Flogometer for Liz—would you turn the page?

---

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 or 17 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.

Storytelling Checklist

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this list of 6 vital storytelling ingredients from my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.

Evaluate the submission—and your own first page—in terms of whether or not it includes each of these ingredients, and how well it executes them. The one vital ingredient not listed is professional-caliber writing because that is a must for every page, a given.

• Tension
• Story questions
• Voice
• Clarity
• Scene setting
• Character
  

---

The opening page of Ghost:

She gazes up at me. A patch of duct tape covers her lips. The square gleams, iridescent as beetle wings, in the frail moonlight. The waning gleam casts her blonde hair, nearly as pale as my own, into a halo. The quicksilver shine through the small attic window molds her tears into crystal.

Encased in a cocooning web of hemp rope, she struggles against her bonds as I descend, spider-like, from the rafters. By the time my slipper-clad feet touch the floor, she whimpers beneath the gag. I press a finger to my lips. The child quiets.

“Shh, draga mea,” I murmur. Though the child cannot know the Romanian endearment, my voice is soft and gentle enough to calm her. Ah, the power of a woman’s voice.

This attic room lies far above where the kidnappers stalk, but I am always wary of any noise. The scars hidden beneath my shirt are poignant reminders of the children that I failed to rescue.

Her eyes follow my progress in this cramped space. The eaves hang too low for me to stand completely upright. My creeping walk is insectile, skittering, as I circle behind her. Too much weight on one hand, one foot, and the boards beneath will creak, alerting those in the bedrooms throughout this old farmhouse.

I make no sound, as the Ghost.

A smile twists my lips, but I swallow it away. The newspapers coined my name, thanks to brief
descriptions from parents, guardians, or the few policemen to whom I deliver the lost children.

I turned the page, but . . .
I like the story values in this opening—an interesting and different character, a suffering child to be rescued, good story questions—but for me the writing is a little over the top. The opening paragraph in particular was too packed with adjectives and ways of saying moonlight over and over. So, nice stuff, but perhaps too much of it? Notes:

She gazes up at me. A patch of duct tape covers her lips. The square gleams, iridescent as beetle wings, in the frail moonlight. The waning gleam casts her blonde hair, nearly as pale as my own, into a halo. The quicksilver shine through the small attic window molds her tears into crystal. (“The square” stopped me cold. It took a beat to figure out that it referred to the duct tape. Just “It” would have worked much better and kept the flow going smoothly. Then we have “frail” moonlight, kind of a nice phrase, but then it is also a “waning gleam” and a “quicksilver shine.” The last four sentences could have easily been edited to read: It gleams, iridescent as beetle wings, in the frail moonlight from the attic window. The light casts her blonde hair, nearly as pale as my own, into a halo, and molds her tears into crystal.)

Encased in a cocooning web of hemp rope, she struggles against her bonds as I descend, spider-like, from the rafters. By the time my slippers-clad feet touch the floor, she whimpers beneath the gag. I press a finger to my lips. The child quiets. (A thought: the first sentence would be crisper as Cocooned in a web of rope, she struggles as I descend, spiderlike, from the rafters.)

“Shh, draga mea.” I murmur. Though the child cannot know the Romanian endearment, my voice is soft and gentle enough to calm her. Ah, the power of a woman’s voice. (It would be nice for the reader if the narrative could include what draga mea means. One way to do it would be to simply follow the foreign words with a comma and the English equivalent like this: ”Shh, draga mea,” baby, I miss you.)

This attic room lies far above where the kidnappers stalk, but I am always wary of any noise. The scars hidden beneath my shirt are poignant reminders of the children that I failed to rescue. (For me, “poignant” was one adjective too many.)

Her eyes follow me my progress in this cramped space. The eaves hang too low for me to stand completely upright. My creeping walk is insectile, skittering, as I circle behind her. Too much weight on one hand, one foot, and the boards beneath will creak, alerting those in the bedrooms throughout this old farmhouse. (The “cramped space” reference is telling that is immediately shown by the fat that the eaves are too low for the Ghost to stand.)

I make no sound, as the Ghost.

A smile twists my lips, but I swallow it away. The newspapers coined my name, thanks to brief descriptions from parents, guardians, or by the few policemen to whom I deliver the lost children. (I felt that “A smile twists my lips” was a little over the top, and an unlikely thing for the character to be thinking. I think that “I smile” would work just fine. I added the “by” for clarity.)

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

---

Submitting to the Flogometer:

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred):

1. your title
2. your 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
3. Please format with double spacing, 12-point font Times New Roman font, 1-inch margins.
4. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
5. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
6. If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
7. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

© 2010 Ray Rhamey