Flogging the Quill

Flogometer for Dan—would you turn the first page?

Nominate FtQ? Writer's Digest is open to nominations for the Best 101 Websites for Writers. I would hugely appreciate it if you would nominate Flogging the Quill.

Nominations close January 1! Ouch. Please email your nomination to [email protected]. It probably wouldn't hurt to inculde this URL: www.floggingthequill.com. Thanks.

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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 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.

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Dan’s first chapter for Winner Takes All opens this way:

The man who called himself Wolf got out of bed before sunrise. He put on the dead man’s shirt and pants and shaved with the dead man’s razor. He stepped over the body for the last time. The eyes were open, blue with a film like lake ice in November. Wolf put out the Do Not Disturb sign. It would keep the maid away for a couple of hours. He had stayed overnight because hiking in the dark was crazy. The trek in yesterday it had taken two hours. Wolf always took precautions. He wouldn’t make the mistake of driving the dead man’s car, even for a few miles.

The motel was a relic. Nobody built them this way anymore. The units were laid out in a semi-circle with a pool in the center. Each unit had a room air conditioner that ran 24 hours a day this time of year. The highway carried little traffic thanks to the Interstate. Wolf closed the door and walked past the pool. The air conditioner noise masked his footfalls. He crossed the highway and found the trail up to the ridge. He didn’t expect to meet anyone this early. Ten minutes later he stopped and looked back. The motel was invisible. An orange glow marked the eastern rim of the valley. The sound of a lugging truck transmission echoed across the valley. Wolf resumed walking. He had to hurry in order to beat the heat.

I turned the page, but . . .

 

The first paragraph did a good job of creating enough mystery to make me want to know more, so I would turn the page to find out what this story is about. The writing is quite crisp, clear, and clean, too, and that’s promising.

But there were warning signs. The tension began to fall off in the second paragraph, partly because, for me, the fairly extensive description of the motel was not needed. Also, there were a lot of short, simple declarative sentences that began to have a staccato effect on me. I’d watch out to make sure sentence length and structure varies now and then to break up the rhythm.

Dan, while your writing continued to be fun to read, you spent a fair amount of time on the maid who eventually discovers the body. I didn’t think she would have apart in the rest of the story, and, if I were you, I’d consider deleting her and getting right to the visit of the bounty hunter. Notes:

The man who called himself Wolf got out of bed before sunrise. He put on the dead man’s shirt and pants and shaved with the dead man’s razor. He stepped over the body for the last time. The eyes were open, blue with a film like lake ice in November. Wolf put out the Do Not Disturb sign. It would keep the maid away for a couple of hours. He had stayed overnight because hiking in the dark was crazy. The trek in yesterday it had taken two hours. Wolf always took precautions. He wouldn’t make the mistake of driving the dead man’s car, even for a few miles.

The motel was a relic. Nobody built them this way anymore. The units were laid out in a semi-circle with a pool in the center. Each unit had a room air conditioner that ran 24 hours a day this time of year. The highway carried little traffic thanks to the Interstate. Wolf closed the door and walked past the pool. The air conditioner noise masked his footfalls. He crossed the highway and found the trail up to the ridge. He didn’t expect to meet anyone this early. Ten minutes later he stopped and looked back. The motel was invisible. An orange glow marked the eastern rim of the valley. The sound of a lugging truck transmission echoed across the valley. Wolf resumed walking. He had to hurry in order to beat the heat. I don’t think transmissions cause the lugging sound you’re referring do—it’s the engine, isn’t it? Transmissions don’t make much in the way of audible noise.

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

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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

Flogometer for Cathy—would you turn the first page?

Update: I just learned that Writer's Digest is open to nominations for the Best 101 Websites for Writers. I would hugely appreciate it if you would nominate Flogging the Quill.

Nominations close January 1! Ouch. Please email your nomination to [email protected]. It probably wouldn't hurt to inculde this URL: www.floggingthequill.com. Thanks.

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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 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.

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Cathy’s first chapter opening for Samantha's Song, historical fiction, opens this way:

The performer's fingers fluttered over the rims of the crystal glasses and the crowd grew silent. The high-pitched, ethereal music startled Samantha at first, but soon its sensual allure made her eyes grow heavy. She began to feel disoriented, and when the music stopped she turned angrily to her companion. "You shouldn't have brought me here, Daniel."

"You asked me to. What didn't you like about it?"

"Why, it was as if I was being sucked into the sound! As if..." Her voice trailed off. A glass harpsichord, indeed. How could she be expected to articulate her feelings about such an outlandish thing? "It's related to wickedness, I'm sure."

Daniel laughed. "Some say it can mesmerize people."

She refused to ask him what mesmerize meant. "It should be outlawed."

"Perhaps for the weak-minded."

"Papa is certain to question my being exposed to it in the first place."

He looked down, the corner of his lip curling. "I'd reckon that a favor, Samantha."

She shook off his hand and kept walking. Daniel had been her friend since childhood. When had he become so callous? She quickened her step, expecting the pressure of his hand regaining her arm, and when it failed to materialize she slowed and looked behind her.

A little short on tension for me

For me, no particular story questions with any stakes to them were raised in this leisurely opening. While the style of the dialogue and the narrative work to evoke a time past, that particular story element (as well as scene-setting) was missing for me. A short few pages later the narrative did become compelling and I would have read on—but that was a short few pages too late. Cathy, I suggest that you give a try to setting the scene briskly and then get to her missing beau and what she hears that causes her to scream. If you can get that on the first page (16 or 17 lines), you’ve got a good hook. Notes:

The performer's fingers fluttered over the rims of the crystal glasses and the crowd grew silent. The high-pitched, ethereal music had startled Samantha at first, but soon its sensual allure made her eyes grow heavy. She began to feel disoriented, and when the music stopped she turned angrily to her companion. "You shouldn't have brought me here, Daniel." One of the things that’s missing here is scene-setting. I had assumed that they were indoors, but it turns out that they are at a street fair. So, while I was visualizing a performance in a room, they were outdoors with a crowd around them. “Began to feel disoriented” is “telling,” not showing. Let us experience, through her, the disorientation. What happens that make her feel that way? Also, she springs from disorientation to anger pretty much instantly (and with the use of an adverb). Look for ways to first transition her to anger and then show it rather than rely on a weak adverb to do the job. More than that, though, this opening doesn’t have much to do with the story, I suspect, and so amounts to a certain amount of “throat-clearing.”

"You asked me to. What didn't you like about it?"

"Why, it was as if I was being sucked into the sound! As if..." Her voice trailed off. A glass harpsichord, indeed. How could she be expected to articulate her feelings about such an outlandish thing? "It's related to wickedness, I'm sure." I don’t think you need to include the trailing off of her voice as the ellipses show that.

Daniel laughed. "Some say it can mesmerize people."

She refused to ask him what mesmerize meant. "It should be outlawed." Her refusal is a nice bit of characterization done very quickly.

"Perhaps for the weak-minded."

"Papa is certain to question my being exposed to it in the first place."

He looked down, the corner of his lip curling. "I'd reckon that a favor, Samantha."

She shook off his hand and kept walking. Daniel had been her friend since childhood. When had he become so callous? She quickened her step, expecting the pressure of his hand regaining her arm, and when it failed to materialize she slowed and looked behind her. You have her shaking off his hand, but the narrative had never shown us that he was touching her in some way.

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

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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

Free FtQ chapter—problems with staging action

Update: I just learned that Writer's Digest is open to nominations for the Best 101 Websites for Writers. I would hugely appreciate it if you would nominate Flogging the Quill.

Nominations close January 1! Ouch. Please email your nomination to [email protected]. It probably wouldn't hurt to inculde this URL: www.floggingthequill.com. Thanks.

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Here, from the Description section of my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells. is “Stagecraft: don’t trip over your imaginings”

Staging is how action unfolds or how a character interacts with the setting. It’s a necessary part of description, and one in which writers are particularly prone to lapses. Because they see the action so clearly in their minds, it’s easy to leave out vital clues that the reader needs. Or sometimes it’s the opposite—a character is racing through a high-action scene and the writer fails to see the action clearly. A writer can be so focused on the outcome she wants that she unwittingly bends possibility until it breaks.

The logic problems that bad staging creates raise two issues that become especially damning if the reader is an agent or acquisitions editor:

1. You lose credibility with the reader.

2. You confuse the reader, which can mean that she has to break out of the story to figure out what’s going on, or might just stop reading altogether.

But there’s a way to get your staging right. Slip into a character’s skin, look around, and go through his motions. If you act out the action in your mind (much different than simply writing a description of it), you can keep it real. And sometimes it’s a good idea to get off your chair and physically go through the actions you’re describing.

Following are examples adapted from edits I’ve done. First I’ll give you the excerpt, and then the comment I gave in the edit.

An elderly man shuffled toward them. He wore a hospital johnnie that dangled open in the back.

Comment: If he’s coming toward the point-of-view character, the POV guy can’t see that it dangles open in the back—you need to either cut this or fix the staging so that it can be seen.

See if you find this one confusing.

Looking over at him, she could not remember if she had ever made love in the afternoon, in a room with the shades up. A time when it did not matter if the sun had set, or the blinds were drawn, or the door locked to ward off children. But now, watching the leaves come down, she could not remember such a time.

Comment: At this moment you have her looking over at him as he sleeps, not watching the leaves and then suddenly she’s watching leaves. Suggest you have her turn her gaze back to the leaves before her concluding thought.

For the next excerpt, the character is blindfolded and in a place she has never been.

As the man who had been holding her walked away, she could hear his feet echoing down the hall.

Comment: You had written this as if she could know he went down a hall, but it has to be a question because she can’t see. Thought-starter: When the man who had been holding her walked away, she could hear his footsteps echo—down a hall?

In the following example, the character has picked up a basket on his front porch that contains a baby and taken it inside. Then this happens…

Holding the basket in my lap, I pulled the blanket aside.

Comment: Is he sitting somewhere? The living room? Kitchen? You need to set the scene a little so the reader can picture the character in action. Another thought: a basket large enough to hold a baby would be pretty big to put in your lap. Suggest he either set it on the floor or on the kitchen table.

Next, brevity creates confusion.

The Chevy glided over the bumps in the rutted road. Darkness had fallen as he slowed on the unfamiliar road looking for her house.

Comment: There’s something wacky about the sense of this staging of darkness coming and the slowing of the car. It means that darkness came in/during the time it took him to slow down. Either darkness falls far more quickly where he lives than it does on my part of the planet, or he took an awful long time to slow down. You need to adjust the “reality” of this darkening.

And finally. . .

Once safely inside her flat on the fourth floor, she went to open her bedroom window. She recoiled behind the curtain when she saw a long shadow on the pavement below recede into darkness. She recognized him.

Comment: She saw only a shadow and yet she recognized him? Doesn’t seem possible, especially if she is four stories up and it is dark outside. Need to rethink what the staging is here if you want her to see the guy well enough to recognize.

Moral: inhabit characters so you don’t trip over the scenery. Act out the action in your mind to reveal gaps and impossibilities.

Second moral: find sharp “other eyes” to help spot goofs you can’t see.

For what it’s worth

Ray

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© 2010 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer for Curran—would you turn the first page?

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MERRY HOLIDAYS!!! I'm on holiday with shaky Internet connections, so taking the day off. See you next week. All best, Ray

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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 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.

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Curran’s first chapter of What Dwells in the Forest, a YA urban fantasy, opens this way:

Raels looked out the window of the train with heavy-lidded eyes and absentmindedly twirled a gold bracelet around her left wrist. Her mind was muddy with exhaustion and the mesmerizing effect of watching green fields and forest race by, so she was unaware of the other passengers in the car. She did not see the jowly businessman hunched over a laptop, typing with two fingers; she paid no attention to the couple kissing in the corner. She did not notice the old woman who sat across the aisle, watching her with pale, intent eyes.

As she stared out the window, her eyes suddenly fixed on a shadowy form running through the fields. It wove in an erratic zigzag but kept a steady pace, never veering far from the train or falling back. It flowed over the ground like a shadow, but it had more substance than that. And anyway, the sun had disappeared behind the trees; there were no shadows, just the flat light of dusk. Was it an animal? Could an animal run as fast as a train? She blinked and leaned forward, trying to see more clearly, when the train jolted slightly and her forehead smacked hard against the window. She jerked back, letting go of the bracelet to rub her forehead.

“Ow.” She wondered if there would be a mark. Way to start the school year, with a big red bump on her forehead.

The train slowed and a garbled voice over the loudspeaker announced, “Algonquin (snip)

Nice writing, but . . .

 

The writing is nice and generally pleasant to read, although in skimming the rest of the chapter I saw a lot of overwriting—more on that in a moment. This opening page opens at a point very distant from the protagonist—the narrative portrays a number of things she’s not aware of.

If she’s not aware of them, then they don’t impact her and, at this point, have zero to do with her story. I think that the strongest opening delivers the character’s experience—the opening paragraph here delivers the author’s experience. If we need to see the people she doesn’t see, why not have her see them and react to what she sees? That would, at least, serve to characterize her.

The part of the scene with the mysterious shadow pacing the train was interesting, and, because readers expect things introduced into a story will have something to do with the character, it raised a story question.

But then we immediately went away from that. The rest of the chapter had interesting elements in it—a disappearing, strangely dressed man, amongst others—but it was primarily just her arriving at her school, going to her room, meeting a couple of people, and losing her bracelet. In short, there was little tension in the chapter, and long pieces of description that slowed the pace. Here’s an example:

. . . her foot caught slightly on a place where a tree root protruded through the path and she stumbled slightly.

This long sentence adds up to this:

She stumbled over a root.

That’s really all that needs to be communicated here—it’s what happens as a result of the stumble that’s important. And the use and repetition of "slightly" should be avoided. Curran, I think you need to focus less on language that strolls and rolls across the tongue and describe action simply. Notes on the opening:

Raels looked out the window of the train with heavy-lidded eyes and absentmindedly twirled a gold bracelet around her left wrist. Her mind was muddy with exhaustion and the mesmerizing effect of watching green fields and forest race by, so she was unaware of the other passengers in the car. She did not see the jowly businessman hunched over a laptop, typing with two fingers; she paid no attention to the couple kissing in the corner. She did not notice the old woman who sat across the aisle, watching her with pale, intent eyes. As mentioned, if it doesn’t happen to the character in her scene, then why is it in the narrative? The adjective I cut, “left,” is a smidgen of overwriting—it doesn’t really matter which wrist has the bracelet. The reader will visualize wrist/bracelet etc. just fine.

As she stared out the window, Her eyes suddenly fixed on a shadowy form running through the fields. It wove in an erratic zigzag but kept a steady pace, never veering far from the train or falling back. It flowed over the ground like a shadow, but it had more substance than that. And anyway, the sun had disappeared behind the trees; there were no shadows, just the flat light of dusk. Was it an animal? Could an animal run as fast as a train? She blinked and leaned forward, trying to see more clearly, when the train jolted slightly and her forehead smacked hard against the window. She jerked back, letting go of the bracelet to rub her forehead. We already know that she’s staring out the window, so that phrase was redundant and another pace killer. It’s generally best to avoid “suddenly,” an overused adverb. Just let it happen. There wasn’t anything really sudden about this anyway, was there? She’s gazing, absently, and then her gaze fixes on something in a fairly normal, gazing kind of way. The blinking is the author describing in detail what he’s seeing, but this is a detail that doesn’t contribute all that much, so why have it? And does it matter whether the jolt of the train was slight? Since she’s not thrown from her seat and only bumps her forehead, the reader will understand that it was slight. Try to stay away from adverbs, and change adverbial phrases to strong verbs whenever you can. Ordinarily I might label the part in this paragraph about the bracelet as overwriting, but my exposure to more of the chapter suggests that it's an important element, so this is seeding that needed to stand.

“Ow.” She wondered if there would be a mark. Way to start the school year, with a big red bump on her forehead.

The train slowed and a garbled voice over the loudspeaker announced, “Algonquin (snip)

Curran, a more detailed commentary on your chapter is beyond the scope of this blog, but my feeling was that most of the 22 or so pages of your first chapter was “throat-clearing” that didn’t ever actually get to the story. And there were details that simply didn’t matter, such as the man running for the train when she arrives. He has no impact on anything, yet there he is, taking up a couple of paragraphs. I think you need to give your delete key a workout. Try starting the story later, at a point when something happens to jolt (and not slightly) your character into something she absolutely has to do something about, something that has serious stakes to it.

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

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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

Free FtQ chapter—words to avoid in your narrative

Here, from the Description section of my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells. is the second chapter, “Avoid conclusion words”

Author Barbara D’Amato finds consistent factors in the work of beginning writers that kill the promise. One she talked about in a post for The Outfit, a multi-author blog by Chicago crime writers, struck me because it’s something I’m constantly pointing out in my edits. I just didn’t have this fine label for them that she used: “conclusion” words.

Barbara says she finds “too many ‘conclusion’ words: beautiful, arrogant, ugly, magnificent, ghastly, stately, scary, and so forth.”
Here are a few more:

• handsome
• attractive
• momentous
• embarrassing
• fabulous
• powerful
• hilarious
• stupid
• fascinating

When used as description, these conclusion words are telling, and offer no real clue as to what the reader should be seeing. For example, what images come to mind when you read this description?

Allyson was beautiful.

Any picture of Allyson has to be reader-generated, and may have nothing to do with what the author intends. Beauty, being in the eye of the beholder, is subjective. You may think an anorexically thin Allyson to be beautiful while I think she should see a doctor. Steve may think that a woman with a good extra fifty pounds of love handles is beautiful while Roger thinks she should call Weight Watchers. And so on.

The difference between telling and showing usually boils down to the physical senses.

If the author wants us to think Allyson is beautiful, she needs to give us pictures that illustrate beauty, not labels.

Allyson moved with a ballerina’s grace, and her slim figure made any clothing look good. Long hair the color of dark chocolate framed a face that made Johnny think of a princess in a fairy tale, and he wanted to be the one to kiss lips that smiled and pouted and invited, all at the same time.

That’s not to say that you should avoid the word beautiful. It can be quite useful in characterizing. For example, here’s a descriptive passage in which two teenage boys are going to work on a ranch for the summer and go to a small log cabin that’s to be their summer quarters.

Excitement grew in Jesse as they approached the cabin. A place all their own. No grown-ups.

Inside, they stood in a main room just big enough for a double bunk bed, a four-drawer dresser, two chairs beside a small table, and a little space left over to walk around. A battered old radio sat on the table, and an easy-going breeze wafted through the screened door and out the single side window.

A doorway into the bathroom revealed an old-fashioned tub with feet; a metal bar suspended from the ceiling encircled it with a shower curtain. Jesse stepped to the door and looked in. The toilet had a seat but no lid, the sink a medicine cabinet above it, but the mirror was cracked.

Beautiful.

So “conclusion” words can be useful when you use them to describe just that: a conclusion. Jesse concludes that the cabin is beautiful even though, to his mom, I’m certain it would be far from it.

In looking through samples from writers for “beautiful,” I find examples that make Barbara’s “conclusion” label clear.

It’s a beautiful day, so we drive to Lyme Park.

Can’t see the day, can you?

He gestures at a strikingly beautiful black woman sitting opposite him.

No picture there. Oh, we know the impact of the woman’s appearance on our point-of-view character, but not what causes it. If we received a picture of the black woman, we’d learn what “beautiful” means to our POV character, and thus gain insight into his character. But in this case we learn nothing.

Here’s an example where the conclusion word is at least followed by the description:

They’ve got two little boys who are utterly beautiful—all huge blue eyes, blond hair and cheeky grins.

Here are some especially common conclusion words:

• elegant
• shabby
• bizarre
• eerie
• weird (a very common one)
• strange (another very common one)
• eclectic
• large or small (also relative terms meaningless without a comparison)

I suggest you do a search for the conclusion words from this section and any others you can think of and see if you’ve used them as description words—and then substitute the description.

For what it’s worth

Ray
© 2010 Ray Rhamey

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Flogometer for Perry—would you turn the first page?

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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 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.

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Perry’s first chapter of Closing the Circle opens this way:

The body lay in the parking lot of the Palace of Fine Arts. The circle and five-pointed star carved on his chest illuminated blue then red in the flashing lights of the two patrol cars parked at the edge of the grass.

San Francisco fog crept from the shadows and curled around the corners of the buildings. The columns leaned over the group of people as though listening. Four people stood talking in the pool of light. Two of them wore uniforms, two suits.

Sam Barton took his FBI ID folder from his jacket pocket as he walked towards the sound of voices, voices that burst in short rhythms, the cadence of questions not conversations. The phone call that had dragged him into the pre-dawn fog cut short the hope that he had left the brutal world of serial killers behind him. They said they needed someone who knew about rituals and they didn't care that he came to San Francisco to get away.

Sam walked toward the grass in front of the Exploratorium. He saw one of the suits, a tall solidly built man gesture to the uniformed woman. The big detective's partner, shorter but broader, said something then walked towards the body.

“Who called it in?” Sam heard the taller detective ask.

 

Didn’t get me there

Keep in mind that the criteria you have to meet is “compelling.” Admittedly, it’s subjective because it has to be compelling to me, and FtQ readers often disagree. But also keep in mind that I’m coming from a perspective that many agents come from—can I NOT put this manuscript down? Is it publishable?

While there is solid writing here and the opening is interesting, for me it didn’t compel a page turn. For one thing, we started with narrative from the author’s point of view, not the character, and that put off the chance to engage me in this character’s experience. And then not much happens on this page that affects the character. It’s all just arriving, and there’s no real tension regarding him. Yes, he’s not happy about being on this case, but there’s hardly any serious consequence suggested for that.

Later we get into some pretty standard elements—the guy is a specialist, the local cops on the case resent him, etc. A scenario we’ve seen a bunch of times. Perry, I think you need something from the character that’s considerably more gripping. Notes:

The body lay in the parking lot of the Palace of Fine Arts. The circle and five-pointed star carved on his chest illuminated blue then red in the flashing lights of the two patrol cars parked at the edge of the grass. This is the author setting the scene, not the character experiencing it. Sam is too far away to see this detail. Why not start with Sam’s point of view? Maybe his stomach curdles with nausea at being forced into another weird killer case.

San Francisco fog crept from the shadows and curled around the corners of the buildings. The columns leaned over the group of people as though listening. Four people stood talking in the pool of light. Two of them wore uniforms, two suits. I liked the description of the fog and the way it sets the scene and the location in one sentence. Then clarity gets muddled: the first paragraph refers to a single building, and here it’s multiple buildings. Which one do the columns belong to? There’s a reference to “the” pool of light—where does that come from? Help us see, i.e. a pool of light cast by a lone lamppost. But, if there’s a pool of light in the darkness, how could we see the fog creeping from shadows? And how are there shadows if it’s night? If it’s not night, then how is there a pool of light?

Sam Barton took his FBI ID folder from his jacket pocket as he walked towards the sound of voices, voices that burst in short rhythms, the cadence of questions not conversations. The phone call that had dragged him into the pre-dawn fog had cut short the hope that he had left the brutal world of serial killers behind him. They said they needed someone who knew about rituals and they didn't care that he came to San Francisco to get away. A little overwriting here—for example, to keep things crisp, it would do just fine to say “Sam Barton took out his FBI ID as he…etc” rather than mentioning his jacket pocket, etc. Similarly, we don’t need to read about hearing the sound of voices when the narrative clearly delivers voices that must be sounds. I liked the description of how the voices sounded, though. If this is pre-dawn, then make sure the descriptions noted earlier reflect that. And why not give us that time of day right at the start? Also, did "they" really say something as mean as they didn't care that he was trying to get away from his problem with this kind of murder?

Sam walked toward the grass in front of the Exploratorium. He saw one of the suits, a tall solidly built man gesture to the uniformed woman. The big detective's partner, shorter but broader, said something then walked towards the body. The narrative dawdles a little here. Note the echoes of “walked toward”—that pair of words appears twice in this paragraph and once in the preceding paragraph. This is a sign of a lack of good editing to the calloused eyes of an agent or an editor, and suggests that the rest of the manuscript will have more flaws like this. We already know that Sam is walking toward these people, so why not just show us what’s happening? But show, not tell—the “suit” gestures, but what is the gesture? We can’t imagine an abstract. What does he do with his hands? Does she react? Also, what and where is the Exploratorium? I thought we were in front of the Palace of Fine Arts. And how does Sam know the tall guy is a detective? Doesn’t seem like he could.

“Who called it in?” Sam heard the taller detective ask. Again, how does he know they are detectives? Yes, he could assume that, but he can’t know it, and the narrative states it as knowledge.

A good start, Perry, but I’d look for a place to start the story later, maybe when Sam sees the think cut on the victim’s chest and Sam’s reaction to it, though that still lacks tension or a story question regarding Sam. Is there an inciting incident that happens later to make this case affect Sam’s life in an unexpected way?

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

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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

Flogometer for Lisa—would you turn the first page?

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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 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.

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Lisa has sent a prologue and first chapter . The prologue opens this way:

Teen Found Dead

Worchester, N.Y. – The body of a 17 year old was found in a bedroom late Friday night along with a suicide note detailing the teens’ struggle to live. Authorities would not say how the victim died, but Police Officer Mel Henderson described it as a "horrific, disturbing and unspeakable" scene. Police have not released any other information on the victim. Sources said the teen went to Lakeside High School and was a victim of the latest cyber bully craze.

The first chapter starts out with:

“Jen, you’re not wearing that are you? Come on show some booty why don’t you?” a familiar voice enters my room.

“I didn’t even hear my bedroom door open, when did you get here?” I ask getting dressed. “I don’t have the bod like you do, my butt looks like a truck compared to yours.”

Looking at her skirt, I know it’s true. It’s always been true. Melinda’s body is slender, she can wear anything; I’m stuck with being short and dumpy! “Besides, my parents would kill me if I went out of the house like that. How did you get in anyway? Why isn’t my dad still giving you a lecture, didn’t my mom insist that you go home and change?”

“Ha Ha, Tom and Laura aren’t here, Mark let me in, for the record, my parents would kill me too, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them, right? Where is your Daddy tonight anyway? I need to chat with ‘ol Tom.” Mel’s wicked grin covers her face, I know she finds my dad a hottie, I think it’s sick.

“He’s not my daddy, don’t say it like that, it sounds so perverse!” I give her a gross look before rolling my eyes. “T-shirt and jeans is what I’m wearing, like it or not,” I add.

“At least let me do your make up, you look like a freakin zombie. This is our first party being juniors, gotta impress. Everyone will be there, time for some new cliques, right?” Melinda makes her lips pucker and practices her model pose in the mirror. God I want to be her.

Yes on the prologue, no on the chapter

 The story the prologue promises, a crime story about a contemporary issue, got me to turn that page, although I found it a little irritating that it didn’t let me know if the victim was a girl or boy. Was that intentional?

The chapter boils down to “info dump” or “throat-clearing” for me. Not a hint of suspense or tension that seemed connected with the story the prologue made me think was going to happen. The writing is a little too “on the nose” for me—while the dumpy teen/svelte friend scenario is common in teen stories and a bit of a cliché, it is a standard YA issue. But it needs to be portrayed in a fresh way. Here, the character’s internal monologue just lays it out.

There are comma faults in the first chapter, and in the opening things that could be tightened (why would she say that she didn’t hear the bedroom door open?). But the main issue, for this reader, is the lack of tension and the appearance of a storyline that relates to the prologue’s promise.

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

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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

Free FtQ chapter—adding color to characterize

Here, from the Description section of my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells. is the second chapter, “Color narrative to characterize”

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What a character says, thinks, and does is guided by personality, needs, perceptions, abilities and limitations. Of course. But I believe a writer should take that principle a level deeper: even expository narration should reflect the character’s personality, should be colored by the character’s persona in a way that creates a distinct voice in your reader’s ear. That portion of the story should read as if the character has composed the narrative, not the author. Done well, once a reader is introduced to a character she will recognize a character’s narrative even if the character is not named. Each character is a different color on your narrative pallet.

The key to doing this was brought home to me when a critique partner said, about a novel in progress that she was helping with, “I love the change of vocabulary accompanying the change in POV [point of view].” She referred to the word choices in the exposition part of the narrative, and had put her finger on the root technique for flavoring in a way that I hadn’t thought of. It’s the words, stupid.

How many popular novels fail to do this? I see them; don’t you? While dialogue may differ (often not by much), exposition is flat and non-differentiated. But it could be different. I say it should be.

Here’s an example of coloring a narrative from a suspense novel that takes place in the old West. When it shifts from one point of view to another, so does the voice of the narrative.

Wood thunked on wood and Zach whirled, his finger tightening against the trigger. In the doorway to the spare room stood a boy of about ten. A boy propped on a crutch, his left leg hanging limp. A boy with Tom’s long, serious face, his sandy hair, and his hazel eyes, eyes that fastened on Zach’s. They widened. “Father?”

Zach turned to the woman. “Where’s Tom Duval?”

She swayed and braced herself with a hand on the window sill. She stared at him.

He had to have an answer. “Who are you?”

She lifted her chin and leveled golden eyes at him.

“His widow.”

* * *

Amber felt him lookin’ at her. Like all men did.

Except for the fancy city suit, he was the spittin’ image of Tom. Same stocky body, strong-looking, the hazel eyes with arching brows that made his gaze seem like it was coming after her.

Why in hell did he have to show up? A few more days and she’d have been out of this inferno.

Here are the narratives about two characters in a speculative thriller.

A tiresome clump of a half-dozen gang jerks swaggered toward Jake with cocky menace and semi-automatic pistols visible. They blocked most of the sidewalk, forcing people to step off the curb or sidle along a building front. Jake locked his gaze onto the eyes of the guy in the center and walked straight at him.

The kid kept his cool as they came together, but one stride from colliding he dropped his gaze and sidestepped. Jake cut through, never slowing.

He focused on what he knew of the Attorney General. He’d heard from his old contacts in Justice that she was honest and devoted to the law, and that she hated the under-the-table deal-making of politics. He had too, at one time.

* * *

Two punks, slouching against a gun shop window, smacked kisses at Jewel. A green stripe ran down the center of the blond’s buzz-cut hair. A red do-rag decorated the smaller guy’s shaved head—he cupped his balls and licked his lips. Ugh. She picked up her pace, her mini-skirt riding high.

They pushed off from the store and swung into step on each side of her. Green-Stripe edged close. “Hey, Brown Sugar.”

“I’m not your sugar.” Keeping her gaze straight ahead, she said, “There’s a cop back there.”

“Yeah.” He laughed. “Murphy.”

His sour stink hit her. Her skin goose-bumped. Wishing she wasn’t wearing high heels, she broke into a run.

Color narrative with the same vocabulary and style as a character’s dialogue and you’ll increase your odds of delivering the character’s experience directly to your reader. Each character’s turn on the stage will resonate as a person, not just a puppet you’ve trotted out to roll the plot wheel.

For what it’s worth

Ray

© 2010 Ray Rhamey

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Flogometer for Jennifer—would you turn the first page?

Update Oops, completely spaced this morning's post. Will put up a new flogging tonight or Sat AM.

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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 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

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

 

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Jennfer’s first chapter of Imagine That opens this way:

They’re fighting again. I can hear them from my room, even though they’re all the way downstairs in the kitchen, trying to keep their voices low. I can’t make out exactly what they’re saying, but it doesn’t matter; I know what they’re arguing about. It’s always the same thing.

A cupboard door slams. I get out of bed to turn on my stereo.

“Mallory?” Baxter pushes open my door. He’s wearing Spiderman pajamas that are way too tight on him and his hair is sticking up everywhere. He’s rubbing his eyes with his fists, the way he used to do when he was really little. I nod and he climbs into my bed, pulling the covers up so high only the top of his head is visible.

I put on my West Side Story CD and flick through the songs until I reach Tonight. My mother’s voice fills the room. “Only you, you’re the only thing I’ll see forever,” she sings. Once, a long time ago, she was a pretty successful stage actress, but she gave it all up to marry my father. “In my eyes, in my words and in everything I do. Nothing else but you. Ever.”

I guess I have to give my parents some credit for trying to put our family back together. But it’s kind of like trying to fix a snag in your favorite sweater; pull the wrong thread and the whole thing will unravel, right before your eyes.

* * *

“Oh my god, what is up with your hair?” Claudia Cantone says. She’s standing right outside the (snip)

I passed

 

There’s a likeable voice here, and some good writing. But, for me, not much in the way of tension, and not much happening. Two kids try to avoid listening to a parental argument, but there’s no hint of danger or violence; it seems like an ordinary thing to them. Then we cut to a school and encounter the not-so-riveting question about a hairdo. In other words, things are pretty ordinary.

While, as Robert McKee advocates in Story, it is the upsetting of a character’s life that provides the inciting incident of a story and the reader needs an idea of what that life is first, this chapter is all life-as-usual. Jennifer, I think this is what some call “throat clearing,” and you need to start your story later. Notes:

They’re fighting again. I can hear them from my room, even though they’re all the way downstairs in the kitchen, trying to keep their voices low. I can’t make out exactly what they’re saying, but it doesn’t matter; I know what they’re arguing about. It’s always the same thing. I cut the first line because it’s “telling,” and the rest of the paragraph shows us that they are fighting. However, this opening lacks impact because the narrative doesn’t let the reader know what the character knows—what they’re fighting about. Why withhold? Is it something to do with the story? Basically, the last couple of sentences contribute nothing other than this is “as usual,” and that’s not compelling.

A cupboard door slams. I get out of bed to turn on my stereo.

“Mallory?” Baxter pushes open my door. He’s wearing wears Spiderman pajamas that are way too tight on him and his hair is sticking   sticks up everywhere. He’s rubbing rubs his eyes with his fists, the way he used to do when he was really little. I nod and he climbs into my bed, pulling the covers up so high only the top of his head is visible. Jennifer has a fondness for the “to be” verb and participles. In my view, they lack the crispness of simple present or past tense.

I put on my West Side Story CD and flick through the songs until I reach Tonight. My mother’s voice fills the room. “Only you, you’re the only thing I’ll see forever,” she sings. Once, a long time ago, she was a pretty successful stage actress, but she gave it all up to marry my father. “In my eyes, in my words and in everything I do. Nothing else but you. Ever.” I don’t think the first page, where you’re trying to hook the reader, is a good time for backstory.

I guess I have to give my parents some credit for trying to put our family back together. But it’s kind of like trying to fix a snag in your favorite sweater; pull the wrong thread and the whole thing will unravel, right before your eyes. This hints at story, but then we immediately leave this for the school. If the story is not about the marriage unraveling, why are we having this scene? If it is, then why not stay with it so we can learn the consequences that will trouble the character and see her resolve to do something about it that causes story questions to arise.

* * *

“Oh my god, what is up with your hair?” Claudia Cantone says. She’s standing right outside the (snip)

There’s plenty of good writing, Jennifer—I particularly liked your character describing her figure as “built like an ironing board,” but little in the way of story. You introduce a couple of characters, but nothing happens that promises trouble ahead for Mallory. Find that place and try starting there.

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

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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

FtQ chapter—describing a POV character

Here, from the Description section of my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells. is the second chapter, “Describing a point-of-view character”

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One of the first opportunities for a writer to break the spell he’s weaving in the reader’s mind is when the time comes to describe a character from within that character’s point of view. You’ve seen the hackneyed “looks in a mirror” approach—although it works, it just isn’t, well, good. But that’s just one among many clumsy ways to add description. For example:

She shook her long blond hair out of her eyes.

What’s wrong with that? In my view, if you’re close in a character’s point of view, experiencing the story as they do, you don’t include things the character would not think or do. If your hair is in your eyes, the thought in your mind isn’t to get your long blond hair out of your eyes, it’s simply to get your hair out of your eyes. In this example, adding “long blond” is an authorial intrusion that distances the reader from the character.

Maybe you don’t even need to describe a character

Don’t forget that you’ve got a reader out there, ready and eager to contribute to the vision. If you sketch in enough of a character’s appearance for the reader to distinguish the character from others, the reader is perfectly capable of adding details to the picture in their mind. Being a participant in building the scene is part of the fun of reading.

When Elmore Leonard wrote in the New York Times about his ten rules of writing, he quoted a character from a John Steinbeck novel who says, “I don’t like to have nobody tell me what the guy that’s talking looks like. I want to figure out what he looks like from the way he talks.”

Leonard goes on to say this:

In Ernest Hemingway’s Hills like White Elephants, what do the “American and the girl with him” look like?

“She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.”

That’s the only reference to a physical description in the story, and yet we see the couple and know them by their tones of voice, with not one adverb in sight.

Readers will indeed fill in the picture without much help from you. While the author may know what a character looks like, maybe the reader doesn’t need to quite so much.

If there’s something remarkable about a character’s appearance that affects the story, then there’s a clear need to describe. A couple of examples that come to mind:

• A character is so beautiful that she or he draws a crowd wherever she or he goes.
• A man who is so ugly that he can’t find work because people can’t look at him.

But if you do need to describe a character, there are several ways to do it.

The “character thinks about himself” approach:

In this example, we’re in a teenager named Jesse’s point of view. He’s just remarked to his friend Dudley about a girl they’ve met who sparked a lot of interest in him.

Dudley shrugged. “She was looking at you.”

Jesse could think of only one word for what she had seen—medium. Medium tall, medium brown hair, medium brown eyes, medium looks, medium build (if he could shed a couple pounds). Medium nobody.

Jesse’s relatively low self-esteem gives the reader enough of a picture to go on. The passage continues, finding a way to give the reader Jesse’s age, but doing it within the context of describing the girl, which leads to. . .

The “see a character through another’s eyes” approach:

Jesse had figured the rancher’s daughter for fifteen when they met at the ranch house that morning, so he had a year on her. But she was already the kind of girl a boy instantly undressed with his eyes.

It wasn’t her body that had started his mental peep show, although she was fun to look at. She was small, five feet tip to toe, if that. His gaze had roamed happily down and back up slender, tanned legs exposed by short shorts, but on top she was no Playmate of the Month.

It was a boldness in her green eyes that promised the stuff of daydreams. And then her handshake had lingered, her fingertips trailing across his palm as they left.

I feel that this technique is showing, via Jesse’s feelings and reactions about the girl, rather than telling. In this way the description of the girl characterizes both of them—it’s much more than a simple snapshot, a list of features such as hair and eye color, height, weight, etc.

Here’s how Jesse’s friend Dudley was described, using the “another’s eyes” approach. Here, past history between the friends helps characterize and describe at the same time:

Dudley moved in even slower motion. Big and powerful at six feet and on the fat side, every year the Wildcat football coach came after Dudley for the offensive line, and every year Dudley was too lazy for all that exercise. But his strength didn’t seem to help today.

At this point in the narrative, the boss, the owner of the ranch the boys are working for, arrives on the scene.

Mister Braun fit Jesse’s picture of a Texas rancher. Standing eye to eye with Jesse, he was lean, his tan skin like a tight leather glove. Gray peppering his long black sideburns made him look old to Jesse, maybe as old as forty.

The dust whitening his jeans looked like it belonged there, and the sweat darkening his shirt and straw cowboy hat looked like hard work. He wore heavy-duty shoes, not the boots Jesse had expected on a rancher.

You learn the boss’s size—eye to eye with Jesse, who was “medium”—and have a picture of a middle-aged, lean man. But you also know something about his personality—he works hard enough to sweat a lot and doesn’t mind getting dirty.

Descriptions can be lean (and I think should be, most of the time), but sometimes, if the character’s appearance is a factor in the story because of how others react to her, I look for a way to build more of a picture. Here are two pieces that describe a character—Jewel, a woman in her twenties.

The “character reacts to others” approach:

Murphy’s piggy eyes stumbled across Jewel as she closed on him. His gaze went for its usual tour of her body—yeah, she was wearing a sleeveless, scoop-neck top and a mini-skirt, but what the hell, couldn’t a girl enjoy a spring day without some slob feeling her up with his eyeballs?

Okay, now we know how she’s dressed, and our imagination fills in a woman shapely enough to provoke such attention. The action continues with. . .

The “character reacts to events” approach:

The breeze that swirled around the tall office buildings reeked of car exhaust, but her skin liked its touch even though the sky above was its usual beige. She basked in the sun’s warmth, imagining she could feel it turning her gold-brown color a shade darker.

Now we know, sort of, the color of her skin. And something about her personality, a certain sensuality. But wait, there’s more. . .

The “looks at a reflection” approach:

I think you can do this as long as it reflects a true point-of-view response.

She stopped to eye a cupcake display in a restaurant window. In her reflection, her ice-blue eyes—donated by some honky ancestor—jumped out at her. So did the scar, a three-inch trail curving down her face from high on her cheekbone.

Jewel gave her body the once-over like Murphy had. Still lookin’ good . . . wait a minute, was that a little bit of extra tummy? She turned sideways. Damn, gettin’ poochy. She sucked in her gut and walked on, wrestling with whether to diet or exercise, or both.

This last descriptive part combines the “reflection” approach with the “thinks about self” technique in a believable and natural way. Her reflection is used to provoke thoughts that characterize (i.e. her concern about her figure) without the author telling the reader details about her figure.

For what it’s worth

Ray

© 2010 Ray Rhamey

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