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Flogometer for Greg: would you keep reading?

Update on free novel. Some reviews are coming in. Here's a snipped from one:

Good book. Very well written. We the Enemy is a fast-moving story with action, suspense and, yes, some polemics thrown in. All of it interesting and thought-provoking. Sid

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.

Greg's first 16 lines of a fantasy novel

-- he is, by the way, Canadian:

To tell the truth, Dora Faye didn't know whether she was about to kill herself or not. All her life she'd wanted to be spontaneous and creative, open to all the sweetly surprising spin-on-the-head-of-a-pin possibilities of life -- especially now with regards to the ending of it -- and tonight she figured she'd just go with the flow. Live or die, oh me oh my. Maybe yes, maybe no. Easy come, easy go. Tra la la la la. But one thing was for damn sure. She wanted a corndog. The carnival was in town.

On this sticky June night her mind played tricks on her. Snowflakes danced over the Ferris wheel. Since snowflakes don't have a mind of their own to zig and zag, flit and flap independently, this made no sense at all to Dora Faye. Snow in June?

Her nostrils flared as a frypit breeze of onions and peppers -- greasy with diesel fumes -- teased her brunette hair. She'd chopped it to try for a more youthful image before they snipped her American Express; suddenly lacking the plastic cash for the nip 'n' tucks to firm up the face, the pageboy thing just wasn't working at all for her.

As she drove her Delta 88 ragtop into the parking lot and killed the ignition, her ears caught a muddy wave of pop tunes, punched out by worn-out carny speakers, as they and her Top 40 regrets washed through her mind.

Opening and voice moved me on

Nice voice here, and fun writing for the most part. I did read on, and have a note later for Greg about that. This opening, thanks to the first paragraph, raises a strong story question. Some notes:

~~To tell the truth,~~ Dora Faye didn't know whether she was about to kill herself or not. All her life she'd wanted to be spontaneous and creative, open to all the sweetly surprising spin-on-the-head-of-a-pin possibilities of life -- especially now with regards to the ending of it -- and tonight she figured she'd just go with the flow. Live or die, oh me oh my. Maybe yes, maybe no. Easy come, easy go. Tra la la la la. But one thing was for damn sure. She wanted a corndog. The carnival was in town. (Except for the first phrase, I really liked this. The contrast between the death wish and the corn dog craving was engaging. I cut the "truth" phrase because it seems a shame to begin such an interesting piece of narrative with a tired old phrase. Wasn't needed, either, IMO.)

On this sticky June night her mind played tricks on her. Snowflakes danced over the Ferris wheel. Since snowflakes ~~don't~~ didn't have a mind of their own to zig and zag, flit and flap independently, ~~this~~ that made no sense at all to Dora Faye. Snow in June?(The first sentence steps out of her point of view and into the author's. In a close third person pov, she wouldn't be thinking about a sticky June night in this way. And "her mind played tricks on her" is telling. Thought-starter: begin with the snowflakes part. Then, instead of the "Snow in June?" internal monologue, carry on with the no sense thing at the end to describe the night, i.e. Neither did snowflakes on a sticky June night.)

Her nostrils flared as a fry-pit breeze of onions and peppers -- greasy with diesel fumes -- teased her brunette hair. She'd chopped it to try for a more youthful image before they snipped her American Express; suddenly lacking the plastic cash for the nip 'n' tucks to firm up the face, the pageboy thing just wasn't working at all for her. (Stating the color of her hair is another slip in pov -- unless she's looking at it in a mirror (a rear-view mirror, in this case), she wouldn't be thinking about the color. I liked the fry-pit breeze, part, but that leads to an inconsistency in the next paragraph. I think this description could be cut or moved to later.)

As she drove her Delta 88 ragtop into the parking lot and killed the ignition, her ears caught a muddy wave of pop tunes, punched out by worn-out carny speakers, as they and her Top 40 regrets washed through her mind. (This may be totally subjective, but…while "ragtop" is a good synonym for convertible, it created an image of a convertible with the top up (because of "top"). Turns out the top is down. Here's a staging problem: in the previous paragraph, before we know she's in a convertible with the top down, she smells odors on the breeze. Yet she isn't yet in the parking lot by the carnival, as we learn here. Rethink the order of things here. I'd get her into the parking lot first, stop the car, and then let the breeze do its thing. Also, I wouldn't have her ears catch the music; keep it simple, i.e. "She caught a muddy wave…etc.)

I liked much of the rest of Greg's chapter, but there are a few howevers for him to consider:

In six pages, there was no hint of a fantasy element. I think that's a problem.
For me, there was a little too much time spent on detailed description of things that didn't really move the story forward. It could be leaner.
The similes and metaphors kept coming to the point where I was noticing them, and that's not good because it pulls a reader out of the story.

Good stuff, though. Keep at it, Greg.

Comments on the opening, 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.
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.

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February 29, 2008 in Flogometer | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBack (2)

Flogometer for Larry: would you keep reading?

Note on novel giveaway I have a guest post up on Buzz, Balls & Hype.

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.

Larry's first 16 lines

-- he is, by the way, a physician:

I had conflicting feelings as my son James rushed up the steps of the hospital. I looked at my watch. He was three hours late. I had seen only pictures of him for the past ten years. He had taken a train and subway from Connecticut to Brooklyn Heights. His teenage body waved like a stalk of corn in a storm as he moved across the hospital lobby toward me.

"Bart?" he asked.

Not Dad, I thought as I nodded, "Yes, James."

Our eyes met. He extended his right hand. I gasped it and put my left arm on his shoulder. We had lost so much time.

"Sorry I'm late, but Fred procrastinated when it was time to drive me to the station."
"I'm not surprised, your step-father used all his legal skills to interfere with our visitation.

The loudspeaker blared. "Dr Bartolino Ferranti, Dr Ferranti."

I picked up the in-house phone "Yes, Bart Ferranti here."

"Doctor, we've got a bad allergic reaction in the microbiology lab. "Please hurry!" I rushed to the medication cabinet to grab a bottle of adrenalin, the standard drug used to treat allergic reactions, and a syringe with a needle.

Not ready for prime time

My admiration for anyone who tackles writing a novel goes to Larry, but you've got some work to do yet. While you do start with a scene, a good thing, it gets off to a slow start (for me), has some craft and staging issues, and -- although the last sentence promises something dramatic -- lacks tension. Some notes:

I had conflicting feelings as my son James rushed up the steps of the hospital. ~~I looked at my watch.~~ He was three hours late. I had seen only pictures of him for the past ten years. He had taken a train and subway from Connecticut to Brooklyn Heights. His teenage body waved like a stalk of corn in a storm as he moved across the hospital lobby toward me. (The sentence I cut is an example of overwriting that I found elsewhere in the chapter. For me, the sentence about the photos was slow to parse. For example: For ten years, I'd only seen photos of him. I'd cut the one about the train, too -- doesn't seem necessary to tell us how the boy got there. And the simile tries too hard -- I pictured a stalk of corn in a storm, and can't see a body moving that way. For me, it was distracting and didn't accomplish what Larry intended.))

"Bart?" he asked. (A pet peeve of mine about dialog tags: use said. When you have a question mark ending a sentence, it's redundant to use "asked.")

Not Dad.~~, I thought as~~ I nodded. "Yes, James." (Using internal monologue avoids cluttering narrative up with "thought," and produces a crisper narrative.)

Our eyes met. He extended his right hand. I gasped it and put my left arm on his shoulder. We had lost so much time. (The detail of right hand and left arm is overwriting. Instead, why not simply: We shook hands, and I put my arm around his shoulders.)

"Sorry I'm late, but Fred procrastinated when it was time to drive me to the station." (This is hardly a dramatic, compelling bit of dialogue. Does it matter why he's late?)

"I'm not surprised, your step-father used all his legal skills to interfere with our visitation." (If it weren't for the shortcomings of the previous sentence, this would be a good way to work in this bit of exposition.)

The loudspeaker blared. "Dr Bartolino Ferranti, Dr Ferranti."

I picked up the in-house phone "Yes, Bart Ferranti here." (A staging and continuity problem -- as far as we know, we're still on the steps outside the hospital, and I doubt there would be an in-house phone there.)

"Doctor, we've got a bad allergic reaction in the microbiology lab. "Please hurry!" I rushed to the medication cabinet to grab a bottle of adrenalin, the standard drug used to treat allergic reactions, and a syringe with a needle. (The physician in you is showing up, Larry. At this point, we don't need to be instructed in the standard use of this drug. For one thing, the use is implicit in the action -- he learns of an allergic reaction, he grabs the adrenaline. It's obvious that he needs it to treat the allergic reaction. Also, would the person on the phone, probably a nurse, really say, "Please hurry."? Wouldn't that be understood between professionals?)

I did read on, Larry, and there was more of the same that needed work. For example, the next paragraph:

"There's an allergic anaphylactic reaction in the biology lab. Hurry! Everyone follow me. Bring the hospital crash cart, Intra-Venous [IV] equipment, oxygen, Rubin breathing bag and something to establish an airway."

Seems to me that this is the doctor teaching the reader. In a hospital emergency, everyone knows what things are. A doctor might shout orders to nurses and aides, such as "Crash cart! IV! Oxygen!" (Question: wouldn't a lot of that stuff already be on a crash cart?)

Keep at it, Larry. As anyone reading FtQ can tell you, writing novels involves a looooong learning curve. Thanks for sending your work.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

Flogometer update
There are over 20 writers in line for a flogging. As they say, "Hurt me good." If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.

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 .

February 27, 2008 in Flogometer | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBack (0)

Flogometer for Marty: would you keep reading?

Update on We the Enemy

A week ago I queried 11 agents about taking on my novel; I've heard from 5, and 1 requested a full for an assistant to read. As a result of a guest post on Write Unboxed about this, another bold agent requested pages in her comment. Power to the Internet! 20 people have requested the free PDF. And there's a post on Readers and Writers Blog. about it. This Wednesday I'm doing a guest post on M.J. Rose's Buzz, Balls & Hype blog. And reader reviews are coming in.

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.

Marty's first 16 lines:

Temperance Jones struggles into her winter coat. She has not even bothered to remove her nightgown. In the last few years she has simply begun to put her clothes over the top of it. Stockings cover her thin legs and a long wool skirt hangs well past her knees. She starts looking for her gloves. She knows they aren't very far away but at 73 her mind has began to wonder and her memory isn't so good anymore. Still she needs to find her gloves without them her hands will be covered with blisters by the end of the day. Temperance has dug all day without them in the past, so she is well aware of the consequences. She spots them lying on top of her boots. Guiltily she looks around the room as she picks them up, almost like she expects someone to be watching and judging her failing memory. But of course she is alone.

Temperance has considered replacing her stockings with slacks like her family has suggested. They would definitely keep her legs warm but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Ladies didn't wear trousers. She had heard that numerous times from her mother when she was a child. Her sweet mother had always been the very picture of what a lady should be. Even when she was found dead at the bottom of the stairs she had managed to fall in a ladylike position. Temperance wondered what her mother would think of her if she were alive today. If she could see everything that she has done and worse everything that has been done to her over the years. Would she still…

I stalled out on backstory

I liked the voice, and the point of view of a 73-year-old is definitely interesting. I was even willing to go along with the leisurely tone, but for me there was finally too much doddering old lady stuff and not enough hint of an interesting story was at hand.

That's the danger of dawdling on an opening page. Shortly thereafter, Mary had this line:

Ladies don't wear trousers but they don't get gang raped and smother the life out of their elderly husbands either.

That raised interesting story questions, but too late. And then the story dropped into backstory. For me, there just wasn't enough tension. And a few craft problems:

Temperance Jones struggles into her winter coat. She has not even bothered to remove her nightgown. In the last few years, she has simply ~~begun to~~ put her clothes over the top of it. Stockings cover her thin legs and a ~~long~~ wool skirt hangs well past her knees. She ~~starts looking~~ looks for her gloves. She knows they aren't very far away, but at 73 her mind has began to ~~wonder~~ wander and her memory isn't so good anymore. Still, she needs to find her gloves; without them her hands will be covered with blisters by the end of the day. ~~Temperance has dug all day without them in the past, so she is well aware of the consequences.~~ She spots them lying on top of her boots. ~~Guiltily~~ She looks around the room as ~~she picks them up, almost like she expects~~ if someone were ~~to be~~ watching and judging her failing memory. But of course she is alone. (There were a few comma faults, and one missing semi-colon. I think little misses like that rob narrative of the professional tone it must have, as does the occasional misspelled word [wander]. The part about "Stockings cover her thin legs" steps away from her point of view and tells rather than shows. I think you could communicate thin legs descriptively, i.e. Baggy stockings cover her legs…)

Temperance has considered replacing her stockings with slacks like her family has suggested. They would definitely keep her legs warm, but she ~~couldn't~~ can't bring herself to do it. Ladies ~~didn't~~ don't wear trousers. She had heard that numerous times from her mother when she was a child. Her sweet mother had always been the very picture of what a lady should be. Even when she was found dead at the bottom of the stairs, she had managed to fall in a ladylike position. Temperance wondered what her mother would think of her if she were alive today. If she could see everything that she has done and worse everything that has been done to her over the years. Would she still… (I felt the green part slowed the narrative and could be deleted -- an opening is not time, IMO, for a character to slip into rumination. Eliminate that and we can get to the gang rape/smothering part on the first page.)

It seems like there could definitely be something intriguing here, and the voice is strong. Work on tightening the narrative and keeping the focus on what's happening that makes us want to know what happens next.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

Flogometer update
As of this post, I've done 100 "floggings," and there are 23 in line. As they say, "Hurt me good." If you're in a hurry, I recently did a "private flogging" for a reader: $50 for his first chapter.

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 .

February 25, 2008 in Flogometer | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBack (0)

Flogometer for Stephanie: would you keep reading?

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.

Stephanie's first 16 lines for an urban fantasy:

Amaan House

Bawiti

11:43pm, 30 June

Julie had visited the hovels of many archaeologists in her three years of working for National Geographic, but she'd never seen a house as dingy as this one.

Plaster peeled from the walls, and giant cobwebs stretched over every corner. A Mount Everest of food-encrusted paper plates leaned against the coffee table. Beer cans littered every surface not packed with boxes of artifacts.

Katie Hunt, the assistant director of the Bahariya excavation, pushed papers and bags of sand off the moth-eaten couch, and gestured for her to sit.

As Julie perched gingerly on the corner of that couch, trying to avoid stepping on anything, she noticed the skull.

It grinned at her from a tray on the breakfast bar, its toothpaste-white cranium gleaming under the dim light. All but two of his upper teeth remained, and these were remarkable. The long incisors curled inward, giving him an…

The teeth got me
Archeology is interesting, to begin with, and the mention of the unusual teeth were enough to pique me into turning the page. And the writing and craft were sound. Sure enough, interesting things happened after this page. But still…some notes:

~~Amaan House~~

~~Bawiti~~

~~11:43pm, 30 June~~ (I "cheated" in the 16-line count and included these three timelines. Unless they are VITAL for the story, I'd leave them out. With them in, the page would end with "noticed the skull," and that's not as good a hook. Doesn't seem to me that the time of day or the date are key. The location I've included below.)

Julie had visited the hovels of many archaeologists in her three years of working for National Geographic, but she'd never seen a house as dingy as this one in Bawiti. (Nice job of setting things up, but not exactly gripping. I'll have a suggestion later.)

Plaster peeled from the walls, and giant cobwebs stretched over every corner. A Mount Everest of food-encrusted paper plates leaned against the coffee table. Beer cans littered every surface not packed with boxes of artifacts.

Katie Hunt, ~~the~~ assistant director of the Bahariya excavation, pushed papers and bags of sand off the moth-eaten couch, and gestured for her to sit. ("Moth-eaten" is on the cliche side of things, can you come up with a fresher way? Or even a plainer one, i.e. "tattered?")

As Julie perched ~~gingerly~~ on the corner of ~~that~~ the couch, ~~trying to avoid stepping on anything,~~ she noticed the skull.

It grinned at her from a tray on the breakfast bar, its toothpaste-white cranium gleaming ~~under the dim light~~. All but two of his upper teeth remained, and these were remarkable. The long incisors curled inward, giving him an…(A clarity issue here for me -- the narrative says that all but two of his teeth remained, and then says that they curved inward. Do you really mean that only two of his teeth remained. In addition, I'd move this (and the rest of the skull's description) to the first paragraph. For example: A skull grinned at Julie from a tray on the breakfast bar, its …etc. Then I'd get into the rest, though I'd look for places to trim that. The unusual skull/teeth are a far stronger opening hook for me than the fact that archaeologists have messy houses.)

The rest of the chapter was also nicely written, but the amount of talk before the explosion started to drag a little for me. Still, nice work. I urge Stephanie work on adding tension to this opening page, and then getting to the explosion sooner.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

Many thanks for your kind donation, Richard.

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 .

February 22, 2008 in Flogometer | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBack (0)

Flogometer for Valerie: would you keep reading?

Update: I've a guest post up on Writer Unboxed about what's happened so far with my appeal to agents about my novel, We the Enemy. In addition, in the comments there a person named Dave accuses me of sensationalism. I reply to him. You might want to add your thoughts as well.

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.

Valerie's first 16 lines-- she tells me that it's a true, inspirational romance:

"Oh, shit!" Startled by the sound of his voice, I awoke and mentally shook my head to clear the sleep from my brain. I suddenly understood the meaning of Bill's words.

"Are you late?"

"No…well, maybe just a little. I didn't hear the alarm and have to hurry. It's seven o'clock." He stretched and stood up.

Through sleepy eyes I could see his naked body. I loved looking at Bill. Even after so many years, a thrill quivered inside me. I didn't want to move as I watched him pull up his jeans. His bare bottom quickly disappeared into the blue denim, and I heard him close the zipper.

Savoring my mind's thoughts while slipping out from under the covers, my feet found the floor. I reached for my comfy old house dress. Mm, the smell of clean cotton dried in fresh air was so pleasant. I sensed Bill's gaze as the dress slid down over my naked skin. I had this dress for so many years. With its scoop neck, cap sleeves, and buttons down the front it has only gotten better with age. Years ago, I had asked Mom to sew the buttons closed permanently. I just needed to pull the dress over my head. Bill came closer and playfully gave me a hug, leaning down he kissed my neck. "Mm… Don't get me started….You did want breakfast, didn't you?" As I ventured down the hallway, I quickly combed my fingers through my hair. Piling it at the…

I didn't move on
There's good, clear writing here, and even a little bit of what I call "experiential description" -- the part where we learn about her dress through her memory/view. It's a scene, and that's good.

However, for me, this just didn't meet the criteria of compelling. There's a suggestion of sexiness ahead, but only that. Nothing has happened to lead me to believe that this character or any other will have a problem in the near future. No, it's just people getting out of bed. And it's a prologue. That leads to a flashback. The prologue is primarily this character getting out of bed and making breakfast and seeing her husband off to class. I believe prologues need to be as compelling in terms of tension as any other part of the book, and this one didn't meet that criterion. Some brief notes:

"Oh, shit!" Startled by ~~the sound~~ of his voice, I awoke and mentally shook my head to clear the sleep from my brain. I suddenly understood the meaning of Bill's words. (I know what you mean by "mentally shook my head," but felt it was unneeded complexity for a simple action, and it drew me out of the story.)

"Are you late?"

"No…well, maybe just a little. I didn't hear the alarm and have to hurry. It's seven o'clock." He stretched and stood up.

Through sleepy eyes I could see his naked body. I loved looking at Bill. Even after so many years, a thrill quivered inside me. I didn't want to move as I watched him pull up his jeans. His bare bottom ~~quickly~~ disappeared into the blue denim, and I heard him close the zipper.

Savoring my ~~mind's~~ thoughts while slipping out from under the covers, my feet found the floor. I reached for my comfy old house dress. Mm, the smell of clean cotton dried in fresh air was so pleasant. I sensed Bill's gaze as the dress slid down over my naked skin. I'd had this dress for so many years. With its scoop neck, cap sleeves, and buttons down the front, it ~~has~~ had only gotten better with age. Years ago, I had asked Mom to sew the buttons closed permanently. I just needed to pull the dress over my head. Bill came ~~closer~~ back and playfully gave me a hug, leaning down ~~he kissed~~ to kiss my neck. "Mm… Don't get me started….You did want breakfast, didn't you?" As I ventured down the hallway, I quickly combed my fingers through my hair. Piling it at the…(I'm sure that the memory of this morning scene is as pleasant and lazy as this description, but for me -- a male reader -- the history of the dress had no chance of inciting my interest. Will it with female readers?)

Valerie, while it's true that an aspect of story is to show a character being jolted out of life as usual and their struggles to restore it, I feel that you need something more dramatic happening here, at least the forecast of some kind of jeopardy.

Thanks for sharing your work, and keep thinking about how to make the narrative truly compelling.

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.
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.

HREF="http://www.floggingthequill.com/flogging_the_quill/archives.html"ARCHI
VES .

February 20, 2008 in Flogometer | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBack (0)

Flogometer for Pat: would you keep reading?

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.

Pat's first 16 lines:

Amoda Ni Cormac tossed three more logs onto the flames before turning to grab the large pot of water to boil. She tensed as she heard heavy footsteps approach. A shudder raced through her she set the pot down softly.

Amoda gathered her skirts in her hand and tiptoed over to the distant corner of the kitchen. Moving aside the wooden door, she slipped inside the tight crawlspace. She ran her hands over her the goose-prickled flesh of her bare arms and winced as she encountered the bruises from her last beating. She cringed as memories flooded through her. Once more she relived the violence that invaded her nights.

His heavy weight on her chest made her struggles futile. Amoda bucked and twisted under him, finally freeing her hands. She scratched at his face, raking her nails deeply across the weathered skin, drawing blood and curses of pain. All she wanted was to be left alone.

The stench of stale wine and tobacco filled her senses, drowning her in a sense of helplessness, of desperation and added to her horror. She screamed, her fists pummeling his shoulders, her fingers pulling at his hair, her legs kicking out at him harder as she felt the calloused hand creeping under her tunic, mauling a bare breast.

"Too much for the Prince to handle, I say. What he doesn't know can't trouble him."

The immediate flashback discouraged me

There is good writing here, and there's a well-imagined world. I would much rather be plunged into it rather than reliving it. As I've said before, the reader wants to know what's happening now, not then. BTW, the "beating" turns out to be more of a rape, so I wondered why it was called a beating. I believe that, while the writer is working hard to introduce a sympathetic character to us, we're being told something the writer thinks we need to know. Why not start with the beating/rape as a live scene rather than history? Some notes:

Amoda Ni Cormac tossed three more logs onto the flames before turning to grab the large pot of water to boil. She tensed as when she heard ~~heavy~~ footsteps approach. A shudder raced through her and she set the pot down softly. (A few nit-picks: "large" is a vague and relative word, and doesn't actually contribute to a picture. If you want to show that it's large, you could use another way to let the reader understand that. For example, it would be heavy, right? What about: Amoda Ni Cormac tossed three more logs onto the flames, and then strained to lift the pot of water to boil. Using adverbs such as "softly" aren't truly descriptive most of the time. I try to avoid them. For example, here she could ease the pot back down, which shows rather than tells.)

Amoda gathered her skirts ~~in her hand~~ and tiptoed ~~over~~ to the distant corner of the kitchen. Moving aside the wooden door, she slipped inside the tight crawlspace. She ran her hands over her the goose-prickled flesh of her ~~bare~~ arms and winced as she encountered ~~the~~ bruises from her last beating. She cringed as memories flooded through her. Once more she relived the violence that invaded her nights. (Argh! So we go to a flashback. I wouldn't here. Other things: in my understanding, and in houses today, a crawlspace is beneath the floor of the building. So I don't understand her getting into one here. There are bits of overwriting. For example, when a woman gathers her skirts, by necessity she uses her hands, so adding that bit of detail is just clutter because a reader will automatically imagine the process. In this case, "distant" is also a vague and relative descriptor -- it doesn't actually help give a picture of the room. Furthemore, is it actually needed? What does it matter how far away the corner is as long as she hides?)

His heavy weight on her chest made her struggles futile. Amoda bucked and twisted under him, finally freeing her hands. She scratched at his face, raking her nails deeply across the weathered skin, drawing blood and curses of pain. All she wanted was to be left alone.

The stench of stale wine and tobacco ~~filled her senses, drowning~~ drowned her in ~~a sense of~~ helplessness~~, of desperation and~~ added to her horror. She screamed~~, her fists~~ and pummeled ~~pummeling~~ his shoulders.~~, her fingers pulling at~~ She pulled his hair~~, her legs kicking out~~ and kicked at him ~~harder as~~ when ~~she felt the~~ his calloused hand ~~creeping~~ crept under her tunic~~, mauling a bare~~ and mauled her breast.

"Too much for the Prince to handle, I say. What he doesn't know can't trouble him." (Too many "ings" here. And you gave the action to parts of her body rather than her. This is a scene of violent action, and I think that short, active sentences do a better job of delivering the experience. "ing" words are softer, and lack the bite and punch of the past tense I substituted. IMO.)

The rest of the pages were similar, with some good writing slowed down here and there with bits of overwriting. There was more backstory, which further slowed getting me involved with this girl's story. I suggest that Pat look further down the narrative line for a better, more immediate place to start the story.

I liked the work, and definitely want to encourage you to keep at it. Look for ways to tighten the narrative, make it crisp and active, and you'll have a better chance of sweeping your reader along. Above all, get into what's happening now and avoid the past until you've got us hooked.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

Many thanks, Marian, for your generous donation.

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 .

February 19, 2008 in Flogometer | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack (0)

“I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this any more.”

That famous quote from the film Network applies to me today.

I'm mad as hell about the continuing slaughter of innocents with high-firepower lethal firearms. The tragic Northern Illinois University shooting will not be the last.

What I'm not going to take any more is keeping mum about the anti-lethal-weapon theme in my novel, We the Enemy. If this book can stimulate debate about what to do about lethal firearms, I'm duty-bound to somehow get it out there.

So I'm not going to continue to take the traditional meek approach to seeking publication.

I'm giving it away

Wte_cover3_150w I'm putting my novel where my mouth is. I've set up a special email address where you can request a free e-copy of my novel -- please do not use my regular e-address. The free book is a PDF. All I ask is your name and email address.

I'm making a personal appeal to several select literary agents

For some time, I've tried to market We the Enemy traditionally, pitching it as a thriller or speculative suspense novel. I had an agent who loved it, but could never find the right fit. But we both shied away from talking about its core values. It's written well enough, and the story is a page-turner for many readers, but those conventional merits have never seemed commercial enough to engage a publisher.

Today I sent an email appeal to eleven literary agents who have expressed appreciation for my writing, and with whom I've had some correspondence. I'm asking them (or an assistant) to read the book and consider representing it because it could do some good.

Here are excerpts from the text of the email:

Because of the tragic shootings at Northern Illinois University, I'm going to take a chance on breaking a couple of querying rules. I know what the rules are, but this is important. You know me a little, and have found my writing to be professional. I'm angry, I'm sad, and there's something we can do, you and I.

I have a novel that takes on our country's problems with lethal firearms in a prescriptive, thought-stimulating way. I'm writing to you because I think it that can be of service above and beyond its entertainment value.

This is not about getting me published. It's about doing something for all of us. I'm going to give away an e-version of this book, but finding a publisher for it will multiply its impact.

You are an agent of books. Maybe you can be an agent of change, too.

I urge you (or an assistant) to read the manuscript for my novel, "We the Enemy" because an ordinary query, or synopsis, or even the first few chapters won't tell you what you need to know.

You won't see what makes this novel a powerful thought-starter with a traditional query/partial approach because the book is smart enough not to bludgeon you with didactic messages. Yet it works.

A beta reader, a thirty-something woman, asked for two more copies so she could send them to her college-age daughter and a woman friend to discuss the ideas.

The concluding paragraph in a review of the unpublished novel by the reviewer for a university newspaper, a young woman, says:

"Even though this book is a work of fiction, it is also safe to say it is a work of inspiration. Any good piece of writing should be able to persuade a reader to think about something in a different way, and "We the Enemy" does exactly that. While it may be unrealistic to wish for a perfect world, it is not unrealistic to wish for changes in our world. Rhamey's book encourages people to not only strive for change in the outside world, but to strive for change within themselves. This book is sure to leave the reader with a lot to think about, and a lot to hope for."

Do me a favor and spread the word about the free e-book.

If anything happens on the agent front, I'll let you know. Thanks for listening. We'll return to regularly scheduled flogging tomorrow, but I will continue to include the free book offer.

All best,

Ray

February 18, 2008 in Miscellaneous | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)

Flogometer for Jan: would you keep reading?

You guys rock.

You help every reader of FtQ with your comments and insights. And all thoughtfully delivered. We all work hard at writing, and the respect you show and the help you give reflects a very professional attitude. A good bunch, I say.

An international one, too -- today's volunteer is an Aussie.

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.

Jan's first 16 lines:

Never again. Never ever again. Pauline tugged her knees to her chest and buried her face in the pillow. The stench of the alley still stung her nose, even though she had fled Melbourne hours ago. But here she was safe, at least until they found her.

Brrrrrzzzzz. Brzz. Brzz. Brrrrzzzzzzzz.

Sadhu rolled over and looked at the bedside clock. Two-fifteen. Who in the world would be ringing the doorbell at this ungodly hour?

Pulling on a fleecy robe and sliding her feet into slippers, she padded downstairs. 'Coming.'

She tried to keep her voice low to avoid waking Michelle, still hopefully asleep despite the disturbance. Freud sat on the doormat, hissing at the catflap, not daring to go out. Brrzzzz.

Sadhu flipped on the porch light and peered through the narrow gap in the lace curtains beside the front door.

Pauline's father, Peter Granger, stood in the yellow glow.

Sadhu twisted the deadbolt and threw open the door, clutching her robe tightly to her chest.

'Mr Granger? What's wrong?'

Panic filled his normally hooded eyes, wide in the porch light, but his body was stiff and tall, his barrister demeanor maintaining its dominance. 'Pauline's gone. I thought she might have…

Despite some initial irritation, I decided to read on

Irritation? It was about the opening paragraph that introduced a character who was apparently in peril and then abandoned me! Jan undoubtedly did this to create more tension, but the reader in me found this brief tease to be irritating. For what it's worth.

And I'm not sure it was needed. A father coming to the protagonist's door in the middle of the night with a daughter missing raised strong-enough story questions for me. I'd look at starting there.

By the way, Jan used an extra line space to separate the two points of view. I think it would be much more clear if the extra space (which is good) contained three centered asterisks, a common-enough convention for indicating such a switch (see below). The reader needs good, clear clues when shifting from one point of view to another.

Other than that, nice, clear writing, for the most part. Some notes:

Never again. Never ever again. Pauline tugged her knees to her chest and buried her face in the pillow. The stench of the alley still stung her nose, even though she had fled Melbourne hours ago. But here she was safe, at least until they found her. (As mentioned, I'd cut this. Or, alternatively, stay with the character and develop her story first. That might be more interesting -- if she's going to be a point-of-view character during the story. If she isn't, then she shouldn't be here because the reader will expect more of her pov.)

* * *

Brrrrrzzzzz. Brzz. Brzz. Brrrrzzzzzzzz.

Sadhu rolled over and looked at the bedside clock. Two-fifteen. Who in the world would be ringing the doorbell at this ungodly hour?

Pulling on a ~~fleecy~~ robe and sliding her feet into slippers, she padded downstairs. 'Coming.' (Minor pov thing: in my view, narration includes what would naturally be done or thought by a character. This character, upon reaching for her robe, wouldn't be thinking that it was "fleecy." It's just her robe, to her.)

She tried to keep her voice low to avoid waking Michelle, still hopefully asleep despite the disturbance. Freud sat on the doormat, hissing at the catflap, not daring to go out. Brrzzzz. (The narrative mentions Michelle here but gives no indication of who or what she is. And Michelle was not mentioned in the rest of the chapter. I think giving some idea of who she is would be a good thing to do. I like the cat.)

Sadhu flipped on the porch light and peered through ~~the narrow gap in~~ the lace curtains beside the front door.

Pauline's father, Peter Granger, stood in the yellow glow.

Sadhu ~~twisted the deadbolt and~~ threw open the door, clutching her robe tightly to her ~~chest~~.'Mr Granger? What's wrong?' (The deadbolt doesn't seem important to me. I moved the dialogue up to the action beat just for smoothness. No need here to make it a separate paragraph.)

Panic filled his normally hooded eyes, wide in the porch light, but his body was stiff and tall, his barrister demeanor maintaining its dominance. 'Pauline's gone. I thought she might have…

Good, clear writing that can be tightened a little, a tense situation, good story questions…there's a lot to recommend this. If Pauline is going to be a major character, and we're going to be in her point of view, I'd sure look at expanding her story here. Unless discovery of what happened to her is a key plot element, seeing it happen seems like it could be powerful. But, then, this is not her story, is it? Which makes starting with Sadhu's story even more logical.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

Thank you, Carolyn, Chris, Darrell, and Lisa for your generous contributions.

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 .

February 15, 2008 in Flogometer | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBack (0)

Flogometer for Danie: would you keep reading?

I goofed yesterday (Monday) and posted a critique that the writer had asked not to have done. So here's a replacement, and there will be a new one on Friday.

Danie's first 16 lines:

The BMW eased onto the eastbound lane of Cedar Haven Parkway and gathered speed. An old Phil Collins song blaring from the car's plush interior raced through the exclusive Toronto neighborhood.

With the top down, the wind slapped at the driver's chestnut hair. He glanced up at the sky, the warm rays of the sun reflecting in his designer sunglasses, then smiled, shifted gears and sped out of sight.

* * *

Miles away, in a newer section of Cedar Haven Park, construction on the Landers' residence was noisily winding down for the weekend. The mid-afternoon sun was beaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the solarium where Christine Mann packed paint and fabric samples into an oversized leather case.

And sneezed. Looking up, she noticed...

Dust particles floating in the sunlight like a million flecks of gold poised to be inhaled along with the moist scent of new wood.

I wasn't tempted
The writing in Danie's opening chapter is good, no doubt about it. She has a clear picture of her characters and surroundings. What I didn't get from this opening was tension, no story questions that had me wanting to know what happens next.

From the rest of the chapter, it reads like a romance, and in that genre a guy driving a car juxtaposed with a woman doing something may suggest that there's good stuff to come, but none of that's on this page. A guy drivesâ¦a woman packs up samples and notices dust motesâ¦ We can assume that they will meet, but even then there's nothing here to suggest that the meeting will have any drama to it. Some notes:

The BMW eased onto the eastbound lane of Cedar Haven Parkway and gathered speed. An old Phil Collins song blaring from the car's plush interior raced through the exclusive Toronto neighborhood.

With the top down, the wind slapped at the driver's chestnut hair. He glanced up at the sky, the warm rays of the sun reflecting in his designer sunglasses, then smiled, shifted gears and sped out of sight. (The point of view is quite distant here -- the character isn't named, we are shown chestnut hair and designer sunglasses, so there's not much connective tissue. This is so brief and lacking in tension that I advise Danie to delete it. The man appears at the end of the chapter in an encounter with Christine, but this introductory piece isn't needed here at all, IMO.)

* * *

Miles away, in a newer section of Cedar Haven Park, construction on the Landers' residence was ~~noisily~~ winding down for the weekend. ~~The m~~Mid-afternoon sun ~~was beaming~~ beamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the solarium where Christine Mann packed paint and fabric samples into an oversized leather case.

And sneezed. Looking up, she noticed...

Dust particles floating in the sunlight like a million flecks of gold poised to be inhaled along with the moist scent of new wood.(For me, this introduction to the character is far too slow and not really engaging. For a first page, because of the space given to introducing the man, there's not enough to engage me with her. Things are clearly peaceful, no jeopardy or tension is apparent in her future, and she can stop to observe dust motes in the air. Now, this may work for others, but for me I want something more like what's described in the post above, Story as River.)

Danie, the rest of your chapter was also nicely written and gave a good sense of place and character, but I felt it was still too leisurely. One reason was overwriting that appeared here and there. For example, when Christine leaves and gets into her "dusty Mustang,"â¦

Christine flung her case on the front passenger seat, got into the car, and turned the key in the ignition. The tail end of a Phil Collins tune blared and she adjusted the volume on the radio. Debating whether to put the top down, she hesitated a moment, but a vision of Mrs. Landers running out of her manoir to intercept her escape nixed the idea. had another job to attend to this afternoon, a much more pressing one if she had any hope of moving out of Jen's and Rick's spare bedroom anytime soon, and did she ever want to get out of there. She

~~Unclipping her cell phone from her belt, Christine backed out of her parking space as she speed-dialed her own building contractor, then shoved the gearshift into first, then second, and~~ started down the long, narrow drive toward the row of tall cedar trees that separated the Landers Estate from the Parkway and called Eddy on her cell.

~~She brought the phone to her ear just as the call connected.~~

"Hello," came Eddy's ~~gruff~~ voice.

Much of what I cut just isn't needed because the reader will fill in so much. We don't need to see the key go into the ignition, nor see her debate on whether or not to put the top down, and so on. None of those things move the story forward nor characterize. I think you need to use your delete key on some of your nice writing, put your characters together, and make things happen. For example, I think you could easily start the story where the man almost runs into Christine, and fill in some of this stuff later (or maybe not at all). Give it a try.

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.
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 .

February 12, 2008 in Flogometer | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBack (0)

Flogometer for Lisa: would you keep reading?

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.

Lisa's first 16 lines:

"Weasel, what is that god-awful smell?" Jim fanned his cards in front of his nose. His mood was always surly. But tonight his eyes were red-rimmed and his face hadn't seen a razor in over a week. Charlie's best guess was that Jim's insomnia had returned or he was on one hell of a bender. Thirty minutes ago he came through the door spoiling for a fight and he had been riding Charlie hard for the last twenty-five.

"What? You mean my cologne?" Charlie self-consciously raked his hands through his greasy hair. "Women love it; it's a very popular brand."

"A knock-off of a popular brand you mean. And FYI, women like it when you dab on a little here and there - not take a bath in it. Go to the john and wash some of that shit off or I'll do it for you."

The hand ended and Charlie flung his cards on the table. He did not come here for this. He could get this kind of unwarranted bullying elsewhere - and usually did. Charlie had a slight build; small, close set eyes that moved furtively to and fro, and an annoyingly nasal voice. Years ago, in high school he had picked up the nickname "Weasel" and at 26 he was still unable to escape it. For as long as Charlie could remember he was forced to spend amazing amounts of energy trying to avoid conflict. Poker night was different.

"Loose" point of view stopped me

The writing is clear and clean here, and Lisa is starting with a scene and conflict, all good. However, I stopped reading when, in the last paragraph of this opening, I was suddenly yanked out of being inside Charlie's head (close third-person point of view) into looking at him from the outside and thinking thoughts he would never think. I anticipated point-of-view shortcomings to come, the kind that turn me off. And the conflict/tension that was building petered out when this happened and I was off into description instead of story.

Maintaining a close third-person point of view is key to engaging a reader with your character. It can pull a person in, and start them to caring about a character. Here, when we're suddenly outside of Charlie, looking at him as if from a camera instead of experiencing him, and getting a short "info dump" of description, whatever connection with the character I was forming was broken. I was taken out of the story, and made aware of the author behind the curtain.

Having made the decision to pass, I looked ahead to see if I was right in my assumption, and for narrative that avoided this kind of loose pov. There was more good writing (I loved a spot when a very attractive woman enters and the men at the table lust after her, and the narrative gives me this: She watched their eyes, saw the arousal build like water filling a glass. Nice.)

But there was also head-hopping. On the second page, right in the middle of the scene I'm suddenly in the head of another of the players, Chris. Then on the third page I'm suddenly in the head of a woman, Glory. I'm one who's bothered by that, and don't like to read it. Plenty of agents and editors don't like it either -- there's a post on head-hopping here. There's another danger in these pages, too -- introducing too many characters at once. A reader is just beginning to learn about these people, and it's tough to follow a flood of characters. And getting inside the point of view of each character suggests to a reader that each one is an important part of the story ahead, and they have to pay attention.

In addition to distancing a reader from the story, there's another problem with head-hopping this way. As an author, you have to deal with a reader's expectations. A reader expects to understand who the story is about, or at least who the chapter is about. When you're put inside the minds of three characters in three pages, you can't tell who the narrative is about. It's confusing, and puts you in danger of losing the reader. You might say that you see this in plenty of romance novels, but I'd counter that doesn't make it good technique. A couple of other craft notes on this otherwise well-written narrative:

"Weasel, what is that god-awful smell?" Jim fanned his cards in front of his nose. His mood was always surly. But tonight his eyes were red-rimmed and his face hadn't seen a razor in over a week. Charlie's best guess was that Jim's insomnia had returned or he was on one hell of a bender. Thirty minutes ago he had come ~~came~~ through the door spoiling for a fight (this is "telling." Show what makes Charlie think he's spoiling for a fight -- which, by the way, is a cliché.) and he had been riding Charlie hard for the last twenty-five.

"What? You mean my cologne?" Charlie ~~self-consciously~~ raked his hands through his greasy hair. "Women love it; it's a very popular brand." (Reference to "greasy" hair also takes you out of Charlie's pov because he wouldn't be thinking it was greasy.)

"A knock-off of a popular brand you mean. And FYI, women like it when you dab on a little here and there - not take a bath in it. Go to the john and wash some of that shit off or I'll do it for you."

~~The hand ended and~~ Charlie flung his cards on the table. He did not come here for this. He could get this kind of unwarranted bullying elsewhere - and usually did. Charlie had a slight build; small, close set eyes that moved furtively to and fro, and an annoyingly nasal voice. Years ago, in high school he had picked up the nickname "Weasel" and at 26 he was still unable to escape it. For as long as Charlie could remember he was forced to spend amazing amounts of energy trying to avoid conflict. Poker night was different. (I cut "The hand ended" part because you get to the conflict sooner -- and why would Charlie wait until the hand ended to express his anger? The green text is where we suddenly leave Charlie's point of view, which I would avoid.)

Lisa demonstrates writing skill, for sure. But, for this reader, there's a fundamental craft issue that I believe she needs to resolve. Many thanks for sending your work, Lisa.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

ARCHIVES .

February 07, 2008 in Flogometer | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBack (0)

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