A few weeks ago I sat with a fresh draft of one of my daily reports, the cursor blinking on a perfectly serviceable first sentence. It told the reader exactly what the piece was about. It was clear. It was polite. And it was, frankly, a little boring.
I deleted it and tried again. Then again. On the fifth try, something shifted. The sentence wasn’t flashy, but it carried a quiet spark of surprise—an unexpected detail that made even me lean in. In that moment I felt the familiar thrill of a good lead doing its quiet work: not demanding attention, but inviting it.
Susan Orlean has long been one of my quiet heroes in this regard. She crafts first sentences that land like gentle provocations—declarative, sometimes absurd, always authoritative in their own small way. They dare you not to keep reading, even when the subject seems, at first glance, ordinary.
For years now I’ve paid close attention to these opening moves—not just in Orlean’s work, but across the writers who consistently pull me in and refuse to let go. In a world of endless distractions and shorter attention spans, the lead is no longer optional; it is an act of hospitality. It says, gently but firmly: Come sit with this for a while. There’s something worth your time here.
This post is my reflection on that craft—why it matters, what the masters do so well, and how those of us who write (whether for blogs, reports, letters, or larger ambitions) might get better at it. Along the way I’ll share specific examples that still make me pause and smile, plus some practical ways I’ve tried to strengthen my own first sentences. Because if curiosity and receptivity are part of my compass, then learning to write better leads feels like one small, ongoing way to live into that.
Why Leads Matter More Than Ever
Attention is the scarcest resource we have. A strong lead doesn’t just inform—it seduces, surprises, or jolts the reader into “Wait, what?” mode. It earns those first crucial moments in a distracted world.
When I struggle with a draft, it’s often because the opening is doing too much summarizing and not enough inviting. A great lead respects the reader’s time while promising payoff. It’s generous. And in my own writing, whether a morning report or a more personal essay, refining the lead has often clarified the entire piece.
Masters of the Lead
Over time I’ve noticed how the same principles appear across very different forms. Feature writers like Susan Orlean seduce us into caring about subjects we didn’t know existed. Obituary writers work under tighter constraints but with profound stakes—distilling a life into something that honors the dead while engaging the living.
Orlean often opens with vivid, affectionate character portraits or surprising details that feel like delightful invitations. One classic: “In Bulgaria, some tennis balls are like dumplings.” It’s playful, specific, and instantly makes you wonder about the world these athletes inhabit. Another strength is the rapid, layered sketch: “John Laroche is a tall guy, skinny as a stick, pale-eyed, slouch-shouldered, and sharply handsome, in spite of the fact that he is missing all his front teeth.” The list is cinematic; the twist humanizes. Orlean writes the way a reader experiences the story, starting at the beginning and pulling you along with warm observation.
Obituary writers like Alden Whitman show the form’s power under pressure. Whitman conducted thoughtful advance interviews, framing them as biographical updates rather than morbid exercises. He asked reflective questions about identity, turning points, and what mattered most—gathering the intimate details that made his leads gracefully revealing. His portraits treated lives as coherent stories, full of flavor and humanity. Modern masters like Margalit Fox continue this with witty, precise openings that capture essence in one surprising stroke. British obituary traditions add elegant wit and anecdote, often using a single eccentricity to humanize even formidable figures.
The contrast is illuminating. Orlean’s warmth draws you in with delight and empathy. Joan Didion might open the same subject with cool cultural dissection, noting contradictions and performance. Wright Thompson would make it mythic and sensory. Jimmy Breslin would give it street-smart heart and working-man respect.
I sometimes test this by imagining how each would open a scene I actually remember: Moe’s Books on Telegraph Avenue in 1969. I was young, new to Berkeley, and the place felt like a sanctuary. The cigar smoke drifted out onto the sidewalk. Moe himself held quiet authority behind the counter. Browsers moved slowly, as if time among books was time well stolen. He bought books fairly—no haggling, just a fair price—and held court with that cigar while the avenue hummed with protest outside.
Orlean might begin with affectionate observation: the smoke, the quiet authority, the browsers moving as if time were something you could borrow among the shelves. Didion would coolly note the cultural performance—the revolutionary texts amid fading energy. Thompson would immerse you in the sensory sanctuary, the myth of the place. Breslin would tell it like a guy at the bar: Moe buying books fairly, no nonsense, holding court with that cigar while the world outside churned.
Each approach turns the same details—cigars, fair dealing, the charged atmosphere—into something that hooks and reveals. What unites them is deep curiosity and receptivity: seeing people and places fully, with compassionate attention.
How to Get Good at Leads
Mastery comes from deliberate practice. Here are approaches I’ve found helpful:
- Read and dissect. Keep a notebook of great leads. Note what emotion or curiosity they trigger and what promise they make.
- Write multiples. For any story, draft five versions—zinger, scene, metaphor, question, quiet setup—then choose or combine.
- Draft first, revise last. Write the piece, then craft the lead. Or iterate after you know the emotional core. Read aloud.
- Hunt arresting details. Look for surprising combinations (Orlean) or telling contradictions (Didion). Your own memories are full of them.
- Get feedback early. Share just the lead. Ask: Does this make you want to read more?
- Experiment with constraints. Try ultra-short leads or imitate a master’s voice, then adapt to yours.
Over time this becomes instinctive. Leads force clarity about what your story really is.
Common Pitfalls
Avoid summaries that feel polite but boring, or cleverness that sacrifices clarity. The best leads align with your internal compass—generous, empathetic, curious. They reflect compassionate honesty: offering truth with care.
Writing better leads is one small way to live my life theme more fully. It’s about paying close attention, finding the spark in the everyday, and inviting others to do the same.
These values are my compass—and today, curiosity feels like the right direction.