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.
A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.
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.
- Story questions
- Tension (in the reader, not just the characters)
- Voice
- Clarity
- Scene-setting
- Character
Glenda has sent a rewrite of her first chapter of Sullivan: On the Redus Trail.
Sallie woke, cheeks wet with tears. "John?" She reached across the bed to the cool, empty place where her husband should have been. No one was there. A sob caught in her throat. John, where are you? She stroked the rough sheet. It's been so long. John, darling John, I miss you so. She snuggled deeper beneath the covers. She ached to return to her dreams: dreams of the days before the death of their son, William; dreams of days spent together in laughter and love before the War and the Comanches forced her and her daughter to move into this two room cabin with the others.
A sense of dread kept her awake. Something's wrong. I feel it. Her eyes darted to the crib of roughhewn cedar next to the kitchen table. Memories of finding her son still and blue in that same crib assaulted her. Sallie's breath caught. She slipped from her bed and raced barefoot to the crib and looked down. She exhaled with relief. Her daughter, Mary Jennette, slept peacefully. Hands shaking, she gently wrapped the patchwork quilt tighter around the child, tucking the edges beneath the toddler's chubby legs to guard against the cold.
Sallie wrapped a shawl around the shoulders of her flannel nightgown to ward off the chill. She yawned and looked out the window next to the front door of the cabin hoping in vain to see John riding up the path. A rosy glow hinted at a glorious sunrise to come but no John. Damn this war. A shiver ran down her spine.
Nope
The writing is good, and the scene is well set. But, on the tension side, about all we get is her sense of dread. But there’s nothing to base it on that could create interest in this reader. There is that material, of course, on the very next page. Here’s a paragraph I would like to see at the bottom of the first page:
Outside, no night insects clicked or whirred. No frogs croaked or sang. The yipping coyotes who had kept her awake earlier in the night weren't even howling. It was too quiet. Fear filled her. She glanced at the door. A hissing, crackling noise reached her ears as the first hint of wood smoke tickled her nose. She looked at the cast iron stove sitting in the corner. Yes, it was lit but the coals were smoldering - not flaming, not smoking - nothing out of control.
To get that on the first page requires some editing. There’s a bit of overwriting here and there that can be cut, for starters. So here are craft notes and a look at cutting 5 lines of narrative:
Sallie woke, cheeks wet with tears. "John?" She reached across the bed to the cool, empty place where her husband should have been. No one was there. A sob caught in her throat. John, where are you? She stroked the rough sheet. It's been so long. John, darling John, I miss you so. She snuggled deeper beneath the covers. She ached to return to her dreams: dreams of the days before the death of their son, William; dreams of days spent together in laughter and love before the War and the Comanches had forced her and her daughter Mary Jennette to move into this two-room cabin with the others. No need to say “No one was there” because we already know the space is empty. To keep this in close third person, the natural thought about her child here would use the name, not “her daughter,” which is the author intruding. Same goes for the dead son—she would ordinarily think of his name, not “her son.” That information can comes in the next paragraph. There was a lot of repetition in the parts about dreams that I felt could be simplified for pace and flow.
A sense of dread kept her awake. Something's wrong. I feel it. Her eyes darted to the crib of roughhewn cedar next to the kitchen table. Memories of finding her son William still and blue in that same crib assaulted her. Sallie's breath caught. She slipped from her bed and raced barefoot to the crib and looked down. She exhaled with relief. Her daughter, Mary Jennette, slept peacefully. Hands shaking, she gently wrapped the patchwork quilt tighter around her the child, tucking the edges beneath the toddler's her baby’s chubby legs to guard against the cold. The first sentence is “telling.” I think it’s more effective to just go to her internal monologue. If you want to be in close third person, try to keep it as natural as possible, reflecting the way people normally operate. In this case, a mom wouldn’t think of “the toddler,” she would think of “my baby.” Same goes for the interjection of the child’s name. The “looked down” and the exhale are overwriting—detail that doesn’t really contribute to story or character. Or, perhaps, the exhale/sigh could be effective if it comes after she sees that the baby is okay, not before. The response shouldn’t come before the stimulus.
Sallie wrapped a shawl around the her shoulders of her flannel nightgown to ward off the chill. She yawned and looked out the window next to the front door of the cabin hoping in vain to see John riding up the path. A rosy glow hinted at a glorious sunrise to come but no John. Damn this war. A shiver ran down her spine. The mention of the flannel nightgown is the author intruding again to hand out information. I think this entire paragraph should be cut and the other one put in its place.
Outside, no night insects clicked or whirred. No frogs croaked or sang. The yipping coyotes who had kept her awake earlier in the night weren't even howling. It was too quiet. Fear filled her. She glanced at the door. A hissing, crackling noise reached her ears as the first hint of wood smoke tickled her nose. She looked at the cast iron stove sitting in the corner. Yes, it was lit but the coals were smoldering - not flaming, not smoking - nothing out of control.
What do you think? Cut that stuff and get the paragraph on the first page?
Comments, please?
For what it’s worth.
Ray
Submitting to the Flogometer:
Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):
- your title
- your complete 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.
© 2012 Ray Rhamey