Flogging the Quill

Flogometer for Mike; 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, 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.

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Mike’s first 16 lines:

The muzzle flash was the last thing I saw. I didn't feel a thing. I know I fell immediately. I felt my body go cold. They say when death is imminent your life flashes before your eyes. I had seconds left.

How did it come to this? I can only imagine it started less than a year ago. I had just moved into a studio apartment on the second floor of a cold-water flat. The windows looked out at the brick wall of the next building. The place was dingy, save for the single 60 watt bulb that served as the room's chandelier. It was the only thing I could afford at the time.

I, Charles Wilson, a forty-seven year old white male, on the heels of a nasty divorce from a lunatic wife, was starting over. Maria's one desire in life was my complete obliteration. And that was before I filed the papers for the divorce.

My two children remained with her. For whatever reason the judge, a shriveled shell of a man with a distinct dislike for anything with a penis, awarded her full custody. It didn't matter that she threatened to kill me and the kids with a steak knife the week before. I had the penis and that was all that seemed to matter in family court. I could only shake my head when the judge awarded her half my salary in alimony and another 20% for child support.

I was just happy it was over. I had enough money left at the end of the month to pay the (snip)

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Plunging into backstory stopped me
There’s a strong hook at the beginning, but that story is immediately abandoned for backstory, and the rest of the chapter goes that way. I felt manipulated, in a sense. Teased. If the whole story is the story that leads up to being shot, it needs to get to the inciting incident (for me) so that I know what the story is about.

The opening raises good story questions, but it doesn’t help Mike to lurch away from that promise into what has happened. I want to know what will happen. Will he die? Why was he shot? Who shot him? Instead, I get the “story” of his first day after his nasty divorce, which is spent at work on Wall Street. Notes:

The muzzle flash was the last thing I saw. I didn't feel a thing. I know I fell immediately. I felt my body go cold. They say when death is imminent your life flashes before your eyes. I had seconds left. (Except for the clichéd “life flashes” part, so far, so good. However, if he knows he has just seconds left, why should I read this story? I don’t know this character well enough to care about why he may be dying. I know nothing about the shooting—not where or who or why. The scene hasn’t been set. Here’s a similar opening from No Second Chance by Harlen Coben that I cite in my forthcoming book, Flogging the Quill, that shows how this can be rivetingly done.

When the first bullet hit my chest, I thought of my daughter.

At least, that is what I want to believe. I lost consciousness pretty fast. And, if you want to get technical about it, I don’t even remember being shot. I know that I lost a lot of blood. I know that a second bullet skimmed the top of my head, though I was probably already out by then. I know that my heart stopped. But I still like to think that as I lay dying, I thought of Tara.

How did it come to this? I can only imagine it started less than a year ago. I had just moved into a studio apartment on the second floor of a cold-water flat. The windows looked out at the brick wall of the next building. The place was dingy, save for the single 60 sixty-watt bulb that served as the room's chandelier. It was the only thing I could afford at the time. (While the image of the light bulb as a “chandelier” is nice, what do we care at this point what his apartment looked like or when he moved in? What about being shot?)

I, Charles Wilson, a forty-seven year old white male, on the heels of a nasty divorce from a lunatic wife, was starting over. Maria's one desire in life was my complete obliteration. And that was before I filed the papers for the divorce. (Clearly he has a problem with his ex, but what does that have to do with being shot?)

My two children remained with her. For whatever reason the judge, a shriveled shell of a man with a distinct dislike for anything with a penis, awarded her full custody. It didn't matter that she threatened to kill me and the kids with a steak knife the week before. I had the penis and that was all that seemed to matter in family court. I could only shake my head when the judge awarded her half my salary in alimony and another 20% twenty percent for child support. (Nice writing here, especially the steak knife part, but what about him being shot?)

I was just happy it was over. I had enough money left at the end of the month to pay the (snip) His financial state is not what the reader is interested in here. What about being shot?)

I suspect Mike has a good story waiting for us—but why wait? I want it now.
Comments, anyone?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

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Thank you, James and Pat, for your generous donations. Your generosity helps defray the cost of hosting FtQ.

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Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. 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.
2. Please format your submission as specified at the front of this post.
3. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
4. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
5. If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
6. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES

Flogometer for Pat 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, 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.

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Pat’s first 16 lines:

Sophie Collins swung into the spot labeled “Curbside Take-Out Only.” If removing her drunken mother from a restaurant didn’t qualify as Take-Out, what did?

She cut the Civic’s engine and stared at the sign swinging from the converted bungalow’s porch: La Familia. Her mother didn’t do irony, so what had drawn her here? Wishful thinking? Or would any bar within a bus ride of home have worked?

At the restaurant’s entrance, Sophie’s courage gave out, so she fell back on anger. How had La Familia’s owner phrased it over the phone? “Your mother embarrassed herself, my establishment, and me.”

Please. The establishment didn’t bear any signs of humiliation she could see, and, like fame, the owner’s discomfort might have lasted fifteen minutes. Sophie’s face had been red for twenty-nine years.

Her stomach cramped, but she turned the door knob. At three on a Wednesday afternoon, she wouldn’t have an audience. The lunch crowd had come and gone, and the after-work throng wouldn’t show for a couple of hours.

“Anybody home?” She’d nicknamed the owner Big Scold. He probably wore custom shirts with French cuffs and gelled his hair into fear-me spikes.

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I liked this
Not high drama at all, but a very likeable voice. The wry humor in the first and second paragraphs let me know this was someone I’d like to read, and the story questions raised were good enough to get me to wanting to know this writer a little better. Skillful weaving in of information and backstory were other positive signs (Sophie’s age, setting the scene). A few notes:

Sophie Collins swung into the spot labeled “Curbside Take-Out Only.” If removing her drunken mother from a restaurant didn’t qualify as Take-Out, what did?

She cut the Civic’s engine and stared at the sign swinging from the converted bungalow’s porch: La Familia. Her mother didn’t do irony, so what had drawn her here? Wishful thinking? Or would any bar within a bus ride of home have worked?

At the restaurant’s entrance, Sophie’s courage gave out, so she fell back on anger. How had La Familia’s owner phrased it over the phone? “Your mother embarrassed herself, my establishment, and me.”

Please. The establishment didn’t bear any signs of humiliation she could see, and, like fame, the owner’s discomfort might have lasted fifteen minutes. Sophie’s face had been red for twenty-nine years.

Her stomach cramped, but she turned the door knob. At three on a Wednesday afternoon, she wouldn’t have an audience. The lunch crowd had come and gone, and the after-work throng wouldn’t show for a couple of hours. (A tiny thing—jump cutting to turning the door knob pulled me out just a little because she hasn’t gotten out of the car. Now, adding that action would be overwriting, so don’t go there. But keep it simple: Her stomach cramped, but she went in. That gets her out of the car and through the door without any staging questions being raised.)

“Anybody home?” She’d nicknamed the owner Big Scold. He probably wore custom shirts with French cuffs and gelled his hair into fear-me spikes. (A little clarity issue: For me, the “She’d nicknamed the owner” can be interpreted that she has met him before, and that’s when she gave him the nickname. This book seems to be a romance, and Pat is giving the male protagonist this temporary and negative handle to create initial tension between her and him, but I’d rather have gotten on with the action here and slipped that in later, just before she goes into the restaurant kitchen to discover him. Calling out for anybody home is extra words, too, because she immediately sees a person preparing place settings for the next shift, who directs her to the kitchen.)

Pat, I would consider raising the takes or tension in some way here. At this point, her mother’s drinking is no more than an embarrassment and an irritant. While we can understand that, it would make Sophie more sympathetic if there were a larger concern on top of that which makes her worry. For example, she could be afraid that her mother had fallen again, and the doctor had warned them about any more head injuries. Just a thought. Thanks for sending your good writing.

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 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.
2. Please format your submission as specified at the front of this post.
3. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
4. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
5. If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
6. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES

© 2009 Ray Rhamey