Let's take my story, and assume I write it in the first person. It starts with the two Parisian kids meeting on a country road about 20 miles South of Paris while fleeing the Germans on June 13, 1920.
I could start with:
Chapter 1: 'L'Exode"
May 13, 1940
#1. "I was in a foul mood, soaked in my own stinking sweat, my blistered feet and hands hurting as hell, and my arms feeling as if they had been stretched taking turns lugging my bulging brown boiled cardboard suitcase down the narrow country road, while clinging desperately to my mother, in an apocalyptic chaos of cars, trucks, carts, bicycles and humans, all loaded to the gills with everything from striped mattresses to cuckoo clocks and bird cages with half dead yellow canaries."
Or I could go with:
#2. "Twice since we had fled Paris at dawn, German Stukas had come out of the clouds in a wild dive, frightening us with their loud siren wail, and flown just barely over our heads down a straight section of road, unleashing the deadly staccato of their machine guns on the terrified trapped crowd scrambling for cover towards the hedges, or diving head first into the muddy drainage ditches in a futile attempt at salvation. Many would remain in that mud, face down, and the trickle of dirty brown water would slowly turn red.
Burning cars, still smoking blown up trucks, mangled dead bodies, sobbing mothers and hysterically crying lost children had been left behind in that visceral panic that overwhelmed most of us and made us run away as fast and as far as we possibly could, extinguishing all feelings of compassion and basic humanity.
But just ahead, everything stopped. "
Or instead:
#3. "Only a pile of rubble was left of the centuries old stone bridge that crossed the river Alène, the name on the crooked signpost that was all that remained up after the bombing. Two large abandoned trucks almost completely obstructed the road and left only a very narrow passage by the edge of the stream. Rough hewn weathered planks had been torn off the bed of one of the trucks and laid across the water as a makeshift bridge. A skinny old man just ahead of us, wearing tattered blue overalls and a brown plaid cap, was trying to get across pushing an unsteady antique wooden wheelbarrow overloaded with packages and burlap bags, on top of which a small boy in soiled yellow bloomers was sitting in tears, calling for his mother.
Suddenly, a boy about my age carrying an old leather rucksack, a shotgun on his left shoulder and pushing a brand new "Hirondelle" came from behind, shoved me aside, and yelled at the old man to get out of his way. Startled, he shook and wavered, lost his balance, and fell into the river with his precious load.
I saw red, shoved the bastard aside, and jumped into the river to rescue the boy. I was a good swimmer, having spent several summer vacations with my parents on a small farm with a big pond near Beynes, a small town about 30 miles East of Paris. I caught the screaming boy before he even sunk, and dragged him back to shore. The old man was hanging on to the floating overturned wheelbarrow and somehow paddled back to shore on his own. He grabbed the hand I was holding out, and I pulled him back on the bank near the boy, whom he embraced and hugged, saying over and over: "I am so sorry, please don't cry, we will find your mommy soon...". My mother had dropped her bags to the ground and was patting his back, still stunned by the quick turn of events, not knowing what to do.
That's when I realized I had shoved the nasty kid back so hard he had fallen into the river too and was struggling to stay afloat, pulled under by his heavy backpack, yelling for help I was still so mad at him my first thought was "good riddance, reap what you sow, asshole", but he was totally panicked, swallowing water, drifting slowly downstream, yelling for help, and going under for good. I took pity on him, ran down the bank , jumped in again, and vigorously swam to him. By the time I reached him, only a waiving arm remained out of the water for me to latch onto. My other hand felt his bag underwater, grabbed the straps, and pulled up. His head came out gasping for air, eyes wild with primal fear, arms flailing. He grabbed me and pulled himself up, pushing me under water in the process, and we both sunk."
Obviously, I used more words in French to tell the same story. Why? Is it good or bad? I don't know.
I will actually use all three paragraphs in the story, but in which order, and which is the best to start with?
I could start with:
Chapter 1: 'L'Exode"
May 13, 1940
#1. "I was in a foul mood, soaked in my own stinking sweat, my blistered feet and hands hurting as hell, and my arms feeling as if they had been stretched taking turns lugging my bulging brown boiled cardboard suitcase down the narrow country road, while clinging desperately to my mother, in an apocalyptic chaos of cars, trucks, carts, bicycles and humans, all loaded to the gills with everything from striped mattresses to cuckoo clocks and bird cages with half dead yellow canaries."
Or I could go with:
#2. "Twice since we had fled Paris at dawn, German Stukas had come out of the clouds in a wild dive, frightening us with their loud siren wail, and flown just barely over our heads down a straight section of road, unleashing the deadly staccato of their machine guns on the terrified trapped crowd scrambling for cover towards the hedges, or diving head first into the muddy drainage ditches in a futile attempt at salvation. Many would remain in that mud, face down, and the trickle of dirty brown water would slowly turn red.
Burning cars, still smoking blown up trucks, mangled dead bodies, sobbing mothers and hysterically crying lost children had been left behind in that visceral panic that overwhelmed most of us and made us run away as fast and as far as we possibly could, extinguishing all feelings of compassion and basic humanity.
But just ahead, everything stopped. "
Or instead:
#3. "Only a pile of rubble was left of the centuries old stone bridge that crossed the river Alène, the name on the crooked signpost that was all that remained up after the bombing. Two large abandoned trucks almost completely obstructed the road and left only a very narrow passage by the edge of the stream. Rough hewn weathered planks had been torn off the bed of one of the trucks and laid across the water as a makeshift bridge. A skinny old man just ahead of us, wearing tattered blue overalls and a brown plaid cap, was trying to get across pushing an unsteady antique wooden wheelbarrow overloaded with packages and burlap bags, on top of which a small boy in soiled yellow bloomers was sitting in tears, calling for his mother.
Suddenly, a boy about my age carrying an old leather rucksack, a shotgun on his left shoulder and pushing a brand new "Hirondelle" came from behind, shoved me aside, and yelled at the old man to get out of his way. Startled, he shook and wavered, lost his balance, and fell into the river with his precious load.
I saw red, shoved the bastard aside, and jumped into the river to rescue the boy. I was a good swimmer, having spent several summer vacations with my parents on a small farm with a big pond near Beynes, a small town about 30 miles East of Paris. I caught the screaming boy before he even sunk, and dragged him back to shore. The old man was hanging on to the floating overturned wheelbarrow and somehow paddled back to shore on his own. He grabbed the hand I was holding out, and I pulled him back on the bank near the boy, whom he embraced and hugged, saying over and over: "I am so sorry, please don't cry, we will find your mommy soon...". My mother had dropped her bags to the ground and was patting his back, still stunned by the quick turn of events, not knowing what to do.
That's when I realized I had shoved the nasty kid back so hard he had fallen into the river too and was struggling to stay afloat, pulled under by his heavy backpack, yelling for help I was still so mad at him my first thought was "good riddance, reap what you sow, asshole", but he was totally panicked, swallowing water, drifting slowly downstream, yelling for help, and going under for good. I took pity on him, ran down the bank , jumped in again, and vigorously swam to him. By the time I reached him, only a waiving arm remained out of the water for me to latch onto. My other hand felt his bag underwater, grabbed the straps, and pulled up. His head came out gasping for air, eyes wild with primal fear, arms flailing. He grabbed me and pulled himself up, pushing me under water in the process, and we both sunk."
Obviously, I used more words in French to tell the same story. Why? Is it good or bad? I don't know.
I will actually use all three paragraphs in the story, but in which order, and which is the best to start with?
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