Flogging the Quill

Free FtQ chapter—point of view problems

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From the Technique section of section of my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells: “Point of view: a slippery slope.”

Point of view [POV] is the perspective from which a writer tells a story. There are three basic categories. Lynn Viehl, author of forty novels in five genres, gave these examples on her blog, Paperback Writer:

1. First person (the story is told from the perspective of I or We):

I grabbed Marcia’s arm. “What was that about my wallpaper?”

2. Second person (the story is told from the perspective of You), generally in present tense:

You grab Marcia’s arm and demand she repeat the crack she made about your wallpaper.

3. Third person (the story is told from the perspective of He, She, It< or Them):

John grabbed Marcia’s arm. “What’s wrong with my wallpaper?”

Much of modern fiction is written in the close third person point of view, which means the story as experienced by a character, from “inside” the character’s head. Many of the writers whose work I see try to do that. But they often “slip” in subtle ways.

To maintain a close third person point of view, the narrative contains nothing that a character CANNOT directly see, hear, taste, feel, or know. In other words, just like you and me in real life.

• When we’re talking with someone, we can’t know what they’re thinking—unless they tell us.
• When we see someone do something, we can’t know their motive or purpose—unless they tell us.
• If we’re asleep or knocked unconscious or shot dead, the narrative in our point of view can’t then show what happens to us. (I have seen this happen in manuscripts.)

Now, there are actually no “rules” in fiction, so writers can and do stray from this guideline all the time. But there can be negative results if you don’t keep a consistent point of view.

Consider why you might want a close third person point of view. It’s to involve your reader with your protagonist. To create an emotional bond, some form of caring. If the reader cares about a character, they’re a whole lot more likely to care about what happens next. And thus motivated to turn the page.

More than that, the closer you can bring a reader to a character, the tighter the emotional connection and involvement, and the closer you bring a reader to experiencing the story rather than just reading information.

If that’s true, then slipping away from the close third person has the effect of distancing the reader from a character. Of taking her out of the mind and heart of the protagonist. Of disconnecting.

I want to show you some POV slips that occurred in writing samples that have been sent to me. They seem innocuous, but I believe they have their effect.

Perhaps at first glance there’s nothing wrong with this narrative.

She felt radiant, and her brown eyes glistened with happy tears.

Here’s the slip:

She felt radiant, and her brown eyes glistened with happy tears.

Because we’re in the woman’s point of view, she can’t see her eyes glisten. That’s impossible unless she’s looking into a mirror, and she’s not.

From a storytelling point of view, the reader is forced a step back from the character. Because only from outside the character’s point of view can it be perceived that her brown eyes glisten.

She can’t see it so, if it is seen, it has to be from the outside. Maybe an arm’s length away? One other thing that’s a point of view glitch—mentioning the color of her eyes. While she certainly knows the color of her eyes, who ever thinks about the color of their eyes when they’re crying? Not me. Not anyone.

Okay, then how do you get images across without stepping out of her point of view? Well, in the first case you can say something such as “tears welled in her eyes.” True, we don’t say glistening, but the reader knows what tears in eyes look like. Basically, all the writer is trying to do here is show the reader that the character is tearing.

I know this seems like a small thing, but the effect is cumulative. “Her brown eyes glistened” is the author’s point of view, and that pulls the reader out of the identification with the character that is so necessary for making a reader care about what happens enough to want to keep reading.

While we’re here, let me dwell a moment on the use of “felt” in this description. I know that there are times when you must use that verb—I have—but it borders on telling. If it’s possible to describe the sensation in a more active way, I think it’s better. For example, instead of “felt radiant,” what if “joy filled her”?

Here’s another POV slip where the author intrudes. It’s from within the head of a bad guy—with the “evil presence” he is referring to himself.

Stephenson looked down on the woman who slept unaware of the evil presence standing only yards from her tranquil slumber.

Because we’re in Stephenson’s point of view, he would not be standing there thinking of himself as an “evil presence.” This is the author intruding, to characterize him. I don’t think bad guys go around thinking of themselves as evil. Sound motivation for antagonists gives them the point of view that they’re doing the right or necessary thing, not something for purposes of evil.

What about this one?

She fell to the floor, her eyes wide and panicked.

Yes, this is a subtle, tiny thing. But we’re supposed to be inside her head. Where do you have to be in order to see if someone’s eyes are wide and panicked? Standing next to them, right? Unless she’s standing next to herself, she can’t see what her eyes look like.

The author is doing the right thing in terms of trying to use action to convey emotion, and the description does that. But it’s emotion as perceived from outside the character, not inside.

Here’s another little one:

George spoke in a calm voice.

This characterization of his voice is as perceived from outside the character’s mind, as heard by an objective observer. True, you can make a character aware of what his voice sounds like, e.g., “His voice sounded calm to his ears.” But that’s not what this author has done here.

So how can this writer get “calm voice” across without stepping out of point of view? One method is the one above, where he is listening to the quality of his voice. But that wasn’t the intent of this narrative. It was to communicate the way the character was delivering his words. From inside the character’s mind, it would be something like:

George kept his voice calm.

POV Peeves

I have two pet peeves about point of view that I frequently see in the narratives of both unpublished and published authors:

1. Failing to maintain a steady POV

2. “Head-hopping” from one point of view to another.

I say no hops, skips, or jumps without some kind of transitional element. When you’re in a POV, you should STAY in it. When I come upon POV slips, even little ones, they always pull me out of the story.

Inconsistent POV

Here’s an example from a published novel. In a two-sentence paragraph that follows the revelation of shocking news to the character, Smith, the first sentence is this:

Smith felt his head go light.

Other than that the writer used “felt” instead of illustrating this feeling, we’re in a very close (limited) third person point of view, right inside the guy’s head. Now I’ll add the second sentence:

Smith felt his head go light. Unaware of the action, he moved his free hand over his heart and clutched at his breast.

WHAM! We vault from inside the guy’s head to a Godlike, omniscient POV to see action the character doesn’t know is happening. For my money, any limited point of view means writing ONLY about what the character perceives, does, feels, says, etc. If he or she doesn’t perceive it, it doesn’t belong in that portion of the narrative. If this character is unaware of what the hand is doing, it should not be included.

One writer I know continued with the action after he had killed the point-of-view character, who could hardly be aware of what was happening around his corpse.

Worse, in the published example above, “Unaware of the action” refers to the lightening of the character’s head in the preceding sentence rather than the hand. Ba-a-ad structure. This is from a “bestselling” author, too.

Don’t you just hate it when you see published writing that’s less skillful than your own?

Were I editing this, I’d suggest the writer get rid of “unaware of the action.” It serves no purpose, the picture of the action works without it, and it points to the previous action.

I would also advise this writer to look for some way besides the verb “felt” to describe the feeling the character has. Felt is a passive, lazy verb that doesn’t do much for picturing. Part of the way I edit is to provide suggestions to illustrate craft points. In this case, I might suggest something like:

Smith’s mind seemed to detach and drift, and his hand clutched at his heart.

Second look: the hand part is passive. Why not this?

Smith’s mind seemed to detach and drift, and he clutched at his heart.

Maintaining a solid point of view is tricky at times, and we all make these little slips, especially in a first draft when we’re just trying to get the story on the page.

So keep an eye out for places where it’s you, the author, seeing things and reporting on them instead of your character experiencing them from inside. The closer you keep a character’s point of view, the better your chances of involving your reader more and more deeply.

Head-hopping 

When you use an omniscient [third-person] point of view, it is appropriate to skillfully move from one character’s point of view to another’s. The catch is “skillfully.” If you’re Virginia Woolf, you’ll do fine. Richard Russo, novelist, screenwriter, and lecturer at the Warren Wilson College MFA Program for Writers, writes that using omniscience is a mature writer’s technique — he didn’t attempt it until he was forty.

The omniscient approach, used well, doesn’t seek to imitate the close third person technique. The trouble comes when a writer uses the close third person POV from character to character to character, shifting from inside one head to inside another at will and with no transition.

Here’s an example from the published novel we just looked at. At this point, the author has been using Smith’s close third person point of view for several pages. The paragraph below is tightly inside Smith’s point of view, in his head.

Smith knew that this meant the suspect would probably wind up going to the hospital. The idea didn’t much appeal to him. “Get him in a cell.”

So far, so good. Now for the following paragraph. I’ll repeat the first for contrast.

Smith knew that this meant the suspect would probably wind up going to the hospital. The idea didn’t much appeal to him. “Get him in a cell.”

Jones shrugged. It wasn’t that he cared, but Smith’s suggestion ran counter to protocol.

He wanted to cover himself. “Clear him here first, then.”

Whoa. We went from knowing what Smith knows and feels about an idea directly into what Jones feels and desires. Mental whiplash for this reader. Again, this blatant head-hopping occurred after many pages that had held tightly to Smith’s point of view. For me, sloppy, undisciplined writing (or editing). As it happens, Jones was a minor character who disappeared in a sentence or two anyway, so I have to wonder why the author felt the need to include what he felt and wanted. In an edit, I’d have cut all but the dialogue, and maybe suggested some visualization of Jones’s discomfort from Smith’s point of view—but no interior monologue.

What’s the harm in this? I believe that, at some level, head-hopping reduces/damages/breaks the emotional bond the writer has worked so hard to create by being in the close third person. Why? Because the hand of the author is clearly revealed and the reader, either consciously or somewhere down under, feels the manipulation of an external force, which is contrary to being carried along with what’s happening to the character she’s involved with. The emotional effect of the narrative is diminished and, as Sol Stein says, creating emotion in a reader is the author’s job.

For what it’s worth

Ray

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© 2011 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer for Greg—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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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

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Greg has sent the first chapter of Margaritifer Chaos.

Judge Werner Mathiason of the United States District Court for the District of Columbia rapped his gavel. “This matter comes before the Court on motion by Plaintiff, Margherita Concordia Grey, for Temporary Restraining Order and Preliminary Injunction. Plaintiff names as Defendant, Off-World Mining LLC. The Court recognizes that Plaintiff is indeed of Martian birth and, in fact, the only known Martian. However, the Court also recognizes that Ms. Grey is a U.S. citizen, permanently residing in the United States without intent, or means, of returning to her home world. As such, the Court finds that Plaintiff, having failed to adequately demonstrate the likelihood of imminent injury, lacks standing in this matter.”

To the accompaniment of a collective gasp from the standing-room-only gallery, Ghita leaped from her seat, snarling, “Lacks standing?! How can I lack standing? I’m the only Martian. You just said so. I’m the only being on this planet that does have standing!”

“Ms. Grey, take your seat and be silent. I will not tolerate your interruptions again.”

“I will not be silent. This is wrong, it cannot be allowed. I won’t allow it!”

Judge Mathiason repeatedly hammered his gavel, and bellowed, “Bailiff, remove Ms. Grey from the courtroom!”

As the burley five-foot-ten bailiff approached, Ghita stiffened, stretched to her full six-foot-five-inch height – in heels – and cast him a glance that would have stopped a clock. The bailiff froze (snip)

Yes, but . . .

The voice is pretty good, and the situation was interesting enough to a science fiction fan such as I to get me to turn the page for a little more. The idea of a Martian citizen was enough to get me there. But, still, there’s no hint of what the stakes are—what will she lose as a result of this ruling, what’s the damage?

Greg, I read through the rest of the chapter, and was disappointed to get a whole lot more exposition that gave background. You did have a fine hook at the end of all that when some kind of paramilitary unit kidnaps her father. If I were you, I’d try to get that up much sooner. Notes:

Judge Werner Mathiason of the United States District Court for the District of Columbia rapped his gavel. “This matter comes before the Court on motion by Plaintiff, Margherita Concordia Grey, for Temporary Restraining Order and Preliminary Injunction. Plaintiff names as Defendant, Off-World Mining LLC. The Court recognizes that Plaintiff is indeed of Martian birth and, in fact, the only known Martian. However, the Court also recognizes that Ms. Grey is a U.S. citizen, permanently residing in the United States without intent, or means, of returning to her home world. As such, the Court finds that Plaintiff, having failed to adequately demonstrate the likelihood of imminent injury, lacks standing in this matter.” I liked all the legal talk; made it feel real.

To the accompaniment of a collective gasp from the standing-room-only gallery, Ghita leaped from her seat, snarling, “Lacks standing?! How can I lack standing? I’m the only Martian. You just said so. I’m the only being on this planet that does have standing!” Pet peeve here regarding dialogue tags; people don’t really snarl words, they just snarl snarls. However, this does introduce conflict and tension.

“Ms. Grey, take your seat and be silent. I will not tolerate your interruptions again.”

“I will not be silent. This is wrong, it cannot be allowed. I won’t allow it!” If there were stakes, something for her to lose here, this would be the place to put it via internal monologue or even dialogue. Give us some reason to care about this.

Judge Mathiason repeatedly hammered his gavel, and bellowed, “Bailiff, remove Ms. Grey from the courtroom!”

As the burley five-foot-ten bailiff approached, Ghita stiffened, stretched to her full six-foot-five-inch height – in heels – and cast him a glance that would have stopped a clock. The bailiff froze (snip) Another pet peeve—a character giving personal dimensions by the inch. It would suffice for her to tower over him just like she did most men of ordinary size. In this situation, she would not be measuring either herself or the guard—this is an author intrusion and takes me out of the story. So does the use of a hoary old cliché, a glance that would stop a clock.

Greg, I’d work on getting the 14 or so pages of exposition and chatter out of the way and figure out how to get her father kidnapped on page 2.

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.

© 2011 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer for John—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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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

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John has sent the opening of a short story.

The door swung open, light from the hall upstairs invaded his darkness. Her shadow cast against the stairwell. Whatever it was, Marvin hoped it would be quick.

“Ninth inning, two outs! Maggie, can it wait?” The creaky stairs answered that question. On the way too big television, the Red Sox pitching coach slowly made his way to the mound. Marvin turned to his wife of thirty-three years. She took her cue well.

“Lucky me, a pitching change. The numbers are coming on, did you get me a ticket?”

Marvin smiled. “Of course, it’s on your dresser. If you played the same numbers every week, like I do, you wouldn’t have to check a ticket.” His eyes back on the screen; she knew him and she knew baseball. The pitcher was staying; she would be going.

“If I played the same numbers every week, like you do, I’d be a crazy woman every week making sure I bought my ticket. I’d have silly attachments to meaningless digits. No thanks.” She jostled his cap. “Almost eleven, you need to get some sleep.”

Marvin laughed. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Let me know what comes out.”

She closed the door and the light retreated. Every day, Marvin scurried to the call of lights and buzzers. He dealt with too many people. Not at night, not with the Yankees on. They weren’t invited to this room. The door opened, light and shadow.

“You got the first two numbers! Ruth and Mantle!” The door closed.

I had clarity issues

I’ll point some out in my notes, but more than once the narrative took me out of the story because I wasn’t sure about what was happening. This story is about winning a lottery, and, for me, I think there’s too much set-up. The next page or so shows the process of winning it as the numbers are called on the television. While this would be dramatic for the protagonist, it wasn’t for this reader. For my money, I think the story needs to start after the lottery money is won and that causes a tension-producing complication in his life. Notes:

The door swung open, light from the hall upstairs invaded his darkness. Her shadow cast against the stairwell. Whatever it was, Marvin hoped it would be quick. I think the detail about stairs and stairwells is wasted narrative. It doesn’t affect the story in any way, and uses valuable opening lines. What matters is that his wife opens the door.

He said, “Ninth inning, two outs! Maggie, can it wait?” The creaky stairs answered that question. On the way-too-big television, the Red Sox pitching coach slowly made his way to the mound. Marvin turned to his wife of thirty-three years. She took her cue well. For me, it wasn’t clear as to who said this. First point of confusion. Again the stairs—why? The info about how long they’d been married is the author intruding on the scene to pass on information. And I wonder why—how long they’ve been married isn’t a factor in the story at this point.

“Lucky me, a pitching change. The numbers are coming on, did you get me a ticket?”

Marvin smiled. “Of course, it’s on your dresser. If you played the same numbers every week, like I do, you wouldn’t have to check a ticket.” His eyes back on gaze went back to the screen; she knew him and she knew baseball. The pitcher was staying; she would be going.

“If I played the same numbers every week, like you do, I’d be a crazy woman every week making sure I bought my ticket. I’d have silly attachments to meaningless digits. No thanks.” She jostled his cap. “Almost eleven, you need to get some sleep.” This nicely shows a tender relationship.

Marvin laughed. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Let me know what comes out.”

She closed the door and the light retreated. Every day, Marvin scurried to the call of lights and buzzers. He dealt with too many people. Not at night, not with the Yankees on. They weren’t invited to this room. The door opened, light and shadow. More confusion—the “They weren’t invited” line should refer to the people he deals with, but instead it refers to the Yankees.

“You got the first two numbers! Ruth and Mantle!” The door closed. The “Ruth and Mantle! part was also confusing. It turns out that this has to do with the numbers he chooses, but is never really explained. Are they the numbers on their jerseys? This is something the couple knows well, but the reader isn’t in on it, and it needs to be clear, IMO.

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Tweet

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.

© 2011 Ray Rhamey

Free FtQ chapter—showing and telling

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Now we’re entering the Technique section of section of my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells. is “When to tell, how to show.”

In a recent edit, I pointed out instances where I felt my client was telling versus showing. Even though I included examples of ways to show what she had told, she wrote to me and said, “I’m not sure I know how to ‘show’ rather than ‘tell’.”

I can understand why. After all, we use the telling mode all the time in conversations with friends, and it works.

“I was really surprised.”
“I was so pissed.”
“I was incredibly happy.”

When to tell

There are times in a novel when telling is the right thing to do. It’s when you need to summarize an event because to create a scene for it would be wrong in terms of pace, tension, etc. A common example is when you’ve shown an event in an earlier scene and then the story comes to a place where your character needs to pass along what happened to another character. Rather than drag your reader blow by blow through something she already knows, you just summarize:

April told May how June had told Julie where to shove her opinion.

That’s a necessary and effective use of telling.

There are other times when it’s the best thing to do. For example, when what needs to happen is so mundane that to waste words on it is to waste words. For example, a character is talking on his cell phone. When he finishes the conversation, you could show this:

Bob pressed the little blue phone icon on his cell-phone keypad to end the call.

Truly, that wasn’t needed and smacks of overwriting. Instead:

Bob ended the call.

The reader can easily imagine ending a call with a cell phone if they’ve ever used one, and even if they haven’t used one, they’ve seen it on television.

So what’s so bad about a lot of telling in a novel? You “tell” a story, right? Not really. In a novel you dramatize with scenes. When you’re writing for effect, you craft words that create a very specific result in the reader’s mind, a vital sense of what is happening. You can only do that through showing.

Your readers want what they read to trigger in them the sights and sounds and smells of what’s happening in the story. They don’t want approximations, they don’t want a report, they want to experience the story’s reality.

How to show

You spot telling by looking for declarative sentences that tell the reader something. The verb “was” is often a sign of a telling statement.

Showing is using behavior (action, speech, thoughts) to illustrate or dramatize what the character is feeling/doing.

Here are looks at telling versus showing that come from actual writing samples.

The scene: Anna is beat from a long, bad day at work and now she’s spent hours at the hospital with her father, who has been unconscious for days. You want to give the reader Anna’s physical and emotional condition. This author wrote:

Anna was physically and mentally exhausted.

Sure, you get information. You have an intellectual understanding of her condition. But you have no feeling for what Anna feels like, do you? To show that Anna is physically and mentally exhausted, you could write this:

All Anna wanted to do was crawl into bed and go to sleep. But first she would cry. She didn’t think she could be calm and composed for another minute.

The scene continues: Anna’s father suddenly wakes and thrashes around wildly, gasping, making monitors go wild. You want to give the reader Anna’s reaction. The author told us this:

Anna was frightened.

She could have shown us with:

Oh, God, what was happening? “Dad?” Why didn’t he respond? “Nurse, do something!”

Yes, it takes more words, but remember that here you’re not trying to inform the reader but to deliver an experience.

As you go through your manuscript, whenever you come across a “was-type” declarative sentence that simply delivers information rather than shows behavior, you probably have an instance of telling.

Your task then is to visualize the character in that state or situation. See the movie. As the author, you can also “hear” thoughts. Then show the reader the thinking or speaking or moving in a way that illustrates what the reader needs to know.

Another example, one that deals with the use of adverbs.

Telling: He stabbed the man furiously.

See how an adverb tells rather than shows?

Showing: He plunged the dagger into the man’s chest again and again and again, screaming “Die!” each time the blade stabbed into flesh.

One more example. Jesse has been working for hours under the Texas sun. We need to let the reader know how he feels.

Telling: Jesse was very hot.

Seriously, I see descriptions like that in manuscripts all the time. How about this?

Showing: Jesse felt like an overcooked chicken, his meat damn near ready to fall off his bones.

Now, that’s hot. Another thing I often see is where a writer does a good job of showing, but then feels compelled to add an explanation (telling). From a recent edit:

He wrenched her from the quicksand with a last huge pull and fell back onto the ground, panting as if he’d just won a wrestling match, temporarily drained by the supreme effort.

For my money, “as if he’d just won a wrestling match, temporarily drained by the supreme effort” has already been shown by his panting and the effort he put into the rescue, so it’s redundant and repetitive. I would delete it.

Boiled down to essentials:

• Telling is dispensing information.
• Showing is evoking experience.

With each word and phrase you write, slip into reader mode and see what the effect is: is it just informing you, or bringing to life what the character experiences?

For what it’s worth

Ray

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© 2011 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer for Guy—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.

---

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

---

Guy has sent the opening chapter for Ten Days.

Bear slid the manila folder across the table, waiting for his partner to read about the man they were to hunt down.

"Some college boy?" Shank closed the file. He wore a white dress shirt and black pants, like a waiter who'd just got off his shift. "This isn't exactly a challenge."

"Killing him isn't the whole job. He has something that he shouldn't."

They sat in the corner booth of a noisy little bar in a quiet little town on the south coast of France, the kind of place where police only show up for parades. You expect thieves and killers in Tokyo, New York or London -- but not a backwater like Port LeCaute, which is why Bear had picked the town. He was a giant, but he'd taken care to dress like the longshoremen drifting in and out of the bar. Navy coveralls with grease stains hid his bulk.

Nobody noticed him. Nobody cared.

Shank studied the photos. The first showed a tall, skinny man in torn Levi's carrying a black backpack.

The second was a head shot. Dark, unkempt hair. Intelligent eyes.

Mason Magnussen. A good-looking English major who didn't know he was about to die.

"So he got in trouble picking pockets and stealing cars," Shank said, looking up from the folder. "This is an easy job. Shouldn't take both of us."

I turned the page

An interesting way to introduce a protagonist—a chapter spent with antagonists planning his demise and possible torture. I have to wonder if the story could be launched more effectively with a chapter that starts with the character being attacked by these guys, though. As an editor, I’d sure look at that.

Still, the voice is good and the writing clean, and good story questions were raised. I read the whole chapter, of course, and even though it’s all planning and, fundamentally, exposition crafted in an interesting way that sets up the protagonist, my interest was held. But, still, holding the reader away from the real story for a chapter could be risky. These guys are clearly not the protagonists, and readers like to meet the hero right away. Notes:

Bear slid the manila folder across the table, waiting and waited for his partner to read about the man they were to hunt down. He can’t be waiting for his partner to read at the same time he’s sliding the folder across the table.

"Some college boy?" Shank closed the file. He wore a white dress shirt and black pants, like a waiter who'd just got off his shift. "This isn't exactly a challenge."

"Killing him isn't the whole job. He has something that he shouldn't." Definitely provokes story questions designed to make me keep reading.

They sat in the corner booth of a noisy little bar in a quiet little town on the south coast of France, the kind of place where police only show up for parades. You expect thieves and killers in Tokyo, New York or London -- but not a backwater like Port LeCaute, which is why Bear had picked the town. He was a giant, but he'd taken care to dress like the longshoremen drifting who drifted in and out of the bar. Navy coveralls with grease stains hid his bulk. The last sentence isn’t credible. If the guy is a giant, a coveralls would cover his bulk, but I don’t see how they could hide it. He’d be huge no matter what his clothing is.

Nobody noticed him. Nobody cared. A little break in point of view. We start in Bear’s POV, but he can’t know this. This is the author intruding. Doesn’t seem to contribute a lot, either. If I were in the bar, I’m pretty sure I’d notice a giant, but I also wouldn’t care.

Shank studied the photos. The first showed a tall, skinny man in torn Levi's carrying a black backpack. The second was a head shot. Dark, unkempt hair. Intelligent eyes. Didn’t see a need for separate paragraphs here. It costs you a line of space on the first page that could help increase tension or add to story.

Mason Magnussen. A good-looking English major who didn't know he was about to die. Nice way to keep the story question alive and well.

"So he got in trouble picking pockets and stealing cars," Shank said, looking up from the folder. "This is an easy job. Shouldn't take both of us." A nice little foreshadowing for experienced readers who know that whenever a character expects no trouble there's trouble sure to come.

There’s one area of confusion for me, Guy. At the end of the chapter it seems like the bad guys have to fly to the U.S. for this job, so why are we in France? Seems extraneous.

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.

© 2011 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer for Victoria—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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Victoria has sent the opening chapter for Mourn Their Courage.

Liu Jie had known for months that war brewed beneath the surface of his quiet country. And now it has come.

He closed the door of the room he and his family shared. The clamor of voices from the inn's first floor enveloped him in an instant. It was twice as loud as when they'd arrived at the Peach Orchard Inn last night. When he’d read the notice.

Jie observed with interest as servants took long poles and lowered paper lanterns, a novelty that had not yet come to Jie’s homeland. The servants lit the bright yellow globes and rehung them.

The fragile lights swayed as he passed. He stared over the railing at the crowd and grimaced. The room was packed with people vying for the innkeeper’s attention and space to read the Imperial summons.

All I wanted was a cup of rice wine and a meal. He sighed and went downstairs.

The din from the first floor was twice as loud as when they'd arrived and filled with shouts, clattering dice and orders. Farmers and merchants jostled one another in the aisles. A few of his men laughed over wine cups. He stepped off the landing, breathing in the smells of heated wine and steamed vegetables.

Memories drifted across his thoughts. On the eve of war, he desperately wanted to talk and (snip)

A likeable voice, but there were issues for me

Smooth, clean writing is always part of the invitation to move on, but it’s tension that adds the element that turns nice into compelling, and for me there wasn’t much tension here. The fact of coming war isn’t that provocative without how it affects the character, and we have little of that here. I think this story is starting too early. The rest of the chapter introduces things, including an interesting secondary character and some backstory, but nothing much happens besides people talking about doing things. Notes:

Liu Jie had known for months that war brewed beneath the surface of his quiet country. And now it has come. I don’t think the italics are necessary. This will still feel like his thoughts. 

He closed the door of the room he and his family shared. The clamor of voices from the inn's first floor enveloped him in an instant. It was twice as loud as when they'd arrived at the Peach Orchard Inn last night. When he’d read the notice. I was momentarily confused. The first sentence about him closing the door caused me to picture him as inside the room, but he’s on the outside. This could be more clear. For example, a thoughtstarter: He stepped out of the room he and his family shared and closed the door. On the balcony overlooking the first floor, the clamor of voices enveloped him.  

Jie observed with interest as servants took long poles and lowered paper lanterns, a novelty that had not yet come to Jie’s homeland. The servants lit the bright yellow globes and rehung them. While this is setting the scene, the information about paper lanterns and their absence in his homeland has nothing to do with the story. This bit stops the pace with superfluous information, something your first page can’t afford. If it doesn’t apply to story or character in some way, it may not belong.  

The fragile lights swayed as he passed. He stared over the railing at the crowd and grimaced. The room was packed with people vying for the innkeeper’s attention and space to read the Imperial summons. What was his grimace? A grimace is a facial expression that communicates a feeling, but it can be anything, from annoyance to disgust to pleasure. The word alone shows us nothing. 

All I he wanted was a cup of rice wine and a meal. He sighed and went downstairs.

The din from the first floor was twice as loud as when they'd arrived and filled with shouts, clattering dice and orders. Farmers and merchants jostled one another in the aisles. A few of his men laughed over wine cups. He stepped off the landing, breathing in the smells of heated wine and steamed vegetables. The part about the noise has already appeared, and in almost the same words. This lack of editing is a troublesome sign to an agent.  

Memories drifted across his thoughts. On the eve of war, he desperately wanted to talk and (snip) The mention of “memories” signals the arrival of a flashback or backstory, and is a sign of another halt in the story. Mercifully, this one is brief, but it didn’t belong so early in the story, in my view.

The writing is sound, but the editing and attention to story need to be worked on. How does the prospect of this war affect this character? What are the stakes? How does he feel about it? As I said, I have a feeling that this story starts later—maybe the next chapter, maybe even later. All the information about his background, his brother, the soldier he meets can be woven into a narrative where he’s actually doing something that matters rather than having breakfast. Keep at it, lots of potential here.

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.

© 2011 Ray Rhamey

Free FtQ chapter—the trouble with with

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From the Dialogue section of section of my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells. is “Don’t say it with with”

I have a pet peeve when it comes to a certain kind of description in dialogue. It’s this type of statement:

He gazed at the painting. “Marvelous,” he said with satisfaction.

My feeling is that “he said with” construction signals lazy, ineffective dialogue. I went to Self-Editing for Fiction Writers by Renni Browne and Dave King to see what they have to say about it. While they didn’t focus on the use of “with” in this way, it does fall within a craft no-no: explaining dialogue. Their position: don’t do it. Mine, too.

For one thing, it’s telling, not showing. The example above is just that—telling the reader what the character’s emotion is, not showing the emotion.

Saying it with “with” is lazy writing because good dialogue shouldn’t have to be explained. Both the words and the action surrounding it should show emotion and nuance.

What if the example above went something like this instead:

He gazed at the painting, and then smiled. “Marvelous.”

Written that way, I think the reader understands an even more complex array of emotion—pleasure, admiration, satisfaction—via the character’s behavior without an iota of telling. Here are examples of “withage” from samples sent to me and from client manuscripts:

“Dialogue,” she said with a huge grin.

Clumsy. You say things with your mouth, for one thing. Instead:

A grin stretched across her face. “Dialogue.”

Note that you don’t need a “she said” when you use an action beat in this way, although there’s nothing wrong with a “she said” now and then if it helps the rhythm of your narrative.

“Dialogue,” he said with such hope in his voice.

Nope. Show me with behavior that his emotion is one of great hope. What about this one?

“Dialogue,” she said with a grin that couldn’t help but make you smile back.

This is still “said with” and a complicated explanation of dialogue. What if it went this way?

She said, “Dialogue,” and then flashed a grin that couldn’t help but make you smile back.

There’s more than a “said with” troubling the following narrative, including eyes that “dart” around.

“Dialogue,” he said with his eyes darting around looking for hidden spies in the bushes.

Instead, how about:

His gaze darted over the bushes, looking for hidden spies. “Dialogue.”

The following example tries to show me an attitude rather than tell me about it, but it’s still driving in reverse.

“Dialogue,” Farnsworth said with the assurance of a bridge player laying down the ace of trump.

Isn’t his attitude clearer if you just turn it around?

With the assurance of a bridge player laying down the ace of trump, Farnsworth said, “Dialogue.”

Come to think of it, “assurance” is still telling, isn’t it? Wouldn’t the reader get it if the narrative said this?

Like a bridge player laying down the ace of trump, Farnsworth said, “Dialogue.”

Another aspect of “said with” is that it suggests that characters do things that are not really possible.

“Dialogue,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders.

Unless you’re using sign language, the only part of your body that actually says things is your mouth. When characters say things with a shrug or a scowl or a look, it bothers me.

By the way, the example also exhibits over-writing: the phrase “of his shoulders” is not needed. People don’t shrug with any other part of their anatomy, and it suffices to say:

He shrugged. “Dialogue.”

Note that a nine-word bit of narrative dropped to just three words, and became more effective.

Following are more real-life examples of using “said with” to explain dialogue. In the physical book, I provide a blank line for readers to write out how they would show the emotions instead of telling about them with “with.”

I’m providing virtual lines for you to do the same here. It’ll mean more if you actually do the rewriting.

“Dialogue,” Steve said with contempt.

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“Dialogue,” I said with a bit of irritation in my voice.

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“Dialogue,” Ralph said with disgust.

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“Dialogue,” he said with obvious pride.

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“Dialogue,” Peggy said with a little belligerence.

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“Dialogue,” she said with delight.

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"Dialogue,” he said with a dull incurious inflection.

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“Dialogue,” he said with pretended anger.

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“Dialogue,” he said with seriousness befitting the formality.

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Then there are the ones that try to blend action with speaking in ways that don’t really work.

“Dialogue,” she said with a giggle.

Not really. People giggle when they giggle and speak when they speak, but not at the same time. Instead, separate the action for a clearer picture and crisper dialogue.

She giggled. “Dialogue.”

More examples from real manuscripts—in each case, think about how much more effective the dialogue portion would be if the action that characterizes it came first, and write your solution below it.

“Dialogue,” Andrea said with her face screwed up.

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“Dialogue,” Byron said with a sideways look at me.

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“Dialogue,” she said with a wicked grin.

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“Dialogue,” she said with a worried look.

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“Dialogue,” she said with an admiring look.

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“Dialogue,” he said with just the hint of a grin.

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“Dialogue,” Susan said with a sigh.

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“Dialogue,” Pete said with a chuckle in his voice.

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“Dialogue,” she said with a frown.

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“Dialogue,” he said with a fixed stare.

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So, I say with determination, your dialogue will be far more effective if you show emotion rather than explain it, and place your illustrations before the dialogue so that the reader can apply the flavoring at the right time.

My advice? Search for “said with” and “asked with” and see if you can’t do a better job of showing rather than telling.

For what it’s worth

Ray

© 2011 Ray Rhamey

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Flogometer for Deanna—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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Deanna has sent the opening chapter for The Rape Of Faith .

I winced at the sight. Leaves, twigs, and dirt ensnared in snarled hair. Face and head covered in dried blood. Eyes closed, one of them swollen. Scrapes and scratches, cuts and bruises. Panties ripped away at the leg opening, leaving behind ugly, telltale welts. Sweatshirt and training bra pushed up to her chin. Jeans and panty remnants bunched at one calf and ankle, the other leg bare. Dried blood streaked down her thighs. A neatly tied tennis shoe on one foot, the other nowhere to be seen.

I tore off my light jacket and placed it over her. The girl was so petite, it covered her nakedness. She flinched as the material touched her. "Don't be afraid, dear, help is here. What's your name, honey?"

"F- Faith, Faith Compton," she whispered. Her voice was raspy.

"I'm Hope," I said, the irony lost in the urgency.

"Please don't kill us," she said, her voice barely audible.

"Oh, my dear child, we won't harm you. We're here to help. You'll be all right, Faith."

She turned her head toward me and opened the eye that wasn't swollen shut. Tears streaming toward her ears, her terror was palpable. Her tiny body trembled beneath my windbreaker. She curled into a fetal position, making her seem even smaller. A soft moan of pain escaped her cracked, bleeding lips. My emotions in overdrive, my brain was slow to (snip)

I turned the page

 

Gruesome, but captivating. But I think it could have been better. A strong story hook was relegated to the next page, but only by 3 lines. Here are the two I’d like to have seen on the first page:

"Who is 'us,' Faith? Is there someone here with you?" I bent closer, ignoring my pain.

"My baby sister, Farah."

That raises more strong story questions. For me, the opening description was more than I think was necessary, not only for length, but it was so unpleasant to read. I don’t think we need that much to get the idea. There was a little excess here and there that could be trimmed, too.

One thing that’s missing is scene-setting. Where are we? It could be taken care of relatively quickly. For example, what if there were a line such as: My collie found her on the path through the woods that bordered my house. Notes:

I winced at the sight. Leaves, twigs, and dirt ensnared in snarled hair. Face and head covered in dried blood. Eyes closed, one of them swollen. Scrapes and scratches, cuts and bruises. Panties ripped away at the leg opening, leaving behind ugly, telltale welts. Sweatshirt and training bra pushed up to her chin. Jeans and panty remnants bunched at one calf and ankle, the other leg bare. Dried blood streaked down her thighs. A neatly tied tennis shoe on one foot, the other nowhere to be seen. I would avoid the strange echo created in the first sentence by “ensnared” and “snarled.” Was her face and head really “covered” by dried blood? I see that description often, and to me it means 100% covered, and that doesn’t seem likely. I cut the blood on the head line because there’s more blood to come on her legs, and felt the need to trim this.

I tore off my light jacket and placed it over her. The girl was so petite, it covered her nakedness. She flinched as the material touched her. "Don't be afraid, dear, help is here. What's your name, honey?" “light” is a comparative word and doesn’t help this description. Later we learn that it's a windbreaker. I'd use that here, it shows much better.

"F- Faith, Faith Compton," she whispered. Her voice was raspy.

"I'm Hope," I said, the irony lost in the urgency.

"Please don't kill us." she said, her voice barely audible. Don't think the description is needed, we already have her whispering and raspy. Cutting this gives the line more impact without the clutter.

"Oh, my dear child, we won't harm you. We're here to help. You'll be all right, Faith." I was taken a little out of the story by wondering who "we" was because no one else has been mentioned. That's why I mentioned the collie in the suggestion for scene-setting. By the way, Deanna, I don't think you should capitalize "collie" when you use it later in the chapter.

She turned her head toward me and opened the eye that wasn't swollen shut,. T tears streaming toward her ears, her terror was palpable. Her tiny body trembled beneath my windbreaker. She curled into a fetal position, making her seem even smaller. A and a soft moan of pain escaped her cracked, bleeding lips. My emotions in overdrive, my brain was slow to (snip) Here’s where there was more description than needed, and the “toward her ears” veered into overwriting. We don't need to be told that her terror is palpable, we're seeing it. My goal is to get those other two lines on the first page and to quicken the pace a little.

Overall, good writing. It turns out the protagonist is a woman in her seventies, which I found a little intriguing.

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.

© 2011 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer for Art—would you turn the first page?

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First, another good reminder of why we do this from agent Jon Sternfeld at the Irene Goodman Literary Agency in his interview on Guide to Literary Agents.

“Work like mad on that first paragraph of your manuscript. Sadly, 98% of queries don’t get read past that. I’m not a fan of dialogue as the opener (though my more commercial fiction colleagues say this isn’t such a no-no). Nevertheless, I tend to delete manuscripts that open with a line of dialogue (esp. one with an exclamation point) and those whose opening line “dumps” exposition. Both of these let me know that you don’t quite have the hang of en media res or of disguising exposition.”

---

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.

---

Art has sent the opening chapter for Something Sinister Goes There/.

OK, so I shouldn’t be here. I’m not the only one, but I’m the one most liable to die because of it.

It had started a couple of days ago. I was enjoying a solitary beer at a favorite watering hole on the Seattle waterfront—well, I wasn’t downtown, but close enough. It was late enough in the afternoon that the shadow of the Cross-Sound Bridge was starting to cross the marina.

“Here you go, Chief,” said the waitress as she handed me the first beer of the afternoon. That’s because I’m a retired Navy Chief Warrant Officer, thirty plus years of service but now a government consultant. I lived near the bar aboard my trawler, the Lost Art at the marina.

I had just put the schooner to my lips when I saw it—the black boat. Now, I’m somewhat of a connoisseur of recreational marine art, and I’ve seen just about everything afloat. I mean either from my moorage or out on the water.

The strange boat -- it must’ve been a forty, forty-two footer—that’s twelve to thirteen meters to you metric types -- eased up to the fuel dock. Damn thing was flat black—like the insertion boats we’d used when I was a Seal. Rather than take the time to wait for the check, I finished my beer, laid a ten on the table—they know me here—and meandered down to the water.

It was very streamlined, put me in mind of that old ferryboat that lurks around Puget (snip)

Nice hook, but then . . .

I thought the opening line was good, raised story questions, started pushing the tension button. . .and then we had “It had started. . .” Argh! Here comes backstory and exposition. I want to know why he’s in danger of dying, not what started anything a couple of days ago. Later in this set-up chapter some interesting details surfaced—the men on the boat paid for their fuel with currency that include $25 and $3 denominations.

But nothing continued the story promised by that first line. I suggest, Art, that you go from that first line to whatever happens right then and weave in what you need to as you tell that story. In this scene, and in this chapter, there are no stakes or consequences for this character. I think the comment from the agent cited above applies here. Start this one en media res. Notes on the writing:

OK, so I shouldn’t be here. I’m not the only one, but I’m the one most liable to die because of it. I suggest “likely” rather than “liable.”

It had started a couple of days ago. I was enjoying a solitary beer at a favorite watering hole on the Seattle waterfront—well, I wasn’t downtown, but close enough. It was late enough in the afternoon that the shadow of the Cross-Sound Bridge was starting to cross the marina. The part cut seems like overwriting—the scene is already set on the waterfront, and we don’t need to know that he was almost downtown. Watch out for unintended echoes such as “Cross” and “cross.”

“Here you go, Chief,” said the waitress as she handed me the my first beer of the afternoon. That’s because I’m a retired Navy Chief Warrant Officer, thirty plus years of service but now a government consultant. I lived near the bar aboard my trawler, The Lost Art at the marina. For me, this bit of info dump in the last two paragraphs was the author intruding with a very flat piece of data. Where’s the story!?

I had just put the schooner to my lips when I saw it—the black boat. Now, I’m somewhat of a connoisseur of recreational marine art, and I’ve seen just about everything afloat. I mean either from my moorage or out on the water. The “I’ve seen” part seems to set up a statement that he’s never seen anything like this, but it never comes.

The strange boat -- it must’ve been a forty, forty-two footer—that’s twelve to thirteen meters to you metric types -- eased up to the fuel dock. Damn thing was flat black—like the insertion boats we’d used when I was a Seal. Rather than take the time to wait for the check, I finished my beer, laid a ten on the table—they know me here—I paid for my beer and meandered down to the water. ”Strange” is a conclusion word, and we have no information here as to what makes it “strange.” Show us strangeness, telling us does no good. Please, don't slow the narrative with a little side note on the metric system. Nice way to include his Seal past, though, and well woven into the description in an experiential way. I felt, obviously, that we needed to get him moving, thus the simplification of the last part of the paragraph.

It was very streamlined, put me in mind of that old ferryboat that lurks around Puget (snip) ”Very streamlined” is more “telling.” Illustrate it with images. Also, while I know about that old ferryboat in Seattle because I lived there, I don’t think that detail will work for the rest of the country.

Knowing what comes later in the chapter, I suspect that Art has an interesting story to tell. I just wish his first chapter had started with that story.

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.

© 2011 Ray Rhamey

Free FtQ chapter—dialogue beats

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From the Dialogue section of section of my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells. “Cooking up some tasty beats”

Naked dialogue, just the speeches all by themselves, does only part of the job of delivering the experience of a scene. In life, and in fiction, dialogue doesn’t happen in a vacuum—it happens in the midst of movement, body language, pauses for thought, and more. To bring dialogue to life, create “beats”— action interwoven with dialogue (including thought as action)—to invisibly accomplish a number of vital storytelling tasks, including:

• Advancing the story
• Increasing tension
• Illuminating character
• Identifying speakers without having to use dialogue tags
• Adding meaning to speeches that wouldn’t otherwise be there
• Breaking up long strings of quotations to avoid a staccato effect and to create a pleasing rhythm
• Creating pictures in the reader’s mind of what’s going on (Construe “picture” to include time [pace], scents, sensations, and sounds as well as action and physical description.)

Here’s an example of a beat that does one of those things…and yet is a waste of words. The scene is from a published novelist’s first draft of a new story: a man and a woman sit at a table in a café, talking about a woman (his wife/her friend) who has been missing for over a week. In the course of the conversation in the woman’s point of view, this happens:

A man from the next table asked to borrow the extra chair to my right. As I nodded, Robert said, “I have not told you everything.”

“What?”

“Her car was found abandoned in Stewart State Park.”

“Oh my God! When? How long after…”

The solo beat at the beginning did inject action into the scene…but it had nothing to do with story—it was “activity,” not storytelling action. It didn’t bear on the subject of the conversation, nor the people talking. It had no impact on the scene.

The dialogue that follows it suffers due to a lack of beats. How about a little body language when Robert confesses he hasn’t told his listener everything? Or a reaction when the narrator learns fraught information?

Robert shifted his gaze away from me. “I have not told you everything.”

How like the man to withhold information. “What?”

“Her car was found abandoned in Stewart State Park.”

“Oh my God!” Fear for my missing friend jolted through me. “When? How long after…”

Here’s what each of those beats accomplished:

• The first told you who was speaking and gave character and nuance to his speech.
• The second is internal monologue that adds characterization for both people.
• The last one injects emotion and more characterization.

Let’s beat up some more dialogue. Here’s part of a scene stripped naked, all of the beats removed. In this scene, KB, a law enforcement officer, reports to her superior, and she expects him to praise her for what she’d done the day before.

Captain Berman’s door was open, as usual. KB tapped on the doorframe and went in.

“Take a seat, Lieutenant. So, you think you found a subject of interest.”

“Yessir!”

“Did you see it with the thermal imaging device?”

“I did, sir.”

“Did you record it?”

“Ah, no, sir.”

“I see. You say it changed appearance on three occasions?”

“From a youngish woman to an older woman, then to a hick, then to a girl. Yessir.”

“Did any of your team see these apparitions?”

“Schultz saw it come in. Sanchez saw it on the stairs, and Bailey saw it come out.”

“After receiving your email, I asked your team for their input. Schultz didn’t see a face.”

“No, ah, he didn’t get a good look. But he saw the glow in the camera.”

“I see. No one else saw the older woman?”

“Not before she, uh, changed into a farmer.”

You learn things, but there’s no tension, no depth, you can’t see a damn thing, and there’s no rhythm—it’s like a radio machine-gunning words at you. Now here’s the full narrative—note one other thing while you’re at it: there’s not a single use of “said” or “asked” or any other dialogue tag in this narrative.

Captain Berman’s door was open, as usual. His white-haired head was bent over a stack of paperwork, as usual. Adrenaline pumped her up, and she tapped on the doorframe and went in. The office was hot, as usual; the radiator must have been cranked all the way open.

He looked up and nodded. No smile. “Take a seat, Lieutenant.”

The old fart was old-fashioned and formal, so maybe he was not gonna come right out with her attaboy. Sitting, she told herself to be patient, something that never came easily.

He signed a piece of paper, placed it in an out box, leaned back, laced his fingers over his belly, and gazed at her. “So, you think you found a subject of interest.”

She smiled. “Yessir!”

“Did you see it with the thermal imaging device?”

Inside, she smirked at his fussy way of talking. “I did, sir.”

“Did you record it?”

Oh, shit. She’d been too excited. “Ah, no, sir.”

“I see.” He leaned forward and studied a printout of her email. “You say it changed appearance on three occasions?”

“From a youngish woman to an older woman, then to a hick, then to a girl. Yessir.”

“Did any of your team see these apparitions?”

Couldn’t the old idiot read? “Schultz saw it come in. Sanchez saw it on the stairs, and Bailey saw it come out.”

“After receiving your email, I asked your team for their input.” He picked up a printout. “Schultz didn’t see a face.”

“No, ah, he didn’t get a good look.” Why did she feel like she was on trial? “But he saw the glow in the camera.”

“I see.” He read more. “No one else saw the older woman?”

“Not before she, uh, changed into a farmer.”

The beats give pace to the conversation and much, much more. Through the beats you experienced:

• His chilly greeting when she expects warmth, and then his dawdling even though she is anxious (finishing with papers, leaning back, lacing his fingers)
• Her smugness (the old fart was old-fashioned)
• Her eagerness (she smiled)
• Her low opinion of him (smirked at his fussy way of speaking to her)
• Her realization of a mistake she’s made (too excited to record the suspect)
• His calm, steady approach (leaned forward and studied a printout)
• More of her disrespect (couldn’t the old idiot read?)
• His steady pursuit (he picked up a printout and read it)
• Her increasing anxiety (was she on trial here?)

You get a sense of escalating tension in KB. The scene continues to build from here, and ends with her feeling defeated, angry, and near tears when she’d begun the scene expecting praise. And it is the beats that take you there.

Not every line gets a beat—that’ll wear a reader out. Every beat is tied to characterization and/or giving a picture of what is going on. The beats utilize physical action and internal monologue (Couldn’t the old idiot read?) to add depth and context to the spoken words.

The beats help pace the exchange, creating pauses (signed a piece of paper, placed it in an out box, leaned back, laced…) and emphasis (reading from something, etc.). Although there are no dialogue tags, you always know who’s speaking and how they deliver their speeches.

The other cool thing about using beats is that it avoids the third most common dialogue flaw, explaining the dialogue with “with.

For what it’s worth

Ray

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© 2011 Ray Rhamey