Flogging for Helen + contest to win free chapter edit

I'm on the road on a holiday vacation trip, so posts may run a little later than usual, or not at all.

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Win a free chapter edit Blee Bonn, on her blog, has a contest for which the first prize is a first-chapter edit by yours truly. You enter with the first and last lines of your opening chapter. And that's not the only prize, too. Contest deadline is December 28.

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And now to our regularly scheduled flogging.

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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Helen’s first 16 lines:

Sam lurched forward into empty space, punted from behind by a foot slamming hard into her back. She shrieked, arms pinwheeling frantically, hands grabbing air, body undulating in frantic contortions to stay upright. Her right foot slid off the damp top step. She grabbed back, one footed, snatching at anything to stop her fall. Splinters slid under fingernails that clawed uselessly at the heavy wooden door. A loud clunk echoed as the bolt slid home from the other side. Her weight bearing foot lost its hold, slipped off the edge of the stair, and she went down hard, bouncing from edge to corner down the whole ten feet to the bottom, landing in an awkward sprawl on the second step and the floor. Water seeped into her boot and the leg of her black linen pants.

“Gross.” Dots of light spun in her head.

“Ow.” She clumsily righted herself, wetting the other knee in the process, and crawled with shaky limbs to the third step. She sat gingerly and ran her hands over her arms and legs. No serious contusions, just a bit battered and disoriented.

“Shit.”

She shook her wet foot, drops of dirty water flinging off and spackling the slowly moving surface below her. A twinge zapped her lower back, and she palpated the spot with her fingers.

Nope
In her email, Helen says she has sent out queries and received either form rejections or nothing at all, and asks why. I see some reasons here. For example, it turns out that the character is in Venice, which would be a good scene-setting thing to have included that would have increased curiosity.

This does start with strong action—but it’s on the overwritten side to my eye. Too much language in the action-packed first paragraph that, for me, ended up slowing down a dramatic fall. And then the scene, instead of letting us in on what the story and/or the conflict is about, devolves into a detailed analysis of her condition. I have one other thought for Helen after these notes.

Sam lurched forward into empty space, punted from behind by a foot slamming hard into her back. She shrieked, arms pinwheeling frantically, hands grabbing air, body undulating in frantic contortions to stay upright. Her right foot slid off the damp top step. She grabbed back, one footed, snatching at anything to stop her fall. (In addition to eliminating adverbs and that complicated undulating image, I’ve added a paragraph break just to create some breathing room.)

Splinters slid under her fingernails that when she clawed uselessly at the heavy wooden door. A loud clunk echoed as the bolt slid home from the other side. Her weight bearing foot lost its hold, slipped off the edge of the stair, and she went down hard, bouncing from edge to corner down the whole ten feet to the bottom, landing in an awkward sprawl on the second step and the floor. Water seeped into her boot and the leg of her black linen pants.

Okay, let’s take a break here. It’s hard to see the effect of such massive cuts with all the editing in place, so here’s what this reads like trimmed down. See if you think it works better.

Sam lurched forward, punted from behind by a foot slamming hard into her back. She shrieked, arms pinwheeling, hands grabbing air. Her foot slid off the damp top step. She grabbed back, snatching at anything to stop her fall.

Splinters slid under her fingernails when she clawed at the heavy wooden door. Her foot lost its hold and she went down hard, bouncing down the ten feet to the bottom, landing in a sprawl on the second step and the floor. Water seeped into her boot.

Now for the rest of the opening:

“Gross.” Dots of light spun in her head.

“Ow.” She clumsily righted herself, wetting the other knee in the process, and crawled with shaky limbs to the third step. She sat gingerly and ran her hands over her arms and legs. No serious contusions, just a bit battered and disoriented. (The “no serious contusions” feels like telling. How could she really tell, this quickly after the fall and through her clothing, that there were no bruises (contusions) forming? Wouldn’t it be better if this sentence were more from within her experience, i.e. Nothing hurt, but her hands shook and she was glad she was sitting.)

“Shit.”

She shook her wet foot, drops of dirty water flinging off and spackling the slowly moving surface below her. A twinge zapped her lower back, and she palpated the spot with her fingers. (What’s the story? What was the conflict about? Where is she? This focus on her state of being doesn’t even really seem that natural to me—if I’d just gotten kicked down some stairs, I think I’d be thinking about the person who did it and why and what to do now.)

There were more clues as to why this material might not invite an agent’s interest, Helen. For example, there was this right at the end of the chapter:

Then she remembered. Her heart pounded and a wave of nausea washed over her. She slid her hand lower. Her fingers contacted a hard ridge just below her belt, tucked into the back of her pants. It was still there!

For my money, this withholds way too much that the reader should be in on. She remembered what? What is “it? You may be trying to tease the reader here, but I don’t think it works. What makes “it” so valuable to her, so much so that she feels nausea when she thinks it might be missing? If the reader has no idea of what it is and what it means to her, then there’s little emotional impact or connection to this passage.

Your task is to deliver the experience of the character. Let’s say you were kicked out of a house and fell down some steps and were in the “water floor” of a house in Venice. What would your first thoughts be when you stopped falling? Would it to be to check your arms and legs for bruises? Unless something hurt really badly, I don’t think so. You’d be thinking about what had just happened and what to do now, wouldn’t you? Keep thinking on this, there sounds like a good story is waiting to be revealed. The time to do it is now, on the first page and in the first chapter. This chapter ended with me knowing nothing about the story and nothing more about the character than what was on the first page.

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

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Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

Submitting to the Flogometer:

1. Email your 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter as an attachment (.doc or .rtf preferred, .docx okay) and I'll critique the first page.
2. Please format with double spacing, 12-point font Times New Roman 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