people like Lord Dunsany, ER Eddison, and CS Lewis – went on to give fantasy its form.

These early works provided vital service preparing the ground for the 20th century’s greatest fantasy novel, JRR Tolkien’s “The Lord of the Rings”. It was first released in three volumes from 1954-55, but it is not a trilogy so much as one long novel with six sub-sections. Tolkien himself fought hard to have the book published as one piece. At first, the Lord of the Rings seemed destined for the same sort of obscurity as Morris’s and Eddison’s romances, and it took over 10 years to gain wide acceptance.

It was with the controversial publication of the American paperback editions, in 1965, that The Lord of the Rings finally took off. The row over the pirate edition probably helped draw the attention the book deserved, and it became one of the soaring bestsellers of 20th-century fiction. Its immense success stemmed from the incredible richness of Tolkien’s grand narrative, and the sheer power of the land of Middle Earth.

Readers who made it past the first chapters – which are really just cozy – soon found themselves succumbing to the spell of the grander narrative. It is as a timeless quest that the book really succeeds. The mysterious portents, the hard travelling, the stunning landscapes, the encircling foes, the urgency of the task in hand, the magical revelations – all are handled with a superb sense of story-telling rhythm. It is a slow rhythm, for it is a very long novel, but in its leisurely way it builds an almost tidal power.

Tolkien continued to work on detailing Middle-Earth throughout his long life, and the results have been published in “The Silmarillion” (1977) and many other posthumous volumes edited by the author’s son. Whatever their scholarly brilliance though, these later works are missing the central quality which vitalizes The Lord of the Rings – that sense of raw story, in all its glorious force.

Tolkien became a huge seller in the 1960s. His work cleared a space for all forms of fantasy to take root in the marketplace. It took twelve more years before Tolkien’s direct legacy became apparent, though. The year 1977 marked the turning point – not “The Silmarillion”, but the first appearance of two big new instant bestsellers by previously unknown American writers. Both would have been inexplicable, and probably unpublishable, if Tolkien hadn’t gone before.

Terry Brooks’s “The Sword of Shannara” was condemned by some reviewers as a ‘rip-off’ of Tolkien, but it still sold spectacularly well and set a pattern for many more novels to come. Stephen R. Donaldson’s “Chronicles of Thomas Covenant” was a more original and interesting work. There is no doubt that it was inspired by Tolkien’s example. Donaldson offered a detailed secondary world – the Land, where the hero, magically displaced from our Earth, embarked on a mighty quest to defeat the corrupting powers of evil. Although the Land bore a hint of resemblance to Middle-Earth, Thomas Covenant himself was a very different character to any hero of Tolkien’s. A depressive, frequently hostile loner who suffers horribly with leprosy, Covenant cannot bring himself to believe in the Land. The alienation and resentment of this denial makes him do some terrible things, and tragedy piles on tragedy as he leads the Land to the very edge of ruin before finding the strength to let himself truly engage.

With the arrival of Brooks and Donaldson, high fantasy entered an era of commercial acceptability, becoming a type of novel which has made its authors and publishers rich. This was a vast change from the earlier part of the century, where works such as “The Worm Ouroboros” did well to sell a few hundred copies on first publication. It leads the field, now: it is simply what fantasy means to most people. If current trends are anything to go by, it will continue to give a great deal of pleasure to millions of readers for years to come.