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.
Salty language alert for my younger readers or those it bothers. WD’s opening lines:
Let's start at the end.
Timothy J. Morris is dead, and I killed him. When I told the cops I killed him, they cuffed me and then beat the hell out of me. When I told the press I killed him, they took a whole lot of pictures. When I told my wife I killed him, she said that there was no other way. When I told his wife I killed him, she smiled and thanked me. When I told the court I killed him, instead of thanking me, they threw my ass in the cooler. Deep into the cooler. Fifty years deep. My first parole hearing is scheduled on my 109th birthday. That kind of longevity just doesn't run in my family.
The jury? They heard the truth. Hell, they heard the whole truth, every ugly, fucking bit of it. I sat there for three weeks and I witnessed it; they surely heard the entire truth. But my due process went south when the “...and nothing but the truth” part got messed up. The prosecution floated a few key lies, and my sloppy, stuttering, court-appointed, sleep-deprived lawyer with bad hearing failed to knock them down. Probably even failed to hear them.
Yep, I killed Tim. And if somehow he was resuscitated or resurrected or reincarnated or regurgitated or some such shit, I'd gnaw my way out of this prison and kill him again. For what he did, he deserves to die twice. Please, dear Jesus, reincarnate that sorry bastard for me. Just once. Please?
So here I am and here I'll be, hanging out in Cell C-210 until the end of my natural days, paying an (snip)
I turned this page
Not only the voice but the promise of a strong story did the job. Although not an immediate scene, the content of the narrative is certainly provocative. Notes:
Let's start at the end.
Timothy J. Morris is dead, and I killed him. When I told the cops I killed him, they cuffed me and then beat the hell out of me. When I told the press I killed him, they took a whole lot of pictures. When I told my wife I killed him, she said that there was no other way. When I told his wife I killed him, she smiled and thanked me. When I told the court I killed him,
instead of thanking me,they threw my ass in the cooler. Deep into the cooler. Fifty years deep. My first parole hearing is scheduled on my 109th birthday. That kind of longevity just doesn't run in my family. (I cut that little bit because it broke a nice pattern and wasn’t really needed, IMO.)The jury? They heard the truth. Hell, they heard the whole truth, every ugly, fucking bit of it. I sat there for three weeks and I witnessed it; they surely heard the entire truth. But my due process went south when the “...and nothing but the truth” part got messed up. The prosecution floated a few key lies, and my sloppy, stuttering, court-appointed, sleep-deprived lawyer with bad hearing failed to knock them down.
Probably even failed to hear them.Yep, I killed Tim. And if somehow he was resuscitated or resurrected or reincarnated or regurgitated
or some such shit, I'd gnaw my way out of this prison and kill him again. For what he did, he deserves to die twice. Please, dear Jesus, reincarnate that sorry bastard for me. Just once. Please? (More effective, I think, minus the piece I cut. While the profanity here and in the previous paragraph may be a natural part of this character, I’d urge WD to do without it if possible. A little cursing goes a long way in a novel; its potency is much stronger than in natural speech when in a narrative. I’ve revised the cussing way down (or out) in a couple of my novels and it wasn’t missed.)
So here I am and here I'll be, hanging out in Cell C-210 until the end of my natural days, paying an (snip)(WD, I’d cut this and the bit that immediately followed in order to get the following on the first page.)So help me God, the whole mess with me and Tim started one morning way back in eighth grade. (Even though this smacks of backstory and flashback, the opening about the murder and the various attitudes toward it, especially Tim’s wife, made this okay with me. It’s a story I’m interested in hearing.)
Comments, please?
For what it’s worth.
Ray
Submitting to the Flogometer:
- 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.
- Please format with double spacing, 12-point font Times New Roman font, 1-inch margins.
- 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 line edit/critique of up to 15 pages.
- If you rewrite while you wait you turn, send me the revision.
© 2010 Ray Rhamey