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, 12-point type, 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.
Renee’s first 16 lines
The Desperation Depot lay seven steps below the world, an anonymous refuge wrapped in the perpetual twilight filtering through the single, dust crusted window at sidewalk level. Two burned out waitresses drifted silently among shadow-populated tables, and conversations failed to travel further than the speaker’s interest. It was a tomb the regulars simply called Despo, where the desperate, the hopeless and the walking dead who couldn’t feel anything waited for whatever came next. Even death.
I scanned the sagging booths and peeling paint as my eyes adjusted. Something flickered through me, too fast to recognize, when I found my preferred perch at the end of the bar occupied. Forced to sit facing the aged mirror, I indulged myself with a double scotch. For me, the weeks of waiting were over. Tonight. It would be tonight.
Sipping, I stared at my young-old reflection with indifference. Most people were surprised to find I was only thirty-five, but they hadn’t spent two years in hell. It was the eyes that made them hesitate, and the lines around them. My mother would have called them laugh lines. Only it wasn’t laughter that had etched them.
The smoky barroom disappeared, as events seared into my brain on that hot, sunny day replayed themselves. Events still so real, so
--
I turned this page
I liked the noir feeling of this, and plenty of good story questions were raised. I was interested in this very down character and in the story behind those weary eyes. For the most part, nice, clean writing and a clear, fresh voice. Nicely done. . .but that doesn’t mean there aren’t a couple of nits to pick.
The Desperation Depot lay seven steps below the world, an anonymous refuge wrapped in the perpetual twilight filtering through the single
,dust-crusted window at sidewalk level. Two burned-out waitresses drifted silently among shadow-populated tables, and conversations failed to travel further than the speaker’s interest. It was a tomb the regularssimplycalled Despo, where the desperate, the hopeless and the walking dead who couldn’t feel anything waited for whatever came next. Even death. (Great job of setting mood and tone, and enough mystery to take me to the next paragraph. To my eye, there were a couple of compound adjectives needing hyphens and an extra comma. It’s too bad this is so distant from the character’s point of view, but that could be changed considerably if it were “we regulars” rather than “the regulars”.)I scanned the sagging booths and peeling paint
as my eyes adjusted. Something flickered through me, too fast to recognize, when Iand found my preferred perch at the end of the bar occupied. Forced to sit facing the aged mirror, I indulged myself with a double scotch. For me, the weeks of waiting were over. Tonight. It would be tonight. (Story question very nicely raised-- what will happen tonight? No need for “eyes adjusted” because I think we already have the feeling of dimness. The “something” that the reader never learns what is was a waste of words for me. This is not paid off in the later narrative, so if neither the character or the reader can have any idea of the something that flickered, why include it?)Sipping, I stared at my young-old reflection with indifference. Most people were surprised to find I was only thirty-five, but they hadn’t spent two years in hell. It was the eyes that made them hesitate, and the lines around them. My mother would have called them laugh lines. Only it wasn’t laughter that had etched them.
The smoky barroom disappeared, as events seared into my brain on that hot, sunny day replayed themselves. Events still so real, so
-- (Don’t worry, the narrative doesn’t lapse into a flashback or backstory like too many writers do. The em dash at the end indicates that the thoughts were interrupted, as they were by something said by the stranger occupying the character’s seat. I could have used a name for this guy somewhere along the way, though.)
I found other small instances where the narrative could have been trimmed for a crisper feeling and pace, but my interest was held and I would have gone on to chapter two. Well done.
Comments, anyone?
For what it’s worth.
Ray
Your generosity helps defray the cost of hosting FtQ.
Public floggings available. If I can post it here,
- send 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter 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 format your submission as specified at the front of this post.
- 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.
- If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
- If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.
© 2009 Ray Rhamey
Recent Comments