I missed posting the flogging below yesterday because I was wrapped up in wrapping up two new book designs for clients. I hope you’ll take a look—they’re the two on the left on this page. More than that, there are 3 pages in the Featured Design section that shows what went into the design of one of them. Stop by.
Call for FtQ submissions The hopper is being deleted. If any reader would like a critique of their opening prologue or chapter, see the submission directions at the end of this post. Thanks.
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
Emiliy has sent the opening to her WIP, her first novel.
I should have been embarrassed, ashamed to the point of hot, stinging tears or at the very least, indignant. I’m a grown woman; if I want Vodka-Tonic number four, I’ll fucking have Vodka Tonic number four. I wanted desperately to hang on to indignant but I was tired. And, it seemed, I was out of anger. I’d burned through it in the hotel room in Edinburgh, in Isaac’s taxi and on this plane full of strangers over the Atlantic.
Amber handed me back my $7.50 and patted my shoulder.
“The captain says I can’t give you any more, sweetie.” She offered me another pillow and some coffee. I declined, nodded my thanks and closed my eyes again as she pushed the beverage cart onward. Oh great, it appeared I’d developed a new resistance to humiliation as well. I felt nothing.
I started drinking before I even got on the plane and my resulting behavior had been ridiculous. In the forty-five minutes I’d waited for the flight attendant to tell me I was cut off, I dozed and sobered up enough to check myself.
That was probably her plan all along. I’d been manipulated into submission with extra bags of pretzels and sleep. Fucking flight attendant! I took a deep breath and let it out. “Sorry, sorry, that wasn’t nice,” I said.
Yep, that’s me in a nut-shell; I apologize out loud to the universe for my private, bitchy (snip)
Very, very close
This is one of those coin-toss openings that I suspect a lot of folks will go for, primarily because of the voice and the writing. This is fun to read, and right away I want to hear more from this woman.
But . . . in looking for tension either in me or in the story, I found little. She is drunk on an airplane, but I don’t know why or what the story is. So it was a close call for me.
Later in the chapter I found what would have guaranteed my page-turn. Instead of notes, I’ll offer you that and a new poll. I’ve made tiny changes to make it serve as an opener.
The woman across the aisle gave me the fish-eye. “Oh great, she’s awake,” she said.
Fair enough. I had probably earned her disdain; a stranger’s sad-sack, angry sob-story is no gift--even if it is told by “this generation’s next great story-teller,” as I had referred to myself repeatedly during Vodka-Tonic number three.
“Pathetic.” I put my tray-table back and righted my seat. My scalp tingled and cold sweat beaded on my forehead. My stomach churned as I remembered how I had stood there, like an idiot, in his hotel room. I ended up telling him the whole truth, which, as it turned out, only some of it he already knew. He hurled accusations which I let lay at my feet, unchallenged because they were all true. I reached into my chest, ripped out my heart and offered it to him. I asked him to love me anyway.
He looked past me and he stared at the floor for a long moment. Then he took his key card off the bed, turned and walked out the door without another word or even a look back.
I barely heard the captain’s end-of-flight spiel over the roar in my ears. I tried to breathe evenly as my throat squeezed shut and my chest tightened. Hot, tears flowed now down my crumpled face, stinging my cheeks and garnering more long looks from my airplane pals.
“What are you looking at, Fish Eye?” I said. Oh, good. I did have a little anger left.
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