How to Start a Story in First Person

First-person narration is a point of view in which the story is told directly from a character’s perspective using “I” or “we.” It drops readers straight into the character’s head — thoughts, feelings, awkward internal monologues, and all. When it works, it really works. And when it doesn’t... well, it can be a confusing mess.

In this guide, I’ll show you how to start a story in first person, including techniques for establishing voice and pulling readers into the protagonist’s world from the very first sentence.

1. Understand the power of first person

First person is like slipping into someone else’s skin — we’re not just watching them, we are them. We see and experience everything as they do, but this also means that we’re limited to what they know, or think they know, about the world around them. There’s no zooming out to get the big picture unless the narrator does it themself.   

The upside? It builds connection, fast. Your audience can quickly bond with your narrator because they’re seeing life through their eyes — every joy, fear, or sarcastic side-comment lands right in the reader’s lap. 

This is why voice matters so much. The narrator’s tone, mood, and quirks shape how everything comes across. You can even use that voice to explore identity and challenge assumptions. According to a study at The University of Iowa, first-person narration in YA literature dominates the genre — and through its “double-voiced” layering, it can both reinforce and disrupt dominant cultural ideas about adolescence.

Take 16-year-old Katniss Everdeen from Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games:

Prim named him Buttercup... He hates me. Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home. ... The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed.

In just a few lines, we get a strong sense of who Katniss is. Her voice is clear and unfiltered — she’s blunt, a little sardonic, and more concerned with survival than sentiment. Instead of a narrator obsessed with teen drama (and things like sleepovers, or prom), we meet someone whose inner world makes us rethink what growing up can look like in the face of real danger and responsibility.

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Sure, first person has its limits — the big one being that we don’t get inside other characters’ heads. But here’s the thing: that’s not always a drawback. In fact, it can create room for tension, misunderstandings, and suspense. Your narrator might be biased, wrong, or deliberately hiding things — but that just makes the story even more engaging, don’t you think?

Consider Burnt Sugar by Avni Doshi, which grabs you by the throat:

I would be lying if I said my mother's misery has never given me pleasure.

From the very first line, we know we’re in for something messy, honest, and hard to look away from. We see the story through Antara’s flawed perspective that’s shaped by both resentment and memory. But as other characters contradict her version of events, we’re left questioning what’s true. That ambiguity makes readers active participants, piecing things together themselves.

2. Pick a narrator with purpose

In first-person stories, who tells the story — and why — is everything. The narrator isn’t just there to describe events; they need to have a reason to speak up. Maybe they’re working through something. Maybe they’re confessing, remembering, or trying to understand their own choices.

You can spell this out early or let readers uncover it slowly. Either way, having a clear motive adds weight to the voice and makes the story more personal. Let’s look at this unforgettable opening line from The Crow Road by Iain Banks:

It was the day my grandmother exploded.

There’s no buildup. No explanation. Just a bang, literally and narratively. The plain, detached voice describing something super absurd instantly grabs our attention and makes us wonder who this narrator really is. (Unsurprisingly, The Crow Road is part family saga, part coming-of age-novel!).

Want to take it a step further? Try writing an unreliable narrator: someone whose view of the world is skewed, whether on purpose or not. Maybe they lie. Maybe they remember things wrong. Maybe they see the world in a way that’s totally erratic. Whatever the reason, they keep readers guessing, rereading, and second-guessing every detail. Perfect for anyone who wants to make the reading experience active, not passive.

Take the eerie first line of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl:

When I think of my wife, I always think of her head.

Yikes. We can’t tell here whether to read this as loving or menacing (or even just plain disturbing). But this ambiguity puts us on edge in the best way. We have absolutely no idea what’s going on, and yet — ta da! — that’s exactly the hook. As Gone Girl unfolds, we’re drawn deeper and deeper into the story since Flynn makes us part of the puzzle, encouraging us to figure out this narrator and keep on piecing together what’s real, what’s warped, and what’s left unsaid.

3. Hook with tension or mystery

In any point of view, your opening needs to grab the reader’s attention. But with first person, specifically, you can drop readers straight into your narrator’s internal world. Yet to truly hook readers, I’d recommend starting by establishing or hinting at the emotional stakes or a personal mystery that signals deeper story threads to come.

Some of the strongest openings in first person narration don’t begin with plot, but with a question about the narrator themself. Who are they? What emotional weight are they carrying? What aren’t they saying?

Take the iconic first line of Donna Tartt’s The Secret History:

The snow in the mountains was melting and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation.

Right away, we know something awful has happened and that the narrator wasn’t just a witness, but part of it. That quiet “we” hints at complicity, even before we know who Bunny was or how he died. There’s a body, a cover-up, and a creeping sense of dread, but no answers yet. It’s a line that pulls you in by raising questions, not answering them. And it sets the stage for a story that’s not just about what happened, but how the characters come to understand it — and live with it.

Similarly, a narrator might hint at an inner struggle that’s unresolved, like something left behind, unfinished, or even too painful to tackle head-on. In Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, the story opens with a memory that feels more like a haunting and less like a clear recollection:

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.

It’s a soft beginning, but there’s something eerie (even sinister?) to it as well. The dream, the way Manderley is introduced not as a place but as a presence… all of this suggests that something happened there. Something the narrator can’t quite let go of, even in sleep. There’s no clear crisis on the page yet, but we already sense that the narrator is carrying a story they’ve never fully escaped.

4. Let information unfold slowly

It’s easy to fall into the trap of explaining too much too soon when you’re writing in first person. After all, you’ve got this direct line into your character’s head — why not just lay it all out? But dumping a bunch of background info right away can kill the momentum and pull readers out of the story. Not to mention that it can ruin the authenticity of the first person narration.

A better approach? Let the details come out naturally, just like they would in real life. Only let yourself explore what your narrator would actually notice or think about in the moment. If it’s not on their mind right now, you probably don’t need it yet. Let readers learn as they go — through thoughts, reactions, and the way your character sees the world.

In Gail Honeyman’s Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine, we get to know lonely, socially awkward Eleanor bit by bit, like through her interactions with strangers and the things she notices (or doesn’t). Early on in the novel, Eleanor mentions her job — nothing dramatic, just that she works in an office:

When people ask me what I do — taxi drivers, dental hygienists — I tell them I work in an office. In almost nine years, no one’s ever asked what kind of office, or what sort of job I do there. … I’m not complaining. I’m delighted that I don’t have to get into the fascinating intricacies of accounts receivable with them.

There’s nothing flashy here — no high-stakes backstory, no dramatic confession. But look at how much we learn in just a few lines. The tone is dry and precise. Eleanor’s not reaching out or trying to connect; she’s holding the world at arm’s length. That emotional distance speaks volumes.

If you want to create a similarly rich first-person voice, resist the urge to have your narrator label themselves. Instead of writing “I’m shy” or “I’m angry,” show it through what they do, say, and notice. Let their voice reveal their world, rather than spelling it out. It’s more engaging — and feels more honest.

You’ll see a similar technique in Madeline Miller’s Circe, which opens with this simple but powerful line:

When I was born, the name for what I was did not exist.

That sentence does a lot without saying much. No backstory, no exposition, no names or places. Just a quiet sense of not belonging. From the start, we feel Circe’s isolation, not because she tells us she’s an outsider, but because the language carries that weight. This kind of gradual reveal makes the narrator feel like a real person — someone who doesn’t hand over their whole life story in one go, but lets it unfold with time. And for the reader, that’s part of the reward.

Strong first-person openings don’t need to explain everything or shout for attention. They just need to feel honest — like a real person is pulling you into their world. That starts with a voice worth listening to. Let them speak from a place of curiosity, emotion, or tension. Let them leave a few things unsaid. If the perspective feels flat or could work just as well in third person, it might not be the right fit yet. But when it clicks? You won’t just be telling a story — you’ll be living it through someone else’s eyes.