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I revised my Civil War novel Hearts of Stone many times before selling it to Dutton Children’s Books. My editor only had one major suggestion: Consider a new beginning.

If you’re revising a novel, considering the first scene should be one of your last steps. It’s hard to know how best to begin until you’re sure how the story ends. And although everyone needs to revise in a manner that works for them, writers who perfect every sentence along the way can fall in love with sentences or scenes that ultimately don’t best serve the story.

Skilled novelists convey character, conflict, setting, and voice in the first page, paragraph, even sentence. It’s a tall order! But here are eight strategies that command readers’&ndashand editors’&ndashinterest.

1. Grab readers’ attention.

Katherine Paterson begins Lyddie, one of my favorite children’s novels, this way: “The bear had been their undoing, though at the time they had all laughed.” Or how about this, from Richard Peck’s A Long Way from Chicago: “You wouldn’t think we’d have to leave Chicago to see a dead body.” Who wouldn’t want to keep reading?

2. Begin with Action.

Here’s Walter Dean Myers powerful opening of Monster: “The best time to cry is at night, when the lights are out and someone is being beaten up and screaming for help.” Action can also be quiet, as in Beverly Cleary’s The Mouse and the Motorcycle: “Keith, the boy in the rumpled shorts and shirt, did not know he was being watched as he entered room 215 of Mountain View Inn.”

3. Arrive mid-conversation.

E.B. White’s Charlotte’s Web begins like this: “Where’s Papa going with that axe?” Lisi Harrison uses dialogue to start The Clique: “‘Massie, wipe that confused look off your face,’ Massie’s mom, Kendra, said. ‘It’s really very simple&ndashyou’re not going.’” Both opening lines convey conflict.

4. Begin with an omniscient passage.

Occasionally, skilled authors begin high above their protagonist before zooming in and continuing with a more intimate point of view. Swallowing Stones, by Joyce McDonald, is about the repercussions a teen faces after he discharges a rifle and accidentally kills a schoolmate’s father. In the book’s beginning, readers travel with the fatal bullet: “There is no stopping it; the bullet rips through the hot summer haze, missing trees, houses, unsuspecting birds, coming to roost, finally, like an old homing pigeon….” The stage has been set.

5. Begin by mirroring the ending.

An Na does this beautifully in A Step from Heaven. In the opening chapter, the young protagonist describes how being in her father’s arms at the seashore makes her feel safe: “I am a sea bubble floating, floating in a dream. Bhop.” Her father ultimately leaves his family, and yet in the end readers feel hopeful when they read the same words used to describe her sense of security. Laurie Halse Anderson employs a similar technique in the opening and closing of Fever, 1793. The main character experiences daybreak quite differently in the first and last chapters, which reveals how she has matured.

6. State the problem.

Simply stating the problem in the first sentence immediately takes readers to the story’s emotional heart. “He did not want to be a wringer,” Jerry Spinelli writes in Wringer, about a boy destined to wring pigeons’ necks in a local event. Many authors use this technique: “All I’ve ever wanted is for Juli Baker to leave me alone.” (Flipped, Wendelin Van Draanen.) “I am Mary. I am a witch.” (Witch Child, Celia Rees.) “Chapter One: Summer 1849 &ndash In which I come to California, fall down a hill, and vow to be miserable here. (The Ballad of Lucy Whipple, Karen Cushman.)

7. Let your character reflect.

Julie Johnston begins Hero of Lesser Causes with this reflective moment: “It started out as a peaceful, plodding kind of summer, the summer of 1946. We didn’t know that our lives would charge wildly out of control.” For another example, see Jennifer Donnelly’s lovely Northern Light.

8. Provide a prologue.

Some writers hate prologues, but I say if it works for your story, use it. A prologue can help readers feel how desperately a protagonist does not want something to happen, as Jerry Spinelli does in Wringer. It can help readers understand what a character is about to lose, as Pam Munoz Ryan does beautifully in Esperanza Rising. And it can set a tone, as Gary Paulsen does in the marvelous prologue to The Winter Room.

Ultimately, I decided to write a prologue for Hearts of Stone. The novel originally began in the summer of 1863. Fifteen-year-old Hannah’s father had already left their home on Cumberland Mountain in East Tennessee to fight for the Union Army. Hannah is estranged from her friend Ben because his father had joined the Confederate Army. Soon orphaned, Hannah shepherds her younger siblings on the long trip to a Nashville refugee camp, all the while longing to get back home.

The problem? Too many crucial events were lost in back story. My new prologue is set in 1861, when Hannah’s father announces that he’s joining the army, and it allows readers to meet Ben while his relationship with Hannah is still good.

Finally, I worked on a first sentence that could reveal both Hannah’s conflict with her father and her strong sense of place. The book now begins this way: “Pa ripped our family apart just as spring began whispering sweet promises up on Cumberland Mountain.”

Hearts of Stone’s review in Kirkus concluded with a prediction that “Readers will be hooked from the start.” I’m glad my editor asked for a new beginning. Sometimes it really does make sense to save the first for last.

For many reenactors, military and civilian, one of the pleasures of a weekend spent in the field is that elusive moment when everything works. I’ve heard the sensation called “the bubble,” or simply “the magic.” There’s no way to predict exactly when it will happen. The feeling may last only seconds. But once you’ve experienced a moment that suddenly looks, smells, sounds, and feels so real that you completely forget your modern existence, you’ll be hungry for more.

I know I am. After a decade of reenacting, I’m not able to participate much any more. Instead I read, disappearing into the magic of good historical novels. And I write historical fiction as well, a hobby-turned-career that lets me spend time in imaginary scenes of my own creation. My most recent novel, Hearts of Stone, grew out of a Civil War refugee camp scenario at an event in Tennessee. And one of those “bubble” moments provided the kernel of raw inspiration.

Is there a novel in your future? If, like a number of reenactors I know, you’re interested in trying your hand at fiction, why wait until someday?

Reenactors are well poised to write historical fiction&ndashmuch more so than many of the beginning writers I meet when I teach general workshops on the genre. As a serious reenactor, you’re already steeped in the history and social fabric of your chosen period. You know a lot about material culture and historical process. You’re experienced at traditional research, and you conduct experiential research every time you participate in a new event or try your hand at a new activity. And you probably have an innate sense of story. The things that you find most interesting about your hobby would likely make a strong foundation for a novel.

If you are ready to get to work, here are a few suggestions.

1. Develop a fresh story idea. If you want to write a children’s book about the Civil War, see how many stories about drummer boys exist before writing one of your own.

2. Once you’ve settled on your idea, focus first on writing your story, not publishing your novel. Enjoy the process. Take a class. Learn your craft. Let the marketing stuff come later.

3. Create a compelling, memorable main character. The best fiction is character-driven, so spend a lot of time thinking about the people you’ll be writing about. Develop a complete history for them. All the information won’t make it into the story, but it will help you present a complex, believable, consistent character.

4. Once you have a strong sense of your character, shape your plot. Think in terms of having your character struggle to achieve something. Short stories and books for young children may have one clear plotline. More complex novels have multiple plotlines. I like to think in terms of “outer” and “inner” struggles. In Hearts of Stone, my main character Hannah’s outer plot involves struggling to keep her family together after she and her younger siblings become orphaned and homeless during the Civil War. Her inner plot focuses on her emotional struggle to accept both her father’s decision to fight for the Union Army and her best friend’s support of the Confederacy.

5. Some writers outline their novels in advance; some don’t. Choose whatever approach works for you. I don’t outline, but I do build a graphic organizer as I go. I create a table with four headings across the top: Chapter, Date, Scenes, Historical Events. That helps me keep track of what my characters are doing, and how their actions fit into the actual timeline of events that form the backdrop for my story.

6. Research, of course, is essential and ongoing. The historical details we love can also bog down a novel’s pace. If you fall in love with some fact or process, don’t just describe it in your fiction. Use that information to help reveal something new about your character, or to advance your plot.

7. Also, decide in advance where you are going to draw the line on historical accuracy. Are you willing to fictionalize weather details, or to make up business names for the merchants in a particular town? Reenactors are often fanatical about getting the details right. At some point, you’ll have to say: Enough. I’m done.

8. Keep a journal when you are at events. With a well-chosen pencil and notebook, you can even make it part of your impression. Make a point of recording specific, sensory details. Those details will bring your fiction to life, and will signal to readers that you are a trustworthy narrator.

9. Read as many different primary accounts as possible. Becoming steeped in period literature of all kinds will help you impart the flavor of period-appropriate speech in your fiction. (Note I said “flavor.” You don’t want to overwhelm readers with period-perfect but hard-to-understand speech.)

10. Join a professional writers’ organization. Membership can be an excellent way to learn more about both writing and publishing. The groups’ informative newsletters are often worth the price of membership. Most groups also hold regular conferences, which let pre-published authors meet other writers, agents and editors. The Historical Novel Society is an umbrella group for all historical fiction writers. Genre-specific groups like the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, Mystery Writers of America, and Romance Writers of America may help you find professional success.

Once your story is as good as you can make it, you have options for publishing. If your top priority is creating a book that your family and friends can enjoy, sooner than later, you may want to self-publish. If your only dream is a book contract from a major publisher, hunker down for the long haul. Learn everything you can about the industry. Read what’s being published and make note of what different presses are looking for.

Having a book published is an amazing experience. Still, if someone told me that I’d never be published again, I wouldn’t stop writing. The process of researching, imagining, and writing my stories brings its own rewards. I hope you can find that magic as well.