Flogometer—Kim’s mystery got me

The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective. Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

This is for Kim. Here are the first 16 lines:

"I didn't kill her," Mason Bailey said, gulping down his third Glenlivet in a row.

How many times had she heard those words? Dozens. But not from the mouth of a United States senator. For all Whitney Steel cared, the man could drink himself under the table, but not until she got what she'd come for. An exclusive.

As a steamy blast of wind kicked up under the awning shading the bar's patio, she sipped a frosty lime daiquiri, mesmerized by the brutal way the early afternoon sunlight magnified every line on Mason's tanned face. God, he was too old to choose the Pink Flamingo Club for a rendezvous.

"Of all the reporters in Panama City, let alone Florida, why me? We cut our ties years ago." And our losses, she wanted to add.

"I know I can trust you." He turned his head to one side and slicked back his gray hair. "Besides, we were married once. That should count for something."

Whitney straightened her spine. "Give me a break. For eight months I thought we were married. Too bad your girlfriends didn't know about our little legal arrangement."

"Damn it, Whitney. I didn't ask you here to rehash our past." He yanked a monogrammed handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. "I need your help. I'm in some serious shit."

Call me curious, but I did turn the page. Kim did a good job, I think, of raising story questions. The rest of the short chapter did the same -- gunshots ring out, Mason is killed, she's shot, he almost reveals the reason the woman was murdered, it has something to do with cloning... Definitely some good plotting going on here.

To my eye, the narrative could be crisper, though. Some notes:

"I didn't kill her," Mason Bailey said, gulping down his third Glenlivet in a row. (For me, wasted words, not needed. Save the space.)

How many times had she (suggest giving her name here -- why wait, why leave the reader wondering who "she" refers to?)) heard those words? Dozens. But not from the mouth of a United States senator. For all Whitney Steel cared, the man could drink himself under the table (cliché, try for something fresh, use your voice), but not until she got what she'd come for. An exclusive.

As a steamy blast of wind (I'd lose the "as" construction and separate this into a sentence, and I wonder about "blast" as being too heavy. For example: A steamy gust of wind kicked up…etc.) kicked up under the awning shading the bar's patio, she sipped a frosty lime daiquiri, mesmerized ("mesmerized" suggests a dazed fascination, and she's far from dazed, she's focused and intent -- suggest look for another word) by the brutal way the early afternoon sunlight magnified every line on Mason's tanned face. God, he was too old to choose the Pink Flamingo Club for a rendezvous.

"Of all the reporters in Panama City, let alone Florida, why me? We cut our ties years ago." And our losses, she wanted to add.(More wasted words, not needed.)

"I know I can trust you." He turned his head to one side and slicked back his gray hair. "Besides, we were married once. That should count for something." (Turning his head contributes nothing. Now, if he's watching out for danger, that would be different, but nothing in his behavior so far suggests nervousness or fear. Lose that phrase to tighten the narrative.)

Whitney straightened her spine (Don't need the anatomical reference, the reader will get the picture). "Give me a break. For eight months I thought we were married. Too bad your girlfriends didn't know about our little legal arrangement." (Good. I like the snarky, resentful tone. It still hurts, doesn't it?)

"Damn it, Whitney. I didn't ask you here to rehash our past." He yanked a monogrammed handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. "I need your help. I'm in some serious shit." (I think that you could crank up the tension more here by replacing the "serious shit" line with one that comes later -- "I know why Carmen was murdered." For me, that raises yet another story question economically, and sooner is better.)

There were similar opportunities for tightening the narrative, and I hope Kim will work on that. In a mystery, in particular, this is where speed counts, where pace needs to pummel the reader with story questions. BTW, Kim, I wouldn't spend that half a page with the waiter sneaking in exposition about her TV reporting and her looks -- just get on with it, and bring that in later.

Tighten this, think about making him nervous or fearful right up front -- for example, if he's constantly (don't use the adverb) looking around, and she recognizes high anxiety in his behavior, she could ask, and he could volunteer something like "we should be safe out here" or something even less on the nose to foreshadow the shooting with just a tad more tension. Just a thought.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

Public floggings available. If I can post it here, send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.

ARCHIVES .

© 2007 Ray Rhamey

Comments

[Kim]

Thanks, Ray. I appreciate your comments and suggestions. I will definitely be tightening this chapter up. :)

[tihopilik]

Hi all!

I can't be bothered with anything these days, but shrug. I just don't have anything to say recently.


Bye