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
Ian’s opening chapter starts thusly:
I can see the fox quite clearly, his nostrils quivering slightly as he picks up the scent of something just ahead of him. He lifts his head higher, refining his search. Otherwise there’s no movement in the heat blasted air, just the sand shifting beneath the pads of his feet.
The sky is white, the burning circle of the sun chewing up the clouds. The fox moves up the dune with a slow, certain gait, his tawny coat perfectly camouflaged against the backdrop of the mountains.
I swoop down. The fox and I are now one. His eyes are my eyes, his legs are my legs, our hearts beat to the same regular rhythm. Together we move across the crest of the dune, our feet kicking up the sand. There’s some sort of building below, probably a deserted farm-house, one of several that lie like the bones of dead animals, gradually rotting back into the earth. We pause for a moment, watching the scene through narrow eyes. The smell is stronger now. Pungent. We haven’t eaten in days. Our stomachs are growling on empty. We move down, following the scent.
The building is just beyond the small hill to our left. The house, with the sand lapping around its sagging timbers, exerts a strange, compelling power. Hunger overcomes fear. We push open the battered front door and shuffle down the dark corridor, the feeling of dread growing within us.
I turned the page
It’s mysterious, I’m interested in how or what whoever the narrator is manages to be in the mind of a coyote. And I wanted to know what happened next. Nice writing, clear voice. But, as usual, there are things to point out, mostly in the realm of adverbs.
I can see the fox quite clearly, his nostrils quivering slightly as he picks up the a scent of something just ahead of him. He lifts his head higher, refining his search. Otherwise there’s no movement in the heat-blasted air, just the sand shifting beneath the pads of his feet. Quivering is, by nature, a “slight,” small movement, so the adverb is redundant. To the reader, “the scent of something” is the equivalent of the scent of nothing since nothing is explained, so this adds unnecessary words and slows pace. I’m not sure about “heat-blasted air,” but am willing to live with it. If he lifts his head, it will be higher, right?
The sky is white, the burning circle of the sun chewing up the clouds. The fox moves up the dune with a slow, certain gait, his tawny coat perfectly camouflaged against the backdrop of the mountains. Are the mountains tawny? Most mountains, if in the distance, look sorta blue. Mountains also bring to mind images of slopes covered with green forests. Is this in the desert? There’s a lack of clarity in this description for this reader.
I swoop down. The fox and I are now one. His eyes are my eyes, his legs are my legs, our hearts beat to the same regular rhythm. Together we move across the crest of the dune, our feet kicking up the sand. There’s some sort of building below, probably a deserted farm-house, one of several that lie like the bones of dead animals, gradually rotting back into the earth. We pause for a moment, watching the scene through narrow eyes. The smell is stronger now. Pungent. We haven’t eaten in days. Our stomachs are growling on empty. We move down, following the scent. Rotting, by nature, is gradual, so the averb is useless here. About this smell or scent: we later learn that it is fresh blood. A hunter like a coyote would, I think, recognize what that smell is right away. Withholding the nature of the scent isn’t consistent with the coyote. Also, I think it would increase the suspense and tension of the reader knew that the smell was of fresh blood.
The building is just beyond the small hill to our left. The house, with the sand lapping around its sagging timbers, exerts a strange, compelling power. Hunger overcomes fear. We push open the battered front door and shuffle down the dark corridor, the feeling of dread growing within us. I think the description of the location of the house, hill, etc. is just not needed and is a touch of overwriting. "Strange" is one of those "telling," conclusion words that doesn't actually mean much in the way of description.
Nice stuff, Ian. The chapter ended suspensefully and left me wanting more.
Comments, please?
For what it’s worth.
Ray
Submitting to the Flogometer:
Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred):
- your title
- your 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
- Please format with double spacing, 12-point font Times New Roman font, 1-inch margins.
- Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
- And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
- If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
- If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.
© 2011 Ray Rhamey