Mondays, I’ve decided, should be all about language. After all, last night’s Red Sox-Yankees game–a game that was dripping with almost stereotypical September drama: bottom of the ninth, two outs, Red Sox down by one, bases loaded, and up to bat comes David Ortiz, Big Papi, Mr. Walk-off–I really don’t want to talk about.

All that not said, considering I’m at the beginning of this little writing adventure (and no one is reading it yet), it feels like the right time to talk about opening sentences.

One is not supposed to judge a book by its cover–or so we’ve been told–but I confess I often do judge a book by its first sentence. The opening sentence is a wonderful opportunity for the author to make a strong first impression, to set a theme, or to introduce a mood. It provides a first peek into the story’s character and the writer’s mind. Consider “It was a dark and stormy night.” As maligned and over-played as that sentence is, think about everything it accomplishes.

I used to take my kids to the bookstore at midnight when the latest Harry Potter novel came out. After purchasing the book around 1:00 AM, we would proceed to the sidewalk, sit on the curb, and read the first sentence. The thrill of it always gave us chills.

As an exercise, I like to write opening sentences occasionally. Here are a few:

It was a creaky old porch swing, most recently loved only by spiders it seemed, but it still had a smooth, comfortable glide, and the early summer afternoon breezes felt good against Graham’s face.

This story’s really for people who have had their fingers gnawed off by alligators while they were trying to retrieve something dropped in a murky river, so if that’s never happened to you, you probably won’t like it.

My Aunt Gurt used to say I didn’t have a lick of sense, which, from my mind, was utterly bogus, and which, I’m not too modest to say, I proved completely false at the potluck dinner that Sunday when no one but me seemed to have any idea how to get yellow-mustard potato salad stains off the white carpet in the church meeting room.

What I could never really understand was why Tony chose me instead of Borky, considering that Borky had been married several times already and clearly had a much better knowledge of what made women tick.

“Get out of my face, you putrid little punk,” my daddy spat, shoving me backwards hard enough to make me fall on my ass.

To say I had a crush on Lilly, even after she killed Sheriff Perkins and his deputy, would be to understate the situation quite badly.

An opening sentence can provide for the reader what that little hole in the door must have provided Howard Carter when he discovered Tutankhamun’s tomb: a small glimpse of the mysteries and treasures within.

But you know, I will say this about the Red Sox-Yankees series. The two teams played 27 innings of baseball over the last three days. The Yankees won two of those 27 innings and, consequently, two of the three games. Friday it was the top of the 8th when they scored 6 runs and won 8-7. That was awful. Last night, it was again the top of the 8th … and one pitch. With two on and two out and two strikes on Derek Jeter, Schilling could have ended the inning (and a brilliant night of pitching) with a strikeout, keeping the game tied 1-1. Instead, his last pitch of the night did not touch ground until it had sailed deep over the Green Monster, putting the Yankees ahead 4-1.

Two innings out of 27.

But I really don’t want to talk about it.