Flogometer for Kamila: would you keep reading?

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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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Kamila's first 16 lines of a fantasy novel:

As a small child I once lost my balance and touched my hand on a hot stove. Before the pain stabbed into my fingers and struck my mind I remember feeling foolish and frightened. I cried out a not-very-small-child curse and put my fingers in my mouth just as the pain hit me. My mother hurled herself across the kitchen and pulled me up into her arms. That scent of our tribe's plush wool, the softness of homespun cloth against my face, the red hair of a Kilhells woman and green eyes staring into mine had always brought me comfort.

I know I'm dreaming, but that same hot pain I remember feels real, and there's no comfort this time. I'm trapped in that room again, the desert heat doubled by infernal fire in a hearth. I'm tied with bark rope on top of a camel hair rug. Instead of hot pokers, carving instruments are heating to white brilliance three feet from my face. There's a helefrit straddling me. Nearby, the blood of an infant has dried to black flakes. I want to wake up, but just like when it was actually happening, I'm helpless.

Something wooden cracks nearby and all at once I'm awake, gasping, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. My body tingles from the memory of my flesh burning and I'm sticky and smelly with sweat. I'm back in the present, cradled in a hammock in the belly of a sailing ship. Sailors stand around a barrel they've dropped. One sailor glances my way from under the brim (snip)

I turned the page, but. . .

An excellent, confident voice assured me that I'd be in good hands with this story, and the details of a fascinating world enticed me. However, I think Kamila could trim this some and get to a really provocative part sooner, preferably at the bottom of page one. I'll share that with you in a moment.

Opening with a dream is sometimes a problem, and here opening with a memory that's in a dream was confusing to me. I think the about-to-be-tortured part was very interesting, but it's not really tied to the moment, to what's happening when she awakens. Some notes:

As a small child I once lost my balance and touched my hand on a hot stove. Before the pain stabbed into my fingers and struck my mind I remember feeling foolish and frightened. I cried out a not-very-small-child curse and, and my put my fingers in my mouth just as the pain hit me. My mother hurled herself across the kitchen and pulled me up into her arms. That scent of our tribe's plush wool, the softness of homespun cloth against my face, the red hair of a Kilhells woman and green eyes staring into mine had always brought me comfort. (As nice as this is, trimmed down, I think I'd cut it altogether. There will be ways to weave in her backstory later, and now's the time to hook the reader. I don't think this information is compelling bait, so I'm going to treat the next paragraph as if it were the opener instead.)

I know I'm dreaming, but that same the hot pain I remember feels real., and there's no comfort this time. I'm trapped in that room again, the desert heat doubled by infernal fire in a hearth. I'm tied with bark rope on top of a camel hair rug. Instead of hot pokers, carving instruments are heating to white brilliance three feet from my face. There's a helefrit straddling me. Nearby, the blood of an infant has dried to black flakes. I want to wake up, but just like when it was actually happening, I'm helpless.

Something wooden cracks nearby and all at once I'm awake, gasping, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. My body tingles from the memory of my flesh burning and I'm sticky and smelly with sweat. I'm back in the present, cradled in a hammock in the belly of a sailing ship. Sailors stand around a barrel they've dropped. One sailor glances my way from under the brim (snip) (Small nit: I don't think a dropped barrel would "crack," I think it would be more likely to "crash," which would be more likely to awaken someone.)

Here's the reason I would trim so much from this opening: it's to get to this paragraph, which came pretty close to the top of the next page:

My name is famous. I'm famous, though hardly anyone has met me. It's always a surprise when people take my word for it that I am who I say I am. I'm plenty tall for a woman, but I don't think I'm tall enough for a myth. I don't wear armor, I've lost my sword, and not only did I fail to do anything to aid the war, I think I might be on my way to assassinate the only man who can save the world.

For me, there's great characterization here and an irresistible story question. If this can be at the bottom of page one, then I think Kamila is assured that the page will turn.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

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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.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

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© 2008 Ray Rhamey