To include a prologue or to not include a prologue, that is the question. Prologues are these tempting things that appear sophisticated but are usually unnecessary, unhelpful, or both. It is so easy to write a bad prologue that I’ve split this topic into two posts: one that covers how to not do it wrong, and the other how to actually do it right. If you haven’t read it yet, you can click here to learn more about how to not write a bad prologue. Today, we’ll cover how to actually write a prologue that works for you, not against you.

As I mentioned in part one, prologues are definitionally a “separate introductory section” of a book. In non-fiction, it’s fairly straightforward to distinguish a prologue from a first chapter. In fiction, it’s not so easy. In order to warrant being considered a prologue in fiction, it needs to be written in a different voice and style than the rest of the text and it needs to not directly include main plot events. Also, the first page is what will hook or repel your reader, not the first chapter. If you include a prologue, it needs to be as gripping as a first chapter. The key to hooking a reader is to create some mystery. Give the reader just enough information to pique their curiosity and make them want to learn more and keep reading.

Okay, so a prologue needs to be both as engaging as a first chapter and separate from the main story events. How on Earth do you manage to make something peripheral to the main action engaging? That very question is why it is so hard to write a good prologue. Writing a strong prologue in fiction is not a straightforward task – it’s an art. If your gamble falls flat and your prologue doesn’t stick, it can repel readers because that is the volatile power of the first page.

The Three Principles of Stunning Prologues

Most stunning prologues follow three foundational principles:

1. They’re distinct from the main narrative.
2. They hook the reader (usually by introducing some kind of mystery).
3. They compensate for the lack of main plot events with strange but compelling narrative techniques and/or imagery.

That third point is easier to understand with some examples, which I’ll get to in a moment.

First, just as a reminder, know that most stories don’t need a prologue. You don’t need to face this challenge, and even if you want to, it may not be what’s best for your story. If including a prologue matches your story’s tone and if you can pull it off, prologues can be stunning. But you by no means need one to tell a stunning story.

Of all I’ve read, I can only recall reading two such prologues that truly work. Let’s look at what makes them tick.

The Prologue from Patrick Rothfuss’s The Name of the Wind

My first introduction to The Name of the Wind was in university when one of my fellow English majors sat me down and told me that, even if I never read the whole book, I had to read this prologue. This prologue has the profound artistic merit of capital “L” Literature, but it also maintains the intrigue and narrative hook of genre fiction. But what is it exactly that makes this prologue so good?

The prologue is actually short enough that I can include the whole thing here. This kind of analysis works best if you are familiar with the text too, so go ahead and read it for yourself.

It was night again. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

~

The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night. If there had been music . . . but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.

~

Inside the Waystone a pair of men huddled at one corner of the bar. They drank with quiet determination, avoiding serious discussions of troubling news. In doing this they added a small, sullen silence to the larger, hollow one. It made an alloy of sorts, a counterpoint.

~

The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the wooden floor underfoot and in the rough, splintering barrels behind the bar. It was in the weight of the black stone hearth that held the heat of a long dead fire. It was in the slow back and forth of a white linen cloth rubbing along the grain of the bar. And it was in the hands of the man who stood there, polishing a stretch of mahogany that already gleamed in the lamplight.

~

The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he moved with the subtle certainty that comes from knowing many things.

~

The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn’s ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.

Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

As I mentioned above, this prologue does not have any explicit plot events. Instead, it paints a poignant image of the setting and casts a mystery around the protagonist’s internal psyche. What happened to this man that made him resign himself to quietly coasting through life and simply waiting to die? More importantly, will this man be saved from his own demons and learn how to live again, or will the story end with his tragic death? That is the driving narrative question of The Name of the Wind, the force that propels the reader to keep reading and find out what happens.

So, even though there aren’t any explicit plot events, this prologue establishes the setting and introduces the protagonist and driving narrative question. The author makes the setting and the protagonist interesting by using stunning (and very odd) imagery, and by casting the protagonist in a cloak of mystery. The narrator’s voice will shift its focus to more concrete plot events in the chapters to come, but for now its style is quite poetic and metaphysical.

The Three Principles of Stunning Prologues as Seen in The Name of the Wind

1. What distinguishes the prologue from the main narrative? The shift in narrative voice and style.
2. What hooks the reader? The mystery around the three-part silence and the man at the bar.
3. What added touch makes this prologue engaging even though there are no direct plot events? The unusual but compelling imagery.

The Prologue from Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus

Here is another phenomenal prologue. This one’s a bit longer, so I’ve shortened it a bit. You can read the full prologue here.

The circus arrives without warning.

~

No announcements precede it, no paper notices on downtown posts and billboards, no mentions or advertisements in local newspapers. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not.

~

The towering tents are striped in white and black, no golds and crimsons to be seen. No color at all, save for the neighboring trees and the grass of the surrounding fields. Black-and-white stripes on grey sky; countless tents of varying shapes and sizes, with an elaborate wrought-iron fence encasing them in a colorless world. Even what little ground is visible from outside is black or white, painted or powdered, or treated with some other circus trick.

~

But it is not open for business. Not just yet.

~

Within hours everyone in town has heard about it. By afternoon the news has spread several towns over. Word of mouth is a more effective method of advertisement than typeset words and exclamation points on paper pamphlets or posters. It is impressive and unusual news, the sudden appearance of a mysterious circus. People marvel at the staggering height of the tallest tents. They stare at the clock that sits just inside the gates that no one can properly describe.

~

And the black sign painted in white letters that hangs upon the gates, the one that reads:

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Opens at Nightfall

~

Closes at Dawn

~

“What kind of circus is only open at night?” people ask. No one has a proper answer, yet as dusk approaches there is a substantial crowd of spectators gathering outside the gates.

~

You are amongst them, of course. Your curiosity got the better of you, as curiosity is wont to do. You stand in the fading light, the scarf around your neck pulled up against the chilly evening breeze, waiting to see for yourself exactly what kind of circus only opens once the sun sets.

[. . .]

First, there is a popping sound. It is barely audible over the wind and conversation. A soft noise like a kettle about to boil for tea. Then comes the light.

~

All over the tents, small lights begin to flicker, as though the entirety of the circus is covered in particularly bright fireflies. The waiting crowd quiets as it watches this display of illumination. Someone near you gasps. A small child claps his hands with glee at the sight.

~

When the tents are all aglow, sparkling against the night sky, the sign appears.

~

Stretched across the top of the gates, hidden in curls of iron, more firefly-like lights flicker to life. They pop as they brighten, some accompanied by a shower of glowing white sparks and a bit of smoke. The people nearest to the gates take a few steps back.

~

At first, it is only a random pattern of lights. But as more of them ignite, it becomes clear that they are aligned in scripted letters. First a C is distinguishable, followed by more letters. A q, oddly, and several e’s. When the final bulb pops alight, and the smoke and sparks dissipate, it is finally legible, this elaborate incandescent sign. Leaning to your left to gain a better view, you can see that it reads:

~

Le Cirque des Rêves

~

Some in the crowd smile knowingly, while others frown and look questioningly at their neighbors. A child near you tugs on her mother’s sleeve, begging to know what it says.

~

“The Circus of Dreams,” comes the reply. The girl smiles delightedly.

~

Then the iron gates shudder and unlock, seemingly by their own volition. They swing outward, inviting the crowd inside.

~

Now the circus is open.

~

Now you may enter.

Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus

Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus is one of the few books I know that uses second person narration and directly addresses the audience as a character in the story. The majority of the book is in third person narration and focuses on the characters in the circus, but throughout the story there are these interludes that describe the circus as if you, the reader, are exploring it yourself. In these interludes, you become one of the circus’s dreamers. This unusual technique is entrancing and makes the wonder of the circus all the more immediate to the reader. This major shift in narrative perspective and style marks it as a distinct prologue and not a first chapter.

The Three Principles of Stunning Prologues as Seen in The Night Circus

1. What distinguishes the prologue from the main narrative? The shift in narrative perspective (second person you vs. third person he/she).
2. What hooks the reader? The mystery of the circus.
3. What added touch makes this prologue engaging even though there are no direct plot events? The unusual intimacy of the second person perspective and the beautiful circus imagery.

Summing Up

I hope these two prologues have given you a sense of what a prologue not only should be, but can be when done right. Even though these prologues are technically from genre books, they have a literary style to them and are rather artistic and experimental. Maybe that isn’t your style. Maybe you want a story that does jump right into the action. A prologue probably isn’t for you then, or your target audience, and that’s okay. Most books don’t need one. But if you felt yourself entranced by these prologues and this artistic style matches your own writing approach, a prologue may be a challenge that will benefit the story you want to tell.

In that case, just remember the three principles of stunning prologues: they’re separate from the main story, they hook the reader, and there’s a little something extra to compensate for the lack of direct plot and keep the scene engaging.