Because come on, who doesn't love beginnings? They're wonderful.
I recently read a blog post about how much emphasis writers put on the beginning of their story.
There's a valid and practical reason for this. People who agent, publish and read books, judge a book by those first pages. Writers know this and we pour our heart and soul into those first pages. We want to get it just right for you.
But in my case the love and care thrown into those first pages isn't all for the reader. There's a little bit of selfishness mixed in.
For me, starting a new book with a fresh idea is like falling in love.
First, there's the idea that wiggles its way up out of, I don't know, my subconscious, the environment, something I saw or read or did or ate. In case the foregoing sentence didn't make it clear, I have trouble pinpointing the source of my ideas.
Then, there are the days or weeks that it's just a hot steamy love affair between me and my idea. Often I guard it closely. It's not something I want to talk about at this point because it's still growing and fleshing out, becoming less of an amorphous fantasy and turning into something real.
That's the time when friends will start receiving pitches in their inbox which showcase "the most perfect idea ever"!!!! I will gush about the idea, the characters, their motivations, their sadness and joys. I get a little myopic, as all people who are newly in love do.
By the time I've started writing I'm head over heels in love. As my kids would say, I want to marry that idea!
Those first fifty pages are a love letter of sorts. They have to be perfect, eloquent and worthy of the thing that has me unable to think clearly and has taken up (what seems to be) permanent residence in my brain.
So you see. For me it's all about beginnings. They're my selfish, symbiotic pleasure.