You’re tired of watching The Big Bang Theory reruns and decide you need to broaden your mind with a little culture. So, you head to the theater district, go to that booth with the half-price tickets, and the seller says she’s got great seats for Marshmallows Getting Roasted, truly avant-garde. Avant-garde? You don’t speak French, but it sounds like advancing guards getting roasted, just the kind of cultural piece you’ve been craving! You plop down fifty bucks, head into the empty theater, and the curtain opens on the glorious stage where the magic that transports you to another time and place happens.

Only this stage is white. The background is white. There’s not a prop in sight. You squint, and there might be two players standing in the center, but they’re in puffy white marshmallow costumes so they’re really hard to make out. Oh good, they talk. You were worried they might be mimes. 

“Hello Marsh Mallow.”

“Hello White Mallow. You’re certainly looking puffy today.”

“Why thank you. Did you hear about cousin, Minnie Mallow? She got roasted.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“I did not. I spilled out of the bag and rolled in the dirt, and they tossed me.”

You squint. Was that a third marshmallow on the stage? Where did she come from?

“Oh, my bad, Minnie. So glad they didn’t shove you on a pointed stick and roast you over the flames.” 

Oh good, some drama. They must be at a campsite, about to be eaten. But then—

“We’re all glad!” 

You squint. Was that a bag’s worth of marshmallow actors standing on the stage? Where did they come from? 

“Someone’s coming!” they say in unison. “Let’s hide in the cupboard!” 

Oooh-kay. Why didn’t they say they were in a kitchen in the first place? And as the play rolls on with not a prop in sight, with marshmallows spilling onto the stage out of nowhere, with nothing to identify them with but identical puffball costumes, you quietly slip from your chair and escape. Those reruns at home are sounding pretty good again. So does a cup of blistering hot chocolate, and you know just what you’re going to top it with.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve written SET. YOUR. STAGE., in all caps, on a manuscript I’m editing. The story opens with characters talking, but I have no idea who they are, what they look like, where they’re at, what they’re doing. The scene is like white marshmallows acting on a white stage. I keep waiting for setting clues to appear as to where we’re at, hopefully some indication as to what these people look like, but it rarely comes. The writer is so busy telling their story, they forgot that the reader can’t see what’s in their head. They forgot that, as the director of their story, the writer needs to set their stage. 

True, the intrepid reader might forge ahead, but they’re forced to stare at a blank stage where they’re left to guess at what the environment and characters look like. In order to read on, they fill in the gaps by setting the stage themselves. They’ll make assumptions as to locations and time periods, character gender, and age, even whether the scene is happening indoors or outdoors. In effect, the writer is asking the reader to be their own production designer...without furnishing them any set designs. Chaos ensues. Why? 

As the story progresses, the reader discovers their assumptions were wrong. They come to find out the Ashley character that they gave a slender build and dressed up as a dandy Southern gentleman is actually a homeless woman in Detroit that’s nine months pregnant! Or that posh room they pictured in a Georgia mansion turns out to be the gilded captain’s quarters on an interstellar spaceship. Or they discover many pages later the newspaper the heroine put over her head isn’t repelling a Kansas rainstorm, it’s protecting her coiffure from water pistols fired over the crowd in a sticky, rice-covered theater. 

Lack of set direction from the writer causes mental whiplash for readers. They are forced to slam on the brakes, back up, and restart the opening with new information revealed far too late in the scene. Setting whiplash is also responsible for unhappy editors...only they don’t have the time nor the interest to back up and build out a new set in their minds. They’ll send the story back with a form that says, ‘Not right for us but good luck sending it elsewhere.’ 

Let’s not make that mistake. Making readers fill with anticipation at the opening of our story is a critical part of our job; confounding them is not. We know we must provide clear and efficient coding that sets the stage and channels the reader down our own Yellow Brick Road, with the promise of the Emerald City gleaming on a backdrop in the distance. If we clearly define who our protagonist is, if we set our stage properly from the moment the curtain opens, our audience won’t scratch their heads in confusion as scenery, people, and props pop out of nowhere later on. When they see a properly developed opening, they’ll ease back into their seats, settle in for the ride, and let the magic happen… because we set our stage like the professionals we are.

So how do we make that kind of theater magic happen? What are the necessary setting elements readers need at the start? How do we help them visualize our characters? How much detail is needed? And once we’ve described our world in the opening scene, do we dust off our hands and say our work here is done? 

Like all good directors, let’s take a moment and analyze our stagecraft.

Every story begins like a play. You might have a clue what a play is going to be about because of its title, but until the curtain opens, a mysterious void hides behind it. But rest assured, unless it’s an improv or a no-set production, the director and her design team will have put tremendous effort into turning that void into a setting that will enhance and illuminate what the story is all about. 

A properly set stage is an art form. Smart, creative set design can enchant an audience before an actor utters a single word. Long before opening night, the director will have had many meetings with their production designer and her team to select the colors, scenery, backdrops, costumes, lighting, sound, and props that will create an evocative setting for each scene in the production. Stagecraft has many elements, and careful attention is given to each department to create place, period, and mood. Does the play open in a park? Then the set will need a bench and a few trees on stands. Edwardian era? Get the props department to find a period streetlamp. Takes place in London, and there’s going to be a chimney sweep scene? Tell the art department to research period buildings and create sketches for the set pieces and backdrop. What about costuming? The script says the protagonist is a governess, but she can also fly. We’ll need apparel that must look prim and proper, and yet allow her to, I don’t know, fly casual....

A writer, too, must give careful thought to their stagecraft if they want their production to be a hit. There are many elements to stagecraft, just as there are many elements to a smart opening of a story. But it all boils down to this: What does my reader need to proceed?

Unlike a play, the setting of a story is not already created on a stage, immediately absorbed by the audience as the curtain opens. A writer has to establish their setting in the reader’s mind, providing them in the opening scene with all the textual prompts necessary to enter their world, attach to their hero, and go on the journey they’ve created. The reader needs to quickly visualize who the story is about, and they need setting context to provide the necessary details in order to see a vision in their mind and move forward. The more potent, evocative, and accurate the word choices are crafted for an opening scene, the faster the reader will settle into the world, identify with the protagonist, and kick back to enjoy the ride.

Think about the questions a reader immediately wants answered at the beginning of a story. These are the same questions you have undoubtedly asked as a reader, so this test shouldn’t be hard.

There’s plenty of other questions you might ask, but these are critical ones. The faster we answer these questions, the quicker we build our set and its players, the easier it is for the reader to step over the threshold and enter the story trance— in effect, to enjoy our wondrous play. 

If we provide proper coding from the very beginning of our story, giving the reader the essentials they need to create the proper vision, they won’t have to tear down the set in their minds several pages in because we failed to reveal key details until later. It will build out accurately and beautifully from the start, with us enhancing our stage and props as we need to through the progression of our plot.

Now note the question at the top of the list. Why do readers need to know who the story is about ASAP? Because of the basic definition of what makes a story. A story is about 1. a character, 2. in a setting, 3. with a problem. Readers need to know who they’re supposed to be rooting for, and then whether or not they’re interesting enough to spend time figuring them out. It’s basic storytelling. 

Want proof? Note how the Epic of Gilgamesh, considered the earliest surviving work of literature, opens:

See that? The ancient Sumerians knew how to tell a story! The writer opened by naming the hero of the tale —Gilgamesh— and then told the reader why they should be interested in him. Was he worth reading about? You bet! This man was a king, worldly-wise, had accomplished deeds and had been to places no one else had. In fact, there’s a narrative hook by the third sentence:  he saw mysteries and knew secret things. Gilgamesh was an international man of mystery!

I’ll give you a modern example. It’s one of mine, the opening to “Super-Duper Moongirl and the Amazing Moon Dawdler” in Writers of the Future, Vol. 35:

Note how quickly I provide the story’s heroine, her name, her age, identifying physical traits, narrative hook, unique character cues to make you identify with her, costuming, secondary characters, location, genre cue, and more...all in three paragraphs. As the director of this production, I’ve set the stage in the opening. You even know where future scenes in this production will be held, because I’ve given you a glimpse into the grand vista of Dixie’s world. There’ll be no surprises when I take you to some of these locations later. It’s all there, listed in your program at the very start. You’ve got a lay of the land.

Another question in that list is Where is this story taking place? We’ve established that a professional director sets the stage they place their players upon. They put a great deal of thought into it. They don't clutter the stage, they create a thoughtful backdrop and place just the right number of props to give the impression of the world, location, and environment their players live within. 

This Super Secret is called Hint at the grand vista of your world. You can’t cram your entire world into the opening scene, anymore than you can cram an oak tree into the space of a bonsai. Many beginners try, creating an endless laundry list of setting and world details, often dumping in the intricate milieu of their world and it's history. Wonderful, we’re glad they know all that stuff, it adds depth to the tale they’re telling. But guess what? The story doesn’t need it. Just the facts, ma’am. Trust me. Better yet, trust the reader. A little dab will do ya. Especially in the opening.

J.R.R. Tolkien was the king of detailed backstory. You can see it all in The Silmarillion. But when he started to write The Hobbit, did he stuff all that history into the opening? Fortunately for us, he did not. He opened with his main character, in a setting, with one of the most memorable openings of all time:

Had Tolkien opened with a chunk of backstory from the First Age of Middle Earth, it’s unlikely we’d have the same feelings about this tale. Fortunately, Tolkien knew his business. In spite of the grand vista of his world and history and all his mighty heroes, he started his story with what appeared to be the simplest of all his races: the hobbits. And then, he gave the opening another twist. Of all the marvelous places he had created in his world, he decided his opening setting would be a hole in the ground. Then, he twisted it again. This hole was the opposite of what every reader knows a hole to be; this one was a place of comfort. How can that be? We don’t know, and Tolkien hooks us with the contrast. Curiosity piqued, we’ll read on.

Unless we’re actually writing a story about marshmallows (plagiarist!), it’s good practice when we introduce characters to give a brief description of their features. This is important. Readers need to know who the protagonist is, and to visualize that person, they need a little definition. Emphasis on little, at least for short stories. You have more leeway in novels because you have more space. Still, the features you choose should be specific, short, and should evoke a reflection of the hero’s character within. Is the heroine shy and unassertive? You could give her mousy brown hair. Is the hero an insomniac? Bloodshot eyes could foreshadow his troubled sleep. Some idea of build and height can be helpful. But do we need the cut of his chiseled chin, the tiny mole at the right corner of her mouth? Unless it’s relevant to the plot, casting aside such detailed descriptions is a smart idea. Not only do they bog down pacing, the reader supplies these details from their own memories and experience. The writer inserts just enough descriptive code into their prose to spark the vision. 

We also should select costuming for our characters. As Mark Twain said, "Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence in society." In fact, what they wear often makes a statement as to their position in society. A smart costume can tell you whether a player is an elite socialite or an angry rebel even before they open their mouths. And yet, some aspiring writers neglect to give even one item of clothing to their poor characters, and readers are forced to read about naked, nebulous marshmallows prancing about the tale with not even a graham cracker to cover them.

Setting is the surroundings in the location where your scene takes place. Bland descriptions do a poor job of evoking emotions and lack sensory texture that aids the reader in not only visualizing the story, but feeling the story as well. Saying Christopher sat on a park bench works, but it’s not enough to provide specificity, nor will it evoke much of an emotional response. Powerful settings include rich sensory details. Is Christopher in London, and is he an aristocrat? Put him in Hyde Park at noon on a crisp autumn afternoon, his bowler hat doing little to warm his head. Is he worried the socialite Isabelle he plans to propose to won’t show? Make the oak trees moan as a cold breeze blows, dropping brown leaves as dry as the skins of mummies. The bench could be wrought iron, and the longer Christopher waits, the more the cold seeps through his cape and creeps under his skin. A rider passes, the horse’s hooves clopping in hollow thuds against the cobbles. The horse lifts its tail and steaming manure drops, permeating the sweet scent from the roses he purchased for this hopeful day with a pungent barnyard stench. Church bells toll, and as the hour of their meeting time passes, Christopher’s heart sinks. Isabelle did not come. 

Setting can do multiple duties. Not only does it reveal surroundings, but it can also create tension, even foreshadow events to come. If we think of environment as a character in our stories, we can do so much more than use it as a backdrop. We can use it to set mood in each scene, even have it bear down on our protagonist, heightening tension.

Here's a quick example of this, from author Steve Pantazis and his upcoming series, The Light of Darkness:   

Just like in a play, environment is a moody character.

Even when aspiring writers recognize they need to craft a brief but evocative setting for their opening, often when they start a new scene, it’s as if they forgot everything they learned. Apparently, they figure they did all that work for the opening scene, and now that the story launched, they don’t need to do anything more for subsequent ones. Not so! The first stage rocket got the story off the ground, but if that spacecraft is going to achieve orbital velocity, the next stages in the story will also need to be fired. Ignite the opening of each scene, and the story will stay on target for its final destination. 

What might help writers with this issue is to think of each scene as a mini short story. A story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Scenes do, too. They need to open with a setting so we know where we are. They need an indication of how much time has passed since the last, so we know where we’re at in the time stream. And even though we know our protagonist by this point, we still need to drop them into the setting, along with any other characters that are with them. Too often will I edit a scene for a writer with the setting established, but they fail to indicate who else is with the main character. Suddenly, Juan hands the protagonist a rusty machete, and I have to ask, ‘Where did Juan come from? Was he just beamed down from the starship Enterprise?’ 

Set Your Stage includes setting up your players. If they were with your hero at the opening of a scene, you need to show it at the start, not surprise the reader an hour later in the timeline after we assumed your hero was alone in the jungle. New characters and necessary props must be introduced. While they can be shown entering the scene later, they can’t materialize out of thin air. Well, unless you have a transporter and a replicator.

A word of warning. You might look at all you need to accomplish at the opening of a story or novel and think that to apply all of this, you’ll need many pages, perhaps the entire opening scene, and a long one at that. But gone are the days when readers would greedily eat up a forty-eight-page introductory about Salem’s Custom House, as they did in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter. Today’s reader has little patience and expects you to set your stage quickly and get on with the show. So much so, many writers advise throwing any stage setting to the wind, and instead advocate starting the story in the middle of an action sequence. Here’s a Latin phrase you’ve heard of: in medias res.

Dropping into an action sequence —in medias res— can be very exciting. But just like Hollywood movies that open with a car chase, you’ll need to be a trained professional to pull this off. Why? All the introductory elements we’ve discussed will still be demanded by your reader. They need this information to follow your story, to form an attachment to your protagonist, to invest in the thing desired, and to care about whether your hero gets their prize or not. But in a true in medias res opening, the writer gives the reader none of these things as the curtain opens. It all has to be tossed in as the story progresses, often as backstory and flashbacks.

Here's the danger. Until the flashback or necessary information is dropped in about why this action scene is happening (and more importantly, why I should care), I, the reader, have to suspend my needs, trusting that the author will deliver the goods later in the story in a satisfactory way. Because of inexperience in works by newer writers, I often find this doesn’t happen. Some even drop into a flashback on the first page to get these details in. Nowhere is it more important than in the opening to move the story forward —the writer has to push the beast forward with zero established momentum—and then they wipe out momentum gained by going back in time. 

What’s a writer to do? Too much detail drops the opening into a slog, too little (or none at all with in medias res) leaves the reader irritated because they don’t have a clue as to what this story is about. Truth is, we need to be like Goldilocks with her porridge. Not too hot, not too cold. Not too much, not too little. Proper balance makes it jusssst right. 

I enjoy well-chosen details, and a picture of the protagonist’s normal world that reveals who they are before they get slammed with a problem. But it’s good for writers to realize they can start their story rolling with a lot less than they think. They don’t have to put the whole forest on the stage. A smattering of cardboard props and a painted backdrop will give the idea, and that’s all readers need for their imaginations to fill in the rest. 

SET. YOUR. STAGE. Hook your reader as the curtain opens with a vivid description of your character and the environment they exist in. Show us their heart from the start. Make us fall in love with them, or at least identify with them and the problem they will face. Help us not only see the world they live in, but to feel that world with choice sensory details. Grounding your reader with interesting settings and unique characters in the opening lines will make your story come to life. Nebulous marshmallows and talking heads will not.

If you make your audience oooh and ahhh as the curtain opens, and deliver each time it opens on subsequent scenes, no one’s going to walk out. By paying smart attention to your stagecraft and story, those readers will give you a standing ovation at the end.