Good Leads An author’s way of grabbing your attention and making you want to keep on reading…

Types of Leads Typical: Booooorrrrrinnnnng!  It was a day at the end of June 2010. My whole family (including my mom, dad, brother, and me) was at our camp at Rangeley Lake. We arrived the night before at 10:00, so it was dark when we got there and we unpacked. The next morning when I was eating breakfast, my dad started yelling for me from down at the dock at the top of his lungs about a car in the lake.

Types of Leads Action: A CHARACTER DOING SOMETHING I ran down to our dock as fast as my legs could carry me, my feet pounding away on the old wood, hurrying me toward the sound of my dad’s panicked voice. “Scott!” he hollered again. “Coming, Dad!” I gasped, and picked up my speed.

Types of Leads Dialogue: A CHARACTER OR CHARACTERS SAYING SOMETHING “Scott! Get down here on the double!” my father hollered. “Dad?” I yelled back. “Where are you?” I was sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast our first morning at our Rangeley Lake Camp, and from someplace outside my dad was calling for me. “Scott! MOVE IT! You’re not going to believe this!” Dad’s voice urged me. I gulped down my milk, pushed away from the table, and bolted outside, slamming the broken screen door behind me.

Types of Leads Reaction: A CHARACTER THINKING ABOUT SOMETHING I couldn’t imagine what my father could be hollering about already at 7:00 in the morning. I thought hard and fast about what I might have done to get him so riled up. Had he found out about the cigarettes I’d hidden in my backpack? Or the way I’d talked to my mother the night before, when we got to camp and she’d asked me to help unpack the car? Before I could consider a third possibility, my dad’s voice shattered my thoughts. “Scott! Move it! You’re not going to believe this!”

Flipped by Wendelin Van Draanen All I’ve ever wanted is for Juli Baker to leave me alone. For her to back off – you know, just give me some space. It all started the summer before second grade when our moving van pulled into her neighborhood. And since we’re now about done with the eighth grade, that, my friend, makes more than half a decade of strategic avoidance and social discomfort. She didn’t just barge into my life. She barged and shoved and wedged her way into my life. Did we invite her to get into our moving van and start climbing all over boxes? No! But that’s exactly what she did, taking over and showing off like only Juli Baker can. My dad tried to stop her. “Hey!” he says as she’s catapulting herself on board. “What are you doing? You’re getting mud everywhere!” So true, too. Her shoes were, like, caked with the stuff. She didn’t hop out, though. Instead, she planted her rear end on the floor and started pushing a big box with her feet. “Don’t you want some help?” She glanced my way. “It sure looks like you need it.”

The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle by Avi An Important Warning Not every thirteen-year-old girl is accused of murder, brought to trial, and found guilty. But I was just such a girl, and my story is worth relating even if it did happen years ago. Be warned, however, this is no Story of a Bad Boy, no What Katy Did. If strong ideas and action offend you, read no more. Find another companion to share your idle hours. For my part I intend to tell the truth as I lived it.

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants by Ann Brashares Once upon a time there was a pair of pants. They were an essential kind of pants – jeans, naturally, blue but not that stiff, new blue that you see so often on the first day of school. They were a soft, changeable blue with a little extra fading at the knees and the seat and white wavelets at the cuffs. They’d had a good life before us. You could just tell. I guess a thrift shop is like the pound in some ways. Whatever you get there owes a lot to its previous owners. Our pants weren’t like the neurotic puppy whose parents left it alone, barking itself hoarse from morning till night. They were more like the grown-up dog whose family loved it but had to move to an apartment building or maybe to Korea (is it Korea?), where people eat dogs. I could tell the pants hadn’t come to our lives because of tragedy. They’d just witnessed one of those regular but painful life transitions. That, it turns out, is The Way of the Pants.

Tangerine by Edward Bloor The house looked strange. It was completely empty now, and the door was flung wide open, like something wild had just escaped from it. Like it was the empty, two-story tomb of some runaway zombie. Mom called out to me, “Take the bag, Paul. I want to have one last look around.” I said, “I just did. I didn’t see anything.” “Well, maybe you didn’t look everywhere. I’ll just be a minute.” “I looked everywhere.” “Wait for me out by the car, please. We can’t have the new owners thinking we left a mess behind.” I picked up the garbage bag and hauled it out to the curb. We’d already packed up our sleeping bags, suitcases, and two folding chairs – all neatly wedged into the back of Mom’s Volvo wagon. Now only this ten-gallon, self-tying, lemon-scented garbage bag remained, and we planned to toss it into the Dumpster behind the 7-Eleven. But first Mom had to make sure that I didn’t overlook anything. She was worried that the people who bought our house, people who we’ve never met, would find a McDonald’s swizzle stick and think less of us.

Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White “Where’s Papa going with that ax?” said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast. “Out to the hoghouse,” replied Mrs. Arable. “Some pigs were born last night.” “I don’t see why he needs an ax,” continued Fern, who was only eight. “Well,” said her mother, “one of the pigs is a runt. It’s very small and weak, and it will never amount to anything. So your father has decided to do away with it.” “Do away with it?” shrieked Fern. “You mean kill it?” Just because it’s smaller than the others?” Mrs. Arable put a pitcher of cream on the table. “Don’t yell, Fern!” she said. “Your father is right. The pig would probably die anyway.” Fern pushed a chair out of the way and ran outdoors. The grass was wet and the earth smelled of springtime. Fern’s sneakers were sopping by the time she caught up with her father.