If anyone had told John Vanguard that leaving his home city for the first time in several years would lead to him standing in the bowels of a ship, looking down at a dead, naked, one-armed man, he would have said the chances were slim but not impossible.

That, my friends, is the opening line to the third book in the Vanguard series – until now, a closely guarded secret known only by an elite few. Namely, my Spotlight Indie co-conspirator, Frasier Armitage, and my good friend, PL Stuart.

I think it’s a pretty good first line. I should, given it took me well over two years to come up with a version I was (mostly) happy with. That said, it took about 500 iterations, edits, and alternative versions before this one stuck. And it may even change yet as I continue to work on the book.

So why did I spend so long obsessing over that one short paragraph?

Well, it’s because someone (or several someones) made the grave error of telling me I was a bit good at something. Specifically, they told me I was quite good at opening lines. And so, the nightmare began.

First off, I’m painfully British, which means you can only give me a compliment from a minimum distance of 100ft while throwing crumpets at me. And while my ego eats praise like a last meal, my savage weasel brain insists that compliments aren’t actually compliments. They’re challenges. For example, we really liked the opening of your first book; now do better.

We really liked the opening of your second book. NOW DO BETTER.

It will never end.

One day, I must reach the hallowed pinnacle of first lines and write an opener of such devastating consequence that on reading it, colours will seem brighter, food will taste better, and the skies will be filled with an angelic chorus.

I know this is an issue I’ve fabricated. But that doesn’t alter the fact. I have a first-line complex. And it irks me to know that even though I know it’s ridiculous to obsess over something that really doesn’t matter, I just can’t help myself.

Let me clarify: when I say it really doesn’t matter, I mean it really doesn’t matter, say in comparison to not writing the book. Or writing the book and leaving great glaring plot holes all over it that anybody could trip and fall into. Your opening does matter, but it’s important to keep things proportional. That’s right, this is one of those do what I say, not what I do posts.

Because nobody dispenses advice quite so well as a person incapable of taking it.

So, if you’re currently stuck on your first line and aren’t sure how to move forward, here are three techniques you could try that might have served me well in the past if I’d had the good sense to use them back then.

The ‘Cool Sword, Bro’ Technique

Time was once that I’d rather stare at a blank page for a month than come back to something later. Ah, the arrogance of youth. These days there’s a running joke in the Tinsley household that ‘Cool Sword, Bro’ has become our generic go-to placeholder. Can’t think of a place name? Cool Sword, Bro. Not sure how to finish a piece of dialogue? You get the picture.

Rather than putting me off, it helps keep the story moving until I’m ready to come back and replace my cool sword with even cooler writing. Yes, the pen really is mightier than the sword. And using a placeholder beginning can be enough to get you over the dreaded blank page hurdle.

The ‘In Last Week’s Episode’ Technique

This only really works for sequels and beyond, but again, it is a good way to get words down so you’re not sitting staring at a screen devoid of anything but the words Chapter One glaring angrily back at you. If you’re writing a first book, you could treat this more as a prologue exercise. It doesn’t mean you need to use it in the final product, but writing a one-page precursor or recap of your previous story can serve as an intro to your intro.

Of course, if your book already has a prologue, you’ll end up writing a prologue to the prologue, and the word will collapse in on itself. Use with caution.

The ‘Dark and Stormy Night’ Technique

Go full trope. It was a dark and stormy night. Wake your MC up from a dream. It was a normal Sunday morning, until suddenly it wasn’t…

This works in a similar way to the placeholder technique but has one distinct difference. Giving yourself permission to be shit. If you start at the bottom, the only way is up. I know there will be those of you whose toes are curling at the very notion, but sometimes it’s important to embrace the cliché. It’s all about disarming your inner critic.

Writing a bad beginning won’t impact your author career. Although publishing it might, so, make sure you change it before sending out ARCS.

Yes, there is a recurring theme in these techniques – and that is, don’t be like me.

Don’t sit there obsessing over whether your opening paragraph is witty or clever or poignant enough. Don’t look at it as the foundation upon which everything else you write must sit.

Think of it as the gate through which your story can be found.

And don’t forget, if in doubt, there’s one sure-fire way to make sure that the opening to your book is the best it can possibly be, and that’s to [COOL SWORD, BRO]