Flogging the Quill

Flogometer for Gwen: would you keep reading?

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I'm cranking up the frequency of floggings to 3 per week

-- there are 20 writers lined up in the queue, and at the old rate it would take 10 weeks to get to the most recent submission. I'll try to post on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, but may miss now and then. 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). Some homework. Before sending your novel's opening, you might want to read these two FtQ posts: Story as River and Kitty-cats in Action. That'll tell you where I'm coming from, and might prompt a little rethinking of your narrative. Gwen's first 16 lines: Even in the still shadows of the alley, it was unseasonably warm. Sava could feel the heat from the pavement seeping up into the breezeless night. She could smell the rain up above and knew that the drops would sizzle and steam when they started to fall. The weather in this city by the bay was always like that - changing as quickly as the tides of the ocean it was perched beside. It was a far cry from where she had come from, even though there was an ocean there too. That place was a continent, and two centuries away. She tried not to think about it, but couldn't help but remember her childhood, playing on the river docks with her sister, back home in Virginia. But her memories, even her happy ones, brought her no comfort. Visions of that time and place were fading from her mind, like thin paper that crackled to ash each time she touched them. The world around her had changed enough that the reminders grew fewer and farther between. But sometimes, like now, the memories seemed to float to the surface, unbidden. She could never escape the one deed that had marked her forever. That night, she would never forget - she was still paying the consequences. Every time it rained, as it would tonight, she had to relive it . . . Two escaped convicts had come to their small house, asking for shelter from a furious storm. Her father, being a good Christian, let them in. They killed him with an iron pot from the hearth. I resisted, but turned the page I resisted because this is a prologue, and I don't care for prologues. I resisted because the narrative immediately slips into backstory, and I don't care for that. But the page turned because Gwen has quickly drawn me into an unusual world and raised strong story questions, and the writing is mostly pretty good. Goes to show you that a strong story can overcome. Some notes: Even in the still shadows of the alley, it was unseasonably warm. Sava could feel the heat from the pavement seeping up into the breezeless night. She could smell the rain up above and knew that the drops would sizzle and steam when they started to fall. The weather in this city by the bay was always like that - changing as quickly as the tides of the ocean it was perched beside. It was a far cry (a cliché; look for a fresh way to say this) from where she had come from, even though there was an ocean there, too. That place was a continent, and two centuries away. (This works pretty well. It would work even better if this description was even more experiential, giving us how the character feels about what she's experiencing. Note the surplus "from" in one sentence, and an unneeded comma in the last.) She tried not to think about it, but couldn't help but remember her childhood, playing on the river docks with her sister, back home in Virginia, . But her memories that , even her happy ones, brought her no comfort. Visions of that time and place were fading from her mind, like thin paper that crackled to ash each time she touched it,them. The world around her had changed enough that the reminders grew fewer and farther between. But sometimes, like now, the memories seemed to float to the surface, unbidden. S but she could never escape the one deed that had marked her forever. That night, she would never forget - she was still paying the consequences. Every time it rained, as it would tonight, she had to relive it . . . (I trimmed a lot here. All of this musing slowed the pace dangerously for me. Here it is in the leaner form:) She tried not to think about it, but couldn't help but remember her childhood, playing on the river docks with her sister back home in Virginia, memories that brought her no comfort. Visions of that time and place were fading like thin paper that crackled to ash each time she touched it, but she could never escape the deed that had marked her forever. Every time it rained, as it would tonight, she had to relive it . . . Two escaped convicts had come to their small house, asking for shelter from a furious storm. Her father, being a good Christian, let them in. They killed him with an iron pot from the hearth. (This is the sentence that compelled me to turn the page.) The flashback goes on to show a brutal killing and rape, and is a strong scene. However, this is still the author telling us things she thinks we need to know. But we really don't need to know this about the character at this point. I believe that flashbacks/backstory should only be used when the information is absolutely necessary to understand what's going on. Here the character is merely walking down an alley on a hot day, and all of this information is not needed to understand that. I do think that much of what is in this prologue will be needed, but later. I urge Gwen to start with this character in action, and weave this in later. The incident in the flashback isn't really the inciting incident, I would think, for this character. In the "real" story, we should come to her existence as it is, and then a change happens that forces her into action. Keep in mind that readers are interested in two things: what's happening now, and what's happening next. They're almost never interested in what happened before. So give it a try, Gwen, and I think you'll find that your novel opening is even more involving. Good stuff, keep at it. Comments, anyone? For what it's worth, Ray Thank you, Judy, for your generosity. It’s much appreciated. 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. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay. ARCHIVES . © 2008 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer for Linda: would you keep reading?

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I'm cranking up the frequency of floggings to 3 per week--there are 20 writers lined up in the queue, and at the old rate it would take 10 weeks to get to the most recent submission. I'll try to post on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, but may miss now and then.

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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).

Some homework. Before sending your novel's opening, you might want to read these two FtQ posts: Story as River and Kitty-cats in Action. That'll tell you where I'm coming from, and might prompt a little rethinking of your narrative.

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Linda's first 16 lines:

She never wore a watch. The tempo of a jig, reel or waltz was the only time that interested her. For Flannery Sloane the music came from deep inside and out her fingers as naturally as breath from her lungs or the beat of her heart. Home in Dublin the music was all around her. On the streets as well as in the pubs, the rhythm of Ireland drummed with a pulse that matched her own.

But, this was Boston, not Dublin City.

It was a warm evening, so it must have been Ben who caused chill bumps on her arms. She had no idea of his real name, but for now, he was Ben to her. He stood at the edge of the crowd in the Faneuil Hall Marketplace and watched her as she played. Then he approached, gave her a nod of appreciation and dropped a hundred dollar bill in her violin case. Yes, she hoped Ben Franklin would become one of her regulars.

Reluctantly, she nested her instrument, warm from singing out the last of a slip jig, into its case and made her way to O'Fallon's Pub on State Street. Flann knew she was late and tried to settle herself, preparing for the tongue lashing she would get from Kerry and the look of disappointment on Tynan's face. She did not intentionally frustrate them or try to make them angry with her. No, Flannery's life beat to a different metronome setting than that of her older siblings.

I read on with this one

While there's not a great deal of tension on this first page, there's plenty of very nice writing, and the promise of some kind of strife when she gets to the pub. More than anything, there's a character who sounds different, and is quickly made likeable.

The following pages delivered more good writing, and eased me into this young woman's world. One concern that I should voice to Linda -- while the narrative that followed this involved me more and more with the character and her musical passion/gift/connection, the relatively mild bridging tension of being late for a performance didn't rise to a compelling level, and was quickly gone when the verbal spat turned out to be brief and not serious. I think you need to bring in either the inciting incident that changes her life sooner, or somehow otherwise crank up the tension, to raise more story questions.

If "Ben" is a significant figure in her life, which was hinted at on page 1 but then left completely behind for the next 5 pages, I think that needs to be emphasized in some way to let the reader know that there's story coming that involves him. If not, then why the chill bumps?

There were two things in this well-written opening that I want to comment on -- there aren't really any grammatical nits worth bringing up (well, there's a missing serial comma noted below).

First is a lack of clarity for me regarding "Ben."  Here's the paragraph:

It was a warm evening, so it must have been Ben who caused chill bumps on her arms. She had no idea of his real name, but for now, he was Ben to her. He stood at the edge of the crowd in the Faneuil Hall Marketplace and watched her as she played. Then he approached, gave her a nod of appreciation, and dropped a hundred dollar bill in her violin case. Yes, she hoped Ben Franklin would become one of her regulars.

The paragraph opens with her referring to Ben in a way that makes it seem like she knows him, that there's been interaction before. Yet at the end she hopes he will become a regular after he drops a hundred-dollar bill into her violin case. If the dropping of the bill, which gives him his "name," is happening for the first time, then she would not be using Ben as a name for him at the paragraph's opening, which is before the bill arrives.

This could be cleared up simply with a simple tense change, i.e.

He had stood at the edge of the crowd and watched her as she played. Then he'd approached…etc.

The other note is really a nit and quite subjective: the reference to "a different metronome setting" stretched the musical references too far for me. "Metronome setting" is a clunky set of words, for one thing, and for another I had to slow just a tad to get to the interpretation of it as meaning rhythm or beat, and for another it was just contrived enough to show the writer behind the curtain. I suggest looking for a simpler way to say what you want there -- part of your task on this first page is make it as easy as possible for a reader to become engaged, I think, and having to parse clever wording is an interference, IMO.

Other than those notes (and, as I said, please increase the conflict sooner in the following pages), it was a pleasure to read your writing, and I wish you luck. Well done!

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

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Thank you, Danie, for your generosity. It's much appreciated.

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Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. 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.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer for Ajaya: would you keep reading?

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Today's flogee is a writer in Nepal, although he stayed in the US for several years for his PhD. The worldwide reach of the Internet sometimes amazes me.

It looks like I'm going to have to crank up the frequency of floggings to 3 per week -- there are 20 writers lined up in the queue, and at the old rate it would take 10 weeks to get to the most recent submission. I'll try to post on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, but may miss now and then.

---

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).

Some homework. Before sending your novel's opening, you might want to read these two FtQ posts: Story as River and Kitty-cats in Action. That'll tell you where I'm coming from, and might prompt a little rethinking of your narrative.

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Ajaya's first 16 lines:

He noticed how the morning rush began. An elevator in the passage opened, letting out a stream of flight attendants. As suddenly, they vanished round the corner, chatting. A janitor began to take the rounds, pushing yellow bucket-on-wheels. The mop swung like an antenna, splashing washing solution on the floor. For several minutes, the drops lay there, freezing, until a machine wiped them. Occasionally a golf cart would wheeze by, toot tooting in regular intervals. The flashlights flitted to coincide with the horn, lagging by a fraction of a second, like the delayed heartbeats of an arrhythmia patient.

Khemman, who was waiting for the airline staff to open the ticket counter, knew how the ailment felt. Deep in his heart, he had added uneasiness -- partly due to the recent loss of Kanchi Nani, and partly due to the signals his wife had given when he was about to leave for Kathmandu.

Khemman felt in his pocket for the three-headed monster, a bronze statue he had uncovered among cloth-wrapped Sanskrit manuscripts in his grandfather's chest. He always carried the monster in his pocket, but it wasn't there now -- he had been forced to put it in his luggage because of security restrictions. Khemman began to fidget, and peel off the dried flakes of a festering wound on his left arm.

It had not been two weeks yet, but his memory of the events leading to his mother's death…

Almost

While there is some very interesting writing and description here, for me there wasn't a compelling level of tension. My belief is that you need to devote as much as possible in your opening to introducing the story. In this narrative, the first 98 words were devoted to description of a place and the activity in it, a place that eventually has little do to with the story. In my view, those 98 words were not well spent. You only have seconds to hook a reader, so pile on the bait. This description of a place isn't good bait.

I read through the rest of the chapter that Ajaya sent, and it was about what it's like to be Nepalese in today's world, and the mourning of his mother's recent death. Yet the title of his story is The Curse of Archalswara. The "monster" in the protagonist's pocket is the only hint that I saw in 15 or so pages of a curse. In other words, Ajaya, it appears to be a lengthy case of throat-clearing. I have to say "appears" because I really don't know enough to judge. Some notes on the narrative:

He noticed how the morning rush began. An elevator in the passage opened, letting out a stream of flight attendants. As suddenly, they vanished round the corner, chatting. A janitor began to take the rounds, pushing yellow bucket-on-wheels. The mop swung like an antenna, splashing washing solution on the floor. For several minutes, the drops lay there, freezing, until a machine wiped them. Occasionally a golf cart would wheeze by, toot tooting in regular intervals. The flashlights (headlights?) flitted (flickered?) to coincide with the horn, lagging by a fraction of a second, like the delayed heartbeats of an arrhythmia patient. (I found elements of this confusing. For instance, it seems that they are indoors, yet the solution froze. As mentioned, this description doesn't seem to contain any real story element, it's just a view of a place.)

Khemman, who was waiting for the airline staff to open the ticket counter, knew how the ailment felt. Deep in his heart, he had added uneasiness -- partly due to the recent loss of Kanchi Nani, and partly due to the signals his wife had given when he was about to leave for Kathmandu. (The signals from his wife raises an interesting story question. The reference to Kanchi Nani doesn't add anything, but would if the narrative included the fact that she is his mother. As it is, it's just a name. This points out the need to give the reader the clues she needs to make the narrative meaningful.)

Khemman felt in his pocket for the three-headed monster, a bronze statue (I think "figurine" would be a better noun here) he had uncovered among cloth-wrapped Sanskrit manuscripts in his grandfather's chest. He always carried the monster in his pocket, but it wasn't there now -- he had been forced to put it in his luggage because of security restrictions. (Then why did he feel for it if he knew it wasn't there? I think the writer means something like "reflexively" or that habit sent his fingers searching for the figurine. This needs clarification.) Khemman began to fidgeted and peeled off the dried flakes of a festering wound on his left arm.

There are other nits I could pick, but these are the things that I think interfered with pace and clarity. More than anything, I think Ajaya needs to get something related to the story up front. As it is, his opening chapter is, as nearly as I can tell, all exposition and backstory while he flies back to the U.S. from Nepal.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

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Thank you, Heather and Katy, for your generosity. It’s much appreciated.

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Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. 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.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey