Flogging the Quill

Flogometer for Carol-Anne—will you turn the page?

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FtQ is on the road The workshop in Mendocino went swimmingly—the group (23 writers) and I critiqued the opening pages of 11 novels, and the writers seemed quite pleased with what they learned whether we turned the page or not. The writing was quite good, overall, yet I turned the page on only 2. The group was more generous than I, but the writers gained insights nonetheless.

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Carole-Anne’s first 16 lines:

The first time I saw him, I was five years old. A proverbial kid in a candy store, only… I wasn’t proverbial and it wasn’t exactly a candy store.

Back then, my mother and I filled in the long hours until my father came home as best we could. Like toys discarded in the playroom, we only truly came to life when he walked through the door at the end of the day. Busying ourselves with household tasks, we allowed the minutiae of ordinary life to distract us for as long as possible, until – the banking done and the dry cleaning dropped off – we would wander over to the park to wait. And watch.

It was from my mother that I learned to read people like books, inferring emotion from a glance, a shift of the shoulder, a twist of the mouth. My mother was an expert at taking the measure of a person, at finding the cracks in the foundation of a life. Maybe that was what made her a good nurse. Or maybe it was the way she held herself apart from others, occupied, but unaffected. She hadn’t returned to the hospital right away like everyone had expected her to. I didn’t understand why until much later. And when I did, too much had happened, too much had passed between us to return to the place where understanding might have helped.

That day – the first time – the weather had been murky and cold, the late November wind ripping the few remaining leaves from the trees to mingle with the garbage that coasted along the (snip)

Good writing, but no page turn for this reader
The editor side of me likes receiving submissions so cleanly written. That, and a clear, good voice, are likable qualities of this opening. On the other hand, tension is missing. Nor, for me, does it raise a single story question. The one possible question, who is “him,” didn’t arise in me because the reference to “him” doesn’t contain any hints as to why it might be special. And then the narrative lapses into exposition to ground us in the character and his/her mother (the pages sent contain no name for the character, nor a hint of gender).

Since there’s not much to nit-pick here, I looked for what I thought could be a stronger opening. Here, constructed from material from the remaining pages, is a different set of 16 lines.

My mother had grudgingly begun her overseas Christmas shopping, hoping to package up and ship off the gifts for her Scottish in-laws ahead of the holiday rush. Thoroughly uninterested in helping her pick out pyjamas for my cousin Shirley, I pretended I was blind, my eyes squeezed tightly shut and one hand stretched out in front of me. I used the belt of my mother’s winter coat like a lifeline.

Growing tired of my game, I let my eyes slide open and saw a Christmas village built completely out of gingerbread. Almost as tall as I was, the walls were stacked upon cotton candy snowdrifts – the crystallized sugar a fair mimic of ice warmed by the sun. The warm smell of cinnamon wafted under my nose as I gazed in wonder at chocolate wafer streets that had been patterned like cobblestones and lined with candystick light posts. At the end of the street, a licorice car was stopped at a cherry-red lollipop.

Mesmerized, I drifted towards the village, staring at the snow-capped peaks on the roof. Tentatively, I reached out with one finger to touch the outer edge of the sugary wall and stopped, suddenly aware of the slack in my other hand. Looking back, I stared uncomprehending at the tan belt that lay on the floor like a sick snake, no longer attached to my mother’s coat. No longer attached to my mother. She was gone.

If you think of this as the opening, the description almost lulls you into a sense of a safe child’s world, and then the last two sentences are like a whip-crack of tension and a huge story question.

Just a thought. Very nice writing here, as I said, but I urge you to get to the story sooner. And let us know whether this is a girl or boy, plus an idea of the age.

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

---

Your generosity helps defray the cost of hosting FtQ.

---

Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. Email: email 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 with double spacing, 12-point font, 1-inch margins.
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

Flogometer for CB—will you turn the page?

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FtQ is on the road I’m traveling to do my workshop at the Mendocino Coast Writers Conference. There may be no reliable Internet access for a few days, but I’ll do my best to keep flogging. So here’s one for CB.

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CB’s first 16 lines:

Chanel realized she had been holding her breath. She forced herself to open her throat as she lunged upward from the nightmare. Sitting up in her bed, the sheets were twisted around her thighs; her nightgown clung to her, drenched. She pulled them from her and heaped them onto the floor and fled, naked, to the bathroom.

She ran cool water from the tap into her cupped palms and splashed it onto her face. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she saw past it back in time, back to the dreamscape of the forest. She could see it, the overgrown vines and feel the quiet of it, timeless, waiting, ever vigilant, just the other side of a long, long ago lost time.

She had left it there. There was no going back. It was not possible. There was only a long empty corridor to fall into, an abyss. And other than falling down and down and down into it endlessly, she had realized, long ago, that there was no going back.

It was Christmas. It came back to ask her every year. Every year, she stiffened, she twisted open the corks on bottle after bottle and let the effervescent liquid rise into her nose, pour down her throat, tingle with the silver bells strung up on the elderberry trees outside and tried to numb it. But it came anyway. If not to her directly, then through her thoughts where it would spiral up and she would be thinking of it, remembering it.

Not for me
It might have been all the “it”s. There were 14 of them, and I lost track of what “it” referred to. The nightmare? The jungle? While this character is troubled, the narrative didn’t leave me with an understanding of why, nor of the consequences of whatever (it) is troubling her. Lastly, the passage is so internal and packed with things that mean something to the character but not to me (yet) that I was not compelled to turn the page. Some notes:

Chanel realized she had been holding her breath. She forced herself to open her throat as she lunged upward from the nightmare. Sitting up in her bed, the sheets were twisted around her thighs; her nightgown clung to her, drenched. She pulled them from her and heaped them onto the floor and fled, naked, to the bathroom.

She ran cool water from the tap into her cupped palms and splashed it onto her face. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she saw past it, back in time, back to the dreamscape of the forest. She could see it, the overgrown vines and feel the quiet of it, timeless, waiting, ever-vigilant, just the other side of a long, long ago lost time. (The first sentence veers toward overwriting. This is where the writer can let the reader fill in details. If the sentence had been She splashed water onto her face, wouldn’t you have seen pretty much what the original sentence described?)

She had left it there. There was no going back. It was not possible. There was only a long empty corridor to fall into, an abyss. And other than falling down and down and down into it endlessly, she had realized, long ago, that there was no going back. (This is where I really lost track of what “it” was. There’s another word echo, too—the word “long” happens 4 times in the last 2 paragraphs. While fiction can certainly take liberties with reality, there’s a bit of confusion in the idea that a corridor—a long, linear, horizontal thing—can be an abyss in which to fall, an abyss being (in the literal sense) a deep chasm.)

It was Christmas. It came back to ask her every year. Every year, she stiffened, she twisted open the corks on bottle after bottle and let the effervescent liquid rise into her nose, pour down her throat, tingle with the silver bells strung up on the elderberry trees outside and tried to numb it. But it came anyway. If not to her directly, then through her thoughts where it would spiral up and she would be thinking of it, remembering it. (More of “it.” What are the “it”s that the first two sentences refer to? For me, clarity became a killer issue. More than that, this opening didn’t raise a clear story question that made me wonder what would happen next.)

I think that a certain amount of linear clarity and simplicity is a valuable on the first page, at the least, and for several pages, at best, while you’re trying to hook the reader into your character and story. Here, I wanted to be sympathetic to the character, but the narrative leave an interesting opening, with specific, understandable action, to a collection of “it”s and other things that became confusing.

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

---

Your generosity helps defray the cost of hosting FtQ.

---

Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. Email: email 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 with double spacing, 12-point font, 1-inch margins.
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

Flogometer for Eddie

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FtQ is on the road and the promised wireless Internet on Monday didn’t deliver, thus no post. I’m traveling to do my workshop at the Mendocino Coast Writers Conference. I’ll do my best to maintain my regular MWF flogging and posting schedule. So here’s Monday on Tuesday.

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Eddie has sent a prologue and first chapter. Which, if either or both, compels you to turn the page? Here are the first 16 lines of the prologue:

This is a story of simple curiosity and how that my curiosity ended me in jail.

It’s amazing how time stands still when your looking down at a defining moment. Your head starts to feel dizzy and you don’t feel like you’re in your own body anymore. It’s that mixture of weightlessness in your legs and your head feeling so light that if it wasn’t securely fastened it would just lift off and float away.

When the police opened that holdall and I looked down at the blocks of £20 notes neatly stacked I knew I had a tough time coming trying to convince them I wasn’t involved with the robbery. It didn’t help matters that a minute beforehand Bell tried to jump out the taxi and run away or the fact he left the bag of money on the cab floor as he decided to try and outrun the local constabulary.

I don’t know where he thought he would get to. Even in my disoriented state I could see more than 3 police cars and a team of officers surrounding us. I think he get about 6 steps away from the door when he was rugby tackled and sent crashing to the pavement.

As I started to get a hold of my bearings and get a grasp on what was happening I couldn’t help but smirk. Not in a cocky, “you’ll never catch me alive coppers” way (snip)

And now the first 16 lines from chapter one:

“Been busy tonight driver?” Bell jokingly asks as jumps into the back of my cab. But even I can see he’s visibly panicking and using humour to break the ice. He’s got a sheen of sweat all over his face and he’s looking all over and around. And so he should be after taking part in a bank robbery this afternoon. I half expected him to shout GO! GO! GO! or STEP ON IT DRIVER! like a cheesy 30’s mobster from an old black and white Cary Grant movie as he got in.

“DON’T!” I yell back “Just bloody don’t. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have even answered my mobile. This is bloody madness from me. I must be off my head”

“C’mon” he replies “Lighten up a bit. It’s all good now.”

“YEAH! All good you reckon? It’s an everyday occurrence you rob a bank and get a taxi to pick you up afterwards. Were do you want to go then? Home?”

10 minutes before I was working through my nightshift as a taxi driver when I got the call from my mate. After knowing what was planned for today and who was involved, why did I answer my phone. I have this weakness of always wanting to help those I know. If I’m working and a friend calls up asking to be picked up from the other side of town as they’re too drunk to get a cab or its just too plain busy to hail one, then I’ll

For me, a “no” and an “almost”
The prologue seemed self-indulgent, and I don’t really want to be told about what happens or the consequences, I want to experience it in a story. And the errors were red flags (“your” instead of “you’re,” and “get” instead of “got.”

The story questions raised in the first chapter opening were good at raising interest, a good start, but then we ran into the character musing about himself in the midst of fairly dramatic action. Hey, he just picked up a friend who he knows robbed a bank. Would you, in that circumstance, start thinking about how you helped people out? No, you’d drive and talk to your robber friend. So that diversion stayed my hand as all momentum petered out.

But there’s nice writing, overall, and a sense of a story to come. Just stay with it, involve us with what’s happening to your character and how he deals with it. I think you could start later in the story, after he’s picked up his friend and the police cars stop our character.

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

---

Your generosity helps defray the cost of hosting FtQ.

---

Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. Email: email 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 with double spacing, 12-point font, 1-inch margins.
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

Flogometer for Brian plus a free e-book offer

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Free e-book offer, last day.

I’ll email a PDF copy of the complete novel, We the Enemy, to people who request it -- in return, I ask for feedback. I can tell you that most people think it’s a good read. If you want to help out (and have a good read), please email me at ray at editorrr dot com. Here’s a recent attempt at copy for the back of the book (thanks to the Queen of Darkness for her suggestions, which helped me think about it in a different way).

Death is on the hunt, disguised as righteousness. But which are the enemies, and which are the victims?

The Alliance, an Oregon citizen group, is costing the president key votes in the election—and the attorney general says it’s leading an assault on the constitution that must be stopped.

Mercenary Jake Black, a man whose emotions died when his wife and little girl were killed, is hired to stop the Alliance. But if he doesn’t feel any more, why does he wake in the morning with tears on his cheeks?

And why does he save Jewel Washington, a single mother struggling against drugs and violence in the projects of Chicago, from assault? Maybe it’s fate—when he’s sent to a hellhole prison, his life depends on her.

Then a deadly attack threatens to destroy the Alliance and the hope it brings to the nation, and its only chance to survive lies with the man hired to stop it.

When Jake closes his hands around the throat of the assassin, he faces his ultimate truth . . .

Is he the enemy?

FtQ may be irregular for the next 2 weeks I’m traveling over the next two weeks on vacation and to do my workshop at the Mendocino Coast Writers Conference. I’ll do my best to maintain my regular MWF flogging and posting schedule, but Internet access may be iffy at times.

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Brian has sent a prologue and first chapter. Which, if either or both, compels you to turn the page? Here are the first 16 lines of the prologue:

FIFTY YEARS AGO

Blight was to be banished.

The Great Hall of Stormcloud Castle was packed with Wizards. Most proudly wore robes displaying their ranks and affiliations, mirroring the colored banners and flags that waved from the ceiling and from several balconies in a magical breeze. A few of those present had cowls deployed, casting their faces in deep shadows -- Wizards either unaffiliated or on sabbatical. There was little talk among the whole of them, and what little there was occurred in hushed whispers. This was a momentous occasion, and none wanted to miss a moment from inattention.

Because Blight was to be banished.

At any one time there were around twelve score active Wizards, plus that number again of students and those retired. Normally, only fully active Wizards attended gatherings here; students weren’t welcome, and retirees seldom bothered.

Today, few Wizards of any description were to be found anywhere outside of the Great Hall’s enclosing space.

The Great Hall more than lived up to its name: an area of Stormcloud Castle which was, through Magic, made larger inside than out. Outwardly it showed merely modest dimensions -- 150 feet on a side, three stories tall. But to someone inside, it stretched nearly five hundred feet (snip)

And now the first 16 lines from chapter one:

The First of Winter Fire show was more spectacular then ever that year. Beginning at the stroke of Middle Night, grand displays of bursting Magic, including several new colors, lit up the night skies to the wonderment of everyone watching. There were fantastic explosions and many new shapes and arrangements in addition to those long familiar and beloved. The show spanned the entire sky of the island that was Wizard’s Reach -- and had the huge crowds gasping in awe, despite the lateness of the hour and the cold of early-winter. For better than an hour the light and colors saturated the heavens, the rolling roars and blasts greeting the coming of the new Season in the grandest of possible styles.

Amidst the joyful revelers, though, a young girl named Astralicia Fairweather was distracted, almost troubled.

Despite the hubbub around her and the excitement bubbling from her two younger sisters and three brothers, Astralicia -- mostly called Astra, by everyone but her mother on some dark occasions -- found it difficult to focus on the thrilling light show any more than the smells of festive foods, or the oohs and aahs of the crowd with each new burst of light from the sky.

Astra was worried for the family’s Hearthfire, whose maintenance was her main duty. It had been guttering when time had come to leave for the Festival.

First, I want to say what a pleasure it is to receive such clean, clear writing. Well done. But, as agent Kristen Nelson says, good writing isn’t enough. Were these passages enough to compel me to turn the page?

The prologue came closest for me because of the promise of the banishment, but when it lapsed into the dimensions of the building, the forward impetus withered for me. The first chapter had even less tension. While the opening description of the event was colorful, it was just description of the “snapshot” kind.

Experiential description would have helped. As I talk about in my book, rendering description through the lens of a character, flavoring it with their emotions and thoughts, makes a place come alive in a unique way and characterizes at the same time. For me, what’s missing in both of these passages is a character, a person with whom to become involved, whose story I want to hear.

In both pieces, the point of view is distant, omniscient. If the events had been happening from within the point of view of the characters, I think I might have gone further. For example, in the chapter opening, we’re told of a problem—the hearth fire—but of no consequences. What if, instead, the opening description (shortened somewhat) had been viewed through the worry of the girl? What if we experienced her distraction, and learned the consequences? For example:

As much as Astra wanted to enjoy the First of Winter Fire Show, all she could see was the guttering flame of her family’s hearth fire, the flame that she was duty bound to maintain lest it fail and the winter cold make their home inhabitable.

That’s just a quick notion, but aren’t you more involved immediately? Doesn’t the consequence of failing in her duty raise story questions?

For many, especially in fantasy, this omniscient approach works just fine. I’m not saying it’s wrong. On the other hand, if the events were experienced through the tense mind of the young wizard who is the POV character in the prologue (who you don’t even meet until page 2) and the girl, I think they would be far more engaging. For me, if the events themselves are not extremely captivating, it’s character that can compel.

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,

1. Email: email 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 with double spacing, 12-point font, 1-inch margins.
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

Flogometer for Justina plus a free e-book offer

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Free e-book offer.
For the next week (through next Friday), I’ll email a PDF copy of the complete novel, We the Enemy, to people who request it-- in return, I ask for feedback. I can tell you that most people think it’s a good read. If you want to help out (and have a good read), please email me at ray at editorrr dot com.

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Justina’s first 16 lines:

The red letters of the Quik Stop sign reflected onto the hood of the minivan, the tails of the rain drops distorting the view through the windshield. I scanned aimlessly through the channels on the radio while my mom finished up inside of the mini mart, wondering what was taking her so long. She was usually in and out in minutes.

I turned around as my younger sister, Claire, kicked my seat once again. I gave her my fiercest glare. "Dammit, Claire, knock it off.”

"What's taking her so long?" Claire whined, and it took everything I had not to smack her. Claire's voice was an ice pick straight through my skull. I’d been having these weird headaches all week, and today’s was the worst one yet. My head throbbed in time with the radio tuner, alternating between a quick pop beat and a slow R&B grind. Either way, it was painful. I didn’t have a whole lot of patience.

"I don't know. But quit kicking my seat before I come back there and kick you.

"But I have to pee, Abby." The whimper ratcheted up another range and I gave up looking for something to listen to on the radio.

“Hold it.”

“I can’t,” Claire moaned, sounding close to tears. I sighed and gave in. My headache (snip)

This opening didn’t catch me, but . . .
Despite opening with a scene and good writing, plus a dash of tension, I wasn’t moved to move on. I guess domestic strife between two sisters just wasn’t compelling.

But this story has much more to offer on the following pages—bodies, soul collecting, other cool paranormal stuff. I think this writer cheated herself with a little too much detail in the opening. If just three lines could be trimmed from this, then the last line on the page would have been this:

“Mom told us to stay here until she was done Reaping.”

That’s a much better hook and story-question-raiser than whether or not Claire is going to get to pee. Notes:

The red letters of the Quik Stop sign reflected onto the hood of the minivan, the tails of the rain drops distorting the view through the windshield. I scanned aimlessly through the radio channels on the radio while my mom finished up Reaping inside of the mini mart, wondering what was taking her so long. She was usually in and out in minutes. (Here’s a chance to raise the story question “what is Reaping with the mysterious capitalization?” right up front. This word signals to me that something unusual is going on instead of just shopping. And we don’t really need the rain.)

I turned around when as my younger sister, Claire, kicked my seat once again. I gave her my fiercest glare. "Dammit, Claire, knock it off.”

"What's taking her so long?" "But I have to pee, Abby," Claire whined, and it took everything I had not to smack her. Claire's voice was an ice pick straight through my skull. I’d been having these weird headaches all week, and today’s was the worst one yet. My head throbbed in time with the radio tuner, alternating between a quick pop beat and a slow R&B grind. Either way, it was painful. I didn’t have a whole lot of patience.(The last sentence is “telling” and not needed as her behavior is showing us her lack of patience. While the throbbing is nice, we really don’t need it, and there are more interesting things ahead.)

"I don't know. But quit kicking my seat before I come back there and kick you.

"But I have to pee, Abby." The whimper ratcheted up another range and I gave up looking for something to listen to on the radio. (While these lines move the story, a little, and characterize, they slow the pace and focus on stuff that doesn’t matter much. We have the essence of the situation, let’s get to the story.)

“Hold it.”

“I can’t,” Claire moaned, sounding close to tears. I sighed and gave in. My headache (snip)

Here’s what the first page could have been with these cuts (plus a whole lot more). This jumps us ahead to a paragraph later in the narrative:

The red letters of the Quik Stop sign reflected onto the hood of the minivan. I scanned radio channels while my mom finished Reaping inside the mini mart, wondering what was taking her so long. She was usually in and out in minutes.

I turned around when my younger sister, Claire, kicked my seat again. I gave her my fiercest glare. "Dammit, Claire, knock it off.”

"But I have to pee, Abby," Claire whined, and it took everything I had not to smack her. Claire's voice was an ice pick straight through my skull. I’d been having these weird headaches all week, and today’s was the worst one yet.

“Hold it.”

“I can’t,” Claire moaned, sounding close to tears. I sighed and gave in.

Inside, I scanned the store for the bathrooms, and saw a handwritten sign proclaiming "Restrooms are for customers ONLY!" on a back wall. I looked down and put a hand on Claire’s arm. Her nose scrunched up and I paused to lift her over the pool of blood spreading from the dead man lying in the chip aisle. The metallic scent made my stomach sour and my headache pound in triple time.

In the narrative, Abby doesn’t react much at all at finding this body, or another one, and the line about “metallic scent” helps take us there—her first reaction isn’t fright or horror, it’s about the smell, one that she seems familiar with.

For me, Justina, you had nice writing but enough scene setting and “throat clearing” to slow the story unnecessarily before getting to some really interesting stuff. Think about it.

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,

1. Email: email 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 with double spacing, 12-point font, 1-inch margins.
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

Flogometer for Richard, but first a free read offer

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Okay, one more pass at this cover blurb attempt. Tell me in comments if this is likely to move you to look at the first page of the novel.

Death is on the hunt in We the Enemy, disguised as righteousness. But which are the enemies? Which are the victims?

Kurt Dengler, the president’s chief of staff, fears losing the election because the Alliance, a citizen group in the Pacific Northwest, is shrinking the president’s support. Worse, Alliance-led initiatives are assaults on the U.S. Constitution that must be stopped.

Kurt taps mercenary Jake Black to stop the Alliance leader. Jake’s emotions died then his wife and child were killed, and now he’s a gun for hire—yet he wakes every morning with tears on his face, and each kill sickens him.

Jewel Washington, a single mother in the projects of Chicago, struggles against drugs and violence—and is losing. She puts Jake in a hellhole prison where the violent are sent to die, but she is the key to making Jake a whole man again.

When a last deadly attack threatens to destroy the Alliance, a movement that could be the hope of the nation, its only chance to survive lies with the man hired to stop it— the fates of many good people rest on what Jake decides when his hands close around the throat of the assassin.

Now for the free read offer.

For the next week (through next Friday), I’ll email a PDF copy of the complete novel, We the Enemy, to people who request it -- in return, I ask for feedback. I can tell you that most people think it’s a good read. If you want to help out (and have a good read), please email me at ray at editorrr dot com.

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Richard’s first 16 lines:

Sniff, armed only with a bowl of stew and a lantern, stepped into the dungeon and prayed it would be the last time.

Rats and other things, scuttled here and there, or scampered out of the way as he moved on. Sniff paid no attention to them, his dull eyed gaze fixed on the stone floor just ahead of his bare feet.

His jaw worked, ground his teeth to keep in a hiss of frustration as the Captain’s words echoed in his mind, ‘Feeding time Sniff, be a good lad won’t you? Oh, and mind your fingers!’

The Captain. That bastard.

Sniff passed empty prison cells. The doors, left open, revealed increasingly macabre sights. A skeleton shackled and hung from a wall, a torturer’s rack encrusted with dried body fluid, the occasional, rotting corpse of a prisoner. He ignored them all.

He supposed he could eat the stew himself, claim it had been delivered like he had the first two nights. But the Captain had fixed him with a gaze as stubborn and foreboding as a storm, and Sniff knew the Captain was on to him. No, there would be no turning back this time.

Oh gods! Be asleep for pity’s sake.

Sniff spotted the twin doors just up ahead, and when he reached them, let slip a sharp breath that steamed against the chill. They were stout, made from oak, with a large wooden slab across the (snip)

Despite appeals, I didn’t move on
The opening sentence was one of my favorites in the recent contest, and I like opening with a scene in this way. So what got in my way? Craft issues. Issues that a “regular” reader might not notice, but ones that not only did I notice, but bothered me. And the same would be true, I believe, with many agents and publishing editors.

These days, manuscripts have to be a polished as possible, with one caveat: if the story is so rippingly compelling that little blemishes don’t get in the way. This opening didn’t reach that level for me. Some notes:

Sniff, armed only with a bowl of stew and a lantern, stepped into the dungeon and prayed it would be the last time. (I loved this opening line.)

Rats and other things, scuttled here and there, or scampered out of the way as he moved on. Sniff paid no attention to them, his dull eyed gaze fixed on the stone floor just ahead of his bare feet. (“other things” means nothing, so I trimmed to get to the essence of this description. Since we’re in Sniff’s point of view, he would hardly be thinking of his gaze as “dull-eyed,” so I cut that minor point-of-view glitch.)

His jaw worked, grounding his teeth to keep in a hiss of frustration as the Captain’s words echoed in his mind, ‘Feeding time Sniff, be a good lad won’t you? Oh, and mind your fingers!’

The Captain. That bastard. (I felt that this slowed the pace and drained a little tension about what awaits Sniff. This isn’t an important detail for this scene, IMO.)

Sniff passed empty prison cells. The open doors, left open, revealed a increasingly macabre sights. A skeleton shackled and hung from a wall, a torturer’s rack encrusted with dried body fluid, the occasional, rotting corpse of a prisoner. He ignored them all. (A good bit of scene-setting, but I thought it could use the above clarifying and pacing edits. "increasingly macabre sights" is telling, not showing.)

He supposed he could eat the stew himself, claim it had been delivered like he had the first two nights. But the Captain had fixed him with a gaze as stubborn and foreboding as a storm, and Sniff knew the Captain was on to him. No, there would be no turning back this time. (This paragraph has a clarity issue, due to sentence construction, that was a problem. I think this is meant to say that Sniff had eaten the food on the previous two occasions, but it actually says that the stew was delivered the first two nights. For example: He could eat the stew himself, like he had the first two nights, and then claim he had delivered it.)

Oh gods! Be asleep for pity’s sake.

Sniff spotted the twin doors just up ahead, and when he reached them, let slip a sharp breath that steamed against the chill. They were stout, made from oak, with a large wooden slab across the (snip) (The twin doors of what? He’s in a dungeon, and we know that there are cell doors. Are these different? This is unclear. Also, this description could be tighter, i.e. A wooden slab barricaded the stout oak doors. . .etc.)

There’s plenty of promise here, but some work to be done. There are occasional clarity issues (a later description of the feeding opening in the door was confusing), and I think the action could/should be tighter. Keep at it, Richard, you have fresh, interesting characters and a fascinating world. Just immerse us in it more quickly, and more vividly.

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,

1. Email: email 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 with double spacing, 12-point font, 1-inch margins.
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

Fresh eyes, part II, and free e-book offer

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Well, I asked for it. And you gave it to me. Your fresh eyes have opened mine about the appeal—or lack thereof—of the copy I presented for my novel in the last post. Many thanks.

I wasn’t going to do this -- and I will, as promised, give you the first page to flog in a minute -- but here’s a draft of alternative “flap copy” for the book. If you have a comment on whether or not it would prompt you to look at the first page, I’d appreciate it. However, if you wouldn’t go there just because it isn’t your genre, though, well, skip on down to the flogging.

Mercenary JAKE BLACK is trapped in an emotionless fugue after the killing of his wife and daughter. He is purposeless, adrift—and a deadly gun for hire.

In Chicago, gangbangers swagger on downtown sidewalks at noontime, guns on display, and a cop openly sells a killer drug. JEWEL WASHINGTON, a single mother and legal secretary, struggles for dignity and safety—and is losing the fight.

In Washington, KURT DENGLER, the president’s chief of staff, fears losing the election because the Alliance, a citizen group in the Pacific Northwest, is shrinking the president’s support there.

Reforms in Oregon initiated by Alliance leader NOAH STONE have virtually eliminated lethal firearms and closed the take-the-Fifth loophole criminals use to dodge conviction. But Kurt and Attorney General MARION SMITH-TAYLOR see the Alliance-led initiatives as assaults on the U.S. Constitution that must be stopped.

When the president orders Kurt and Marion to take Noah Stone of the election picture, Jake gets the job. Then the lives of he and Jewel intertwine when they join the Alliance in Oregon—Jake to stop it, Jewel to find a better life. They collide with mores and laws that challenge everything they are.

After Jake uses an illegal firearm to save Noah Stone from a gunman, he lands in a hellhole prison where he must surrender to mind-altering surgery or die. Unable to buy into the Alliance’s credo, Jewel is on a path to lose the new life she’s making for her daughter.

Then an assassin attacks to destroy the movement that could be the hope of the nation. And its only chance to survive lies with Jake Black.

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Okay, here’s that first page

Kurt Dengler aimed his grandfather’s Colt .45 automatic at Noah Stone’s photo and cocked the hammer.

Stone smiled up at the Colt’s muzzle from a Time Magazine cover; the headline read, “Pied Piper of the West.”

Kurt squeezed the trigger, the firing pin clicked on the empty chamber, and there was no hole in the enemy’s forehead.

Like Daddy used to say, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

Kurt used his cell phone to call the number only he, the First Lady, and the Secret Service had. The president’s gravelly voice said, “Hey, Kurt.”

“We need to talk about a threat that needs to go away, Mr. President.”

Leo Grant chuckled. “You’re my chief of staff, why don’t you see if you can work you in?”

Not in the Oval Office, not with all those microphones. “Remember when we were kids, talkin’ about running away?”

“Got it. The garden. Now’s good.”

Kurt hung the .45 on its pegs at the bottom of his grandfather’s plaque. Beneath a Bronze Star medal, a brass plate read, “Major Jefferson T. Dengler.” Grandad hadn’t made it home from World War II, but his heroism and his sidearm had. Kurt used his tie to polish away (snip)

Free e-book of We the Enemy
For the next week (through next Friday), I’ll email a PDF copy of the complete novel, We the Enemy, to people who request it. However, it’s not totally free.

Well, it won’t cost you any money, no matter what, and I can’t make you, once the PDF is in your hands, give me feedback. But I hope that you will.

At the end of the book I’ve added a page with 4 questions and a task. Here they are:

1. What are your thoughts and feelings about this book?
2. How would you describe it to a friend?
3. Do you have any thoughts on who the book is for, the right audience(s) and why they’d be interested?
4. What would make a good blurb for the book cover?
5. Please write a brief review of We the Enemy.
   

All I ask is that you send me your responses.

I can tell you this—most people think it’s a good read. If you want to help out (and have a good read), please email me at ray at editorrr dot com.

Regular flogging will resume on Monday.

For what it’s worth,

Ray

---

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

Friends, writers, lend me your fresh eyes.

Update: I have a guest post up on Writer Unboxed that's particularly relevant to what's going on here.

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I’m about to go asking for blurbs for one of my novels, and I’d sure appreciate your help in evaluating two things, one today, one in the next post. First up is the cover, front and back.

Here’s the scene

You’re strolling in the bookstore, and you see the book to the right:

Next, let’s assume that you did pick up the book, flipped it over, and found the following copy on the back cover.

We the Enemy is no ordinary thriller—it is not for everyone.

But it's about everyone—people who work hard to create good lives for themselves and their families. About you.

It's about Jake, an ex Secret Service agent whose emotions died then he lost his wife and child. Jake is a killer now, but the fates of many good people come to rest in his hands, on whether he can love again.

And Jewel, a single mother in the projects of Chicago, struggling against drugs and violence—and losing. She can change her life, but only if she opens to trusting. She will put Jake in a hellhole prison where the violent are sent to die.

The Alliance threatens the president's re-election, and Jake is hired to crush it. Patriots rally to stop the Alliance from taking away basic freedoms—and other patriots unite behind the hope it offers for a better life.

Death is on the hunt in We the Enemy, disguised as righteousness. But which are the enemies? Which are the victims?

We the Enemy is compelling suspense, but there’s more to this story. This thriller has a mission.

It will challenge the way you think about guns.
About justice. About prison. About the Fifth Amendment.

Beyond that, it will affirm your personal power to make life better.

Please leave a comment as to why you said yes or no to looking at the first page.

Next post, I’ll give you that first page and a chance to do a little flogging.

Many thanks for your help.

Ray

---

Your generosity helps defray the cost of hosting FtQ.

---

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

Flogometer for Judy—would you turn the page?

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Call for submissions The queue of writers in line for a good flogging is down, so if you’d like a critique of your opening on FtQ, just follow the directions below and send yours 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.

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). Directions for submissions are below.

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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Judy’s first 16 lines:

Isaac was standing in the small kitchen when he heard the jingle of keys outside the front door. He glanced at the date highlighted on the calendar. A Happy Bunny magnet declaring homework sucks held it secured to the refrigerator.

He closed his eyes and breathed in. Chest expanding, he inhaled the aroma of burnt wood and ash. His eyes opened. At last, he found her.

The key turned with a click as the lock disengaged. He slipped away as silently as he came in.

*~*

Akali Grey pushed open the door of her cramped one bedroom apartment and trudged through the living room and into the kitchen. After throwing her car keys and purse onto the blue checkered counter, she brought her hands to the side of her head. While massaging her temples, her gaze settled on the window above the basin.

A few inches separated the pane from the paint chipped, wooden sill. Her eyebrow cocked. She was certain that she closed and locked it this morning. Shaking her head, she placed her hand on the edge and pulled it down. She reached up and slid the brass, crescent lock into place.

Didn’t find this one compelling
Despite clear writing, opening with a scene, and a good story question—what was that guy doing in her apartment and what would happen—what I see as “overwriting” slowed the narrative to a stop. Notes:

Isaac was standing in the small kitchen when he heard the jingle of keys outside the front door. He glanced at the date highlighted on the calendar. A Happy Bunny magnet declaring homework sucks held it secured to the refrigerator. ("small" is a conclusion word that fails to give a picture -- can you illustrate its smallness in some way? I think readers see emphasized details in the opening of the story as significant. The bunny magnet seems like it should be important, or communicate something, but here I think it does the opposite. For one thing, the nature of the magnet and the message on it suggests that there may be school-age children in the home, but there aren’t. For me, better to just see a date circled on the calendar.)

He closed his eyes and breathed in. Chest expanding, he inhaled the aroma of burnt wood and ash. His eyes opened. At last, he had found her. (“Chest expanding” is the first touch of overwriting. We all know that when we inhale our chests expand, and this detail is unnecessary unless it’s unusual for this character to breathe, and we have no hints that it is. Also, what does the aroma of burnt wood and ash relate to? Is it something he did that caused it? The rest of the story doesn't allude to this smell at all, and the woman doesn't notice it. If this detail has no meaning that the reader can perceive, then it has, well, no meaning.)

The key turned with a click as the lock disengaged. He slipped away as silently as he had come came in. (The over-explicit detail of the key doesn’t even seem logical—the key wouldn’t click in the lick, they’re generally silent. The tumblers in the lock might, but is that necessary? I think it would be okay to have the insertion of the key into the lock, which would be audible, motivate his movement away. Still, this is all quite vague, even though overly detailed in places. Something from this character that lets us know that he can’t be found there would help create tension.)

*~*

Akali Grey pushed open the door of her cramped one-bedroom apartment and trudged through the living room and into the kitchen. After throwing her car keys and purse onto the blue checkered counter, she brought her hands to the side of her head. While massaging massaged her temples. her Her gaze settled on the window above the basin. (“cramped” is a “conclusion” word—it tells us something, but doesn’t show us anything. The detail about the blue checkered counter is an effort to describe the scene, but the detail has no impact on the story and slows things down. The language about bringing her hands to the sides of her head is more overwriting—the reader will automatically see that if you just show her massage her temples )

A few inches separated the pane from the paint chipped, wooden sill. It was open a few inches. Her eyebrow cocked. She was certain that she had closed and locked it this morning. Shaking her head, she placed her hand on the edge and pulled it down and locked it. She reached up and slid the brass, crescent lock into place. (For me, the overwriting really kicks in here. I substituted “It was open a few inches” because that’s the important information, and I think it should be immediately clear to the reader. The original sentence—few inches, paint-chipped sill—requires the reader to translate all that into the fact that it’s open. Too much for this reader. Same goes for placing her hand on the window to pull it down—just close the darned thing. And the lock—it isn’t a necessary fact that it’s a crescent lock (unless we want to spend time thinking about how the intruder got it open, and we don’t here). More than that, if she’s certain that she closed it that morning, why doesn’t the fact that it’s open alarm her? As a single woman living alone, shouldn’t it?)

It turns out that there’s a creepy-sounding guy stalking her, though we don’t know why. But I doubt an agent would get there because the next pages watch Akali tiredly begin relaxing, with no particular tension and lots of detail.

Just to make clear what I mean by overwriting, here’s an example from the next page:

With the toe of one foot, she pushed on the heel of her work shoe until it popped off, then she repeated the process, kicking off the other shoe.

What matters is that she’s kicked off her shoes, not the precise manner in which she does so.

I hope this doesn’t seem too harsh—the writing is fine, and it seemed to me that there’s an interesting story here, but it’s buried under a mass of detail and description. Get out a vacuum cleaner, Judy, and see what you can do to strip away the non-essentials and get us into the story.

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,

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

Flogometer for Jeanne—would you turn the page?

---

Call for submissions The queue of writers in line for a good flogging is down to a couple of weeks, so if you’d like a critique of your opening on FtQ, just follow the directions below and send yours 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.

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). Directions for submissions are below.

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.

---

Jeanne’s first 16 lines of a prologue.

July 1304

Bishop Lamberton grasped his squire, James Douglas, by a shoulder, pushing him toward the open doors at the end of the long, high-arched hall. James twisted out of Lamberton's grasp and whirled to face him. A youth of sixteen, dark-eyed and slender as a knife, James flushed with anger.

“I won’t swear fealty to him."

Lamberton sighed. For a normally obedient lad, he was being amazingly difficult. Recovering James’ land and titles would put a good piece on the board, and it wasn’t as though James later breaking his oath couldn’t be forgiven. "James, do you want your lands back? Your father's title?"

James drew himself up. "You know I do. I must have them.” He shoved shaking fingers through the black tumble of his hair and spit his words out like poison, "My people need me, and it's where I belong. I've sworn to get back what was stolen from my father -- a sacred oath."

"Then you must bend a knee to King Edward."

The lad looked around the entrance of Stirling Castle, the last Scottish Castle to have resisted and captured only two days ago by the English king. It reeked of smoke. Lamberton (snip)

I turned this page
Even though labeled “Prologue,” I think this is really the first chapter of this story (the first chapter begins only a month later with James as the POV character). Whatever the label, it read like a good first chapter—starts with a scene, has tension and creates story questions.

A part of the appeal here is high-quality writing and the storyteller’s clear, professional voice. You feel like you can trust this writer to deliver a story. It’s not easy to nitpick this one. Notes:

July 1304

Bishop Lamberton grasped his squire, James Douglas, by a shoulder, pushing him toward the open doors at the end of the long, high-arched hall. James twisted out of Lamberton's grasp and whirled to face him. A youth of sixteen, dark-eyed and slender as a knife, James flushed with anger. (Because “long” is a relative term, it doesn’t do us much good here—I think the description would read just as well without it.)

“I won’t swear fealty to him."

Lamberton sighed. For a normally obedient lad, he was being amazingly difficult. Recovering James’ land and titles would put a good piece on the board, and it wasn’t as though James later breaking his oath couldn’t be forgiven. "James, do you want your lands back? Your father's title?"

James drew himself up. "You know I do. I must have them.” He shoved shaking fingers through the black tumble of his hair and spit his words out like poison, "My people need me, and it's where I belong. I've sworn to get back what was stolen from my father -- a sacred oath." (Can’t tell you exactly why spitting his words out like poison caught my eye and thus took me a little out of the story. It might be that it should be “as if they were poison.” And it seems like an over-used phrase, if not a cliché. Maybe it’s that these words, about his people needing him and a sacred oath shouldn’t really be poison to the lad—the idea of swearing fealty to Edward would be poisonous, but not his obligation to his people.)

"Then you must bend a knee to King Edward."

The lad looked around the entrance of Stirling Castle, the last Scottish castle Castle to resist, have resistedand captured only two days ago by the English king. It reeked of smoke. Lamberton (snip) (I think you can do better with this description than “looked around.” Using some of the text that follows where I cut this, it could be more active. For example: James scowled at the fire-blackened beams overhead and the hole blasted in the west wall. The reek of smoke still filled Stirling Castle, the last Scottish castle…etc.)

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,

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