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
Deanna has sent a rewrite of a chapter that was flogged in February (here). Her crit group wanted her to put back in description that she had cut. See what you think. The first chapter of Revenge, Served Cold .
Oh, how I didn’t want to do it. It meant enduring increasing, incredible pain. And now my physical therapy walk had lasted the minimum required minutes. My goal was to go home, rest, and ease the pain. But the two dogs didn’t usually act this way; something was wrong. So I grit my teeth and followed my furry friends deeper into the forest. The cool autumn air antagonized my aching body.
Until it happened to me, I’d never heard of spondylosis or spondylolisthesis. There were further complications. My world collapsed; all that remained was red-hot pain. It took ten months of conservative treatment before my first of two surgeries, five months apart. And now, finally, it was physical therapy time, which included daily walks.
We’d walked along the southern edge of our property, which abuts the national forest. At the edge, on a well-trodden path, there was much to appreciate. The crisp air, which smelled of pine and rich earth, sort of like potting soil, was devoid of the usual cacophony of civilization. It was a beautiful, sunny autumn morning, neither too cold nor too hot for a walk. Sounds of forest life abounded, a carefree, nearby stream gurgled and splashed, the busy sounds of small animals scampered in the underbrush, the staccato chatter of squirrels, the occasional call of a bird, and the soft whisper of the breezes in the trees. Tall pines, with a small smattering of oak and maple, towered above and filtered the sunlight. Steeped in shadow, I hobbled down a carpet of dried (snip)
Nope
For me, there’s little tension here. Even though trouble is hinted at early on, nothing develops. I’ll give a couple of brief notes on a couple of storytelling issues (the writing is strong and clean), then I’ll show you the rewritten version of that earlier opening that now happens on page 3 of the current manuscript, along with a poll on its effectiveness.
Oh, how I didn’t want to do it. It meant enduring increasing, incredible pain. And now my physical therapy walk had lasted the minimum required minutes. My goal was to go home, rest, and ease the pain. But the two dogs didn’t usually act this way; something was wrong. So I gritted my teeth and followed my furry friends deeper into the forest. The cool autumn air antagonized my aching body. Since we are not shown how the dogs are behaving, the “didn’t usually act this way” part is essentially meaningless to the reader.
Until it happened to me, I’d never heard of spondylosis or spondylolisthesis. There were further complications. My world collapsed; all that remained was red-hot pain. It took ten months of conservative treatment before my first of two surgeries, five months apart. And now, finally, it was physical therapy time, which included daily walks. For me, several problems with this paragraph. First, we’re going into backstory when we need to be baiting the hook. Secondly, I don’t know what spondylosis is, and neither will most readers, I think. If the name of the disease had to be mentioned, it could be done in context. For example: Until it happened to me, I’d never heard of the weakness and pain of spondylosis, the attack of arthritis on my spine. Just using the name will be, I fear, another morsel of meaninglessness for most readers.
We’d walked along the southern edge of our property, which abuts the national forest. At the edge, on a well-trodden path, there was much to appreciate. The crisp air, which smelled of pine and rich earth, sort of like potting soil, was devoid of the usual cacophony of civilization. It was a beautiful, sunny autumn morning, neither too cold nor too hot for a walk. Sounds of forest life abounded, a carefree, nearby stream gurgled and splashed, the busy sounds of small animals scampered in the underbrush, the staccato chatter of squirrels, the occasional call of a bird, and the soft whisper of the breezes in the trees. Tall pines, with a small smattering of oak and maple, towered above and filtered the sunlight. Steeped in shadow, I hobbled down a carpet of dried (snip)
Okay, now here’s the part based on the original opening submitted last February. I’ve just lifted it whole from where it was 3 pages into the manuscript. Assuming the small craft issues could be fixed, see what you think and then give a vote.
Reaching the pile of leaves the dogs seemed so intent upon, I poked at the stack a few times and heard a whimper. Leaning on my cane, I knelt and tossed aside handfuls of decayed leaves until I touched skin, a face, filthy with dirt and dried blood. My movements slowed, moving aside fewer leaves at a time with care. My heart raced. I unearthed the bruised and broken girl. Pulling off my windbreaker as fast as I could, I covered her. Her nude body was so tiny, the fabric swallowed her in it. She cringed as the jacket covered her nakedness. In a single glance I knew what happened. But my seventy-plus years hadn’t prepared me for the horrible sight of the aftermath. The girl lay in what, if not for the dogs, would be her grave.
She rasped, “Please don’t kill us.” Her body trembled.
My emotions were in overdrive; I struggled to sound calm as I reminded myself the dogs would’ve alerted me to anyone nearby. “I won’t hurt you. Don’t be afraid, honey, I’m here to help. What’s your name?”
“F- Faith, Faith Compton.”
“You’ll be all right, Faith. I’m Hope, Hope Guthrie,” I said, the irony lost in the urgency. Then her words struck me. “Who is ‘us,’ Faith? Was there someone here with you?” I bent closer, ignored my pain.
“My baby sister, Farah. Where’s Farah? Did she get away?” She opened the eye that wasn’t (snip)
Me, I’d turn the page with this opening.
Comments, please?
For what it’s worth.
Ray
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