OMG, I got so involved in a project that I almost forgot to do today’s flog. Apologies.
Submissions invited: If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.
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 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below.
A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.
Storytelling Checklist
Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this list of 6 vital storytelling ingredients from my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.
Evaluate the submission—and your own first page—in terms of whether or not it includes each of these ingredients, and how well it executes them. The one vital ingredient not listed is professional-caliber writing because that is a must for every page, a given.
- Story questions
- Tension (in the reader, not just the characters)
- Voice
- Clarity
- Scene-setting
- Character
Lance has sent the first chapter of South.
Luis snake-crawled to the top of the rise, hauled his binoculars from his backpack and scanned along the rusty sixteen-foot fence to the dirt road’s visible ends. Nothing. A dead floodlight at the curve over the arroyo left a patch of twilight in the line of artificial day. The lights on either side leached all color from the night.
He checked his watch again. The patrol was late. He’d been out here face-down in the dirt for over an hour, waiting for the right time. These desert mountains quickly turn cold after the sun goes down, even this late in a nasty-hot May. He was prepared for it. Army field jackets and winter-weight ACU trousers like these got him through winter in Kunar. He could wait all night. Usually, the travelers couldn’t.
He looked downslope over his shoulder. Five brown faces stared back at him, their eyes glowing orange in the floodlights’ glare. This run’s travelers. Each wore a backpack; each backpack held everything they could bring with them from their old life to their new one.
The young mother lay at the group’s left edge. Her dark anime eyes stared at him from under a road-weary hoodie. Her little girl—four, maybe five tops—pressed her face into her mom’s shoulder, the woman’s hand wound through her tangled black hair. Luis usually tried not to bring kids this young; they didn’t have the endurance, they didn’t understand “quiet,” they were unpredictable. But they had nobody else anymore, and when Luis looked into the girl’s (snip)
Almost
Nice writing, and an implication of tension ahead – but they’re just waiting. We don’t have a clue as to whatever jeopardy awaits, nor how it impacts these people. I think a little too much time was spent with description and exposition. Let me see if I can trim this down enough to move a real tension-builder from later to the first page. Notes:
Luis snake-crawled to the top of the rise, hauled his binoculars from his backpack and scanned along the rusty sixteen-foot fence to the dirt road’s visible ends. Nothing. A dead floodlight at the curve over the arroyo left a patch of twilight in the line of artificial day. The floodlights on either side leached all color from the night. While this is good scene-setting, I decided that this exposition wasn’t really necessary if I wanted to get the good stuff on this page. There’s some serious cutting of well-written narrative ahead. But this isn’t about writing, it’s about storytelling.
He checked his watch again. The patrol was late. He’d been out here face-down in the dirt for over an hour, waiting for the right time. These The desert mountains quickly turned cold after the sun goes went down, even this late in a nasty-hot May. He was prepared for it. Army field jackets and winter-weight ACU trousers like these got him through winter in Kunar. He could wait all night. Usually, the travelers couldn’t. Again, trimming mightily. Also, the reference to “Kunar” had no meaning to me—is it where he is, or another place?
He looked downslope over his shoulder. Five brown faces stared back at him, their eyes glowing orange in the floodlights’ glare. This run’s travelers. Each wore a backpack; each backpack that held everything they could bring with them from their old life to their new one.
The young mother lay at the group’s left edge. Her dark anime eyes stared at him from under a road-weary hoodie. Her little girl—four, maybe five tops—pressed her face into her mom’s shoulder, the woman’s hand wound through her tangled black hair. Luis usually tried not to bring kids this young; they didn’t have the endurance, they didn’t understand “quiet,” they were unpredictable. But they had nobody else anymore, and but when Luis looked into the girl’s (snip)
Okay, I’ve cut out about 6 lines worth of narrative and added that much material from later in the chapter back in. How does this work as an opening page?
Luis snake-crawled to the top of the rise, hauled his binoculars from his backpack and scanned to where the dirt road’s visible ends disappeared into the desert mountains. Nothing. Floodlights on either side leached all color from the night. The patrol was late.
He’d been face-down in the dirt for over an hour, waiting for the right time to cross. He looked downslope over his shoulder at his travelers. Five brown faces stared back at him. Each wore a backpack that held everything they could bring with them from their old life to their new one.
The young mother’s dark anime eyes stared at him from under a road-weary hoodie. Her little girl—four, maybe five tops—pressed her face into her mom’s shoulder. Luis usually tried not to bring kids this young, but when he looked into the girl’s eyes he saw his daughter at that age, scared, sad, and trusting.
Back to the binoculars. Dust shimmered to the west, then a tan BRV-O swung around the dogleg over the arroyo and stopped. Two guards heaved out. Tan utilities, helmets with no covers, desert boots, M4s slung across their chests: contractors. One looked straight at Luis, then his hand went for his helmet, and in that instant Luis saw night-vision goggles mounted there.
Chingado! Luis went flat and slithered back so the petrified sand dune blocked his head. A whimper. The kid squirmed, a little dark bundle rocking against a dark background. The mom forced the girl’s face tighter against her shoulder. Her big, terrified eyes found Luis.
Comments, please?
For what it’s worth.
Ray
Submitting to the Flogometer:
Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):
- your title
- your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
- Please format with double spacing, 12-point font Times New Roman font, 1-inch margins.
- 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 for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.
© 2012 Ray Rhamey
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