Submissions needed—no more in the queue. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.
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--new: I've added a request to post the rest of the chapter.
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
Anna sends the prologue and first chapter for Choices. The rest of the narrative follows the break. Help the writer with your comments.
Prologue
“Tuck your skirt up.” Young Douglas Harper twirled his cricket bat in frustration. “Then you can run better.”
In mock horror, Lucy responded, “Certainly not!”
Laughing, Master Douglas, known to her as Dougie, called out, “Bowl the way I showed you.”
Lucy turned and took six paces further back. Then, as her dress only allowed short steps, she pattered towards Dougie standing ready in front of the stumps and hurled the leather ball with all her might. Thwack! The sound of leather on the willow bat heralded another ball sent for six into the bushes by the lake. The two young friends scampered after it.
“I’ll wager I can climb the oak faster than you,” said Dougie picking up the cricket ball.
“It’s a wonder I can climb at all in this dress.”
“Give me your hand, and I’ll help you up.”
They settled onto their favourite, springy branch. “Hush,” whispered Lucy, “Look.”
Into their view came Sir William Harper, sauntering around his estate on the fine summer’s day. He was being followed by his housekeeper as if she were a dog on a lead. Exasperated, he turned on her. “Mrs Yorton, this is not the time or place to have this…” he hesitated, “this discussion on Lucy’s future.”
Chapter 1
Thwack! It was not the sound of leather on willow. It was the forcible impact of Annie Yorton’s hand with Lucy’s head.
“You misbegotten slut!” hissed Annie. “Why I have to be burdened with a useless daughter I’ll never know.” Annie followed this with an exaggerated sigh. “Bring in some wood and make up the fire. Then get out.” With her feelings made obvious, she left the room and stomped upstairs.
The next time she does that, I’ll hit her back. Lucy had thought this before but she wasn’t one for screaming, shouting, spitting and hitting. As soon as she could afford a decent dress, she’d go into Merrygate and search for a job, perhaps in one of the new hotels, somewhere she could live in.
Having stacked the wood in the hearth, Lucy grabbed her shabby shawl and headed towards the sea. It was a cold, clear Christmas Day, and she curled up in her favourite place.
It had been a wonderful world – her world – lost now, maybe forever. But no one could take away her memories. Hidden from view, high on a ledge of scrubby bushes jutting from the cliffs, she could hold these memories in her mind, in her heart, where no one knew they existed. They warmed her when nothing else could. Whenever possible she would go back in time to watch the characters as if they were in a play. Ignoring the man searching for mussels (snip)
There are things to like about this narrative, especially the windows into British life for an American—the cricket details were engaging—but, for me, neither the prologue or first chapter openings compelled a page turn, though I gave an “almost” to the prologue with a pretty good story question about Lucy’s future. The point of view is a bit distant and on the omniscient side—for example, the housekeeper is Annie’s mother. In a close third-person POV she would be identified as such, not as a housekeeper.
In the chapter opening, there is conflict, but it is an old and continuing one. I think the story needs to start later, when something happens to radically alter Lucy’s life. I felt that there was a good story waiting and would like to know what it's about.
Your thoughts?
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 include in your email permission to post it on FtQ. Note: I’m adding a copyright notice for the writer at the end of the post. I’ll use just the first name unless I’m told I can use the full name.
- Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
- And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft 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 for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.
Flogging the Quill © 2014 Ray Rhamey, story © 2014 Anna
The remainders of the narrative are after the fold.
Prologue continued:
Undaunted, Annie Yorton drew closer. “Airs and graces. What good are they to her? You allow her to wander around the house as if…”
“And why does that trouble you?” Sir William moved closer to the lake and watched a mother duck lead her solitary duckling further away before continuing. “I find you ungrateful, Mrs Yorton. When you announced you were with child, I permitted you to marry my butler who has been devoted to you both. It is most unusual, as you know, for household servants to be allowed to marry, yet in your case…”
Annie Yorton closed in on him. “Oh yes, I know I run this household in tip-top fashion. I know why I’m here.” Her eyes narrowed. “Since your wife died in childbirth,” this oft-repeated phrase always elicited a reaction, “there’s never been a need for you,” her voice gathered pace, “or anyone else for that matter, to have cause for concern about the standards in Faefersham Court.” At this point she made the mistake of pausing for breath.
“I gave you good rooms at the top of the West Wing to call your own. I’ve ensured Lucy has a chance in life not usually given to one of her station. She has been educated alongside my son. What more can you possibly want?”
“Master Douglas is, without a lie, a fine young man, and it is improper for Lucy to be encouraged by you…” Annie Yorton searched for words then, raising her voice, declared, “to think of herself as his equal.”
Striding away towards the bushes alongside the lake, Sir William growled, “Don’t insult my judgment, Mrs Yorton! Lucy has provided Master Douglas with companionship and someone to compete against in his education. Besides, Lucy is just eleven years old…”
Annie’s voice became shrill as she tried to keep up with Sir William. “You should have sent him away to school, not have a governess for them both, then she could have taken her rightful place alongside me in the servants quarters.”
“I will hear no more of this. You have a privileged life yet you resent… Bah! You’ve said far too much, away with you.”
“You forget,” Annie knew how to milk a situation, “You forget I know allthat goes on here.” She broke away and swept across the lawn towards the side of the manor house. Sir William’s eyes squinted as he watched her go.
In the high branches of the oak tree, Lucy and Douglas exchanged troubled looks. Lucy’s expression changed to frightened as she reflected on the likely outcome of the overheard exchange. She was the ill-timed daughter of servants. Douglas was the heir to a large estate. “I think we are to be separated, Dougie.”
Chapter 1 continued:
. . . at the foot of the cliffs, she drew her knees to her chin, tucked her toes under her outgrown dress, and snuggled into her thin woollen shawl, and remembered.
The stimulating lessons with Dougie’s governess, the freedom of the gardens and, most of all, that last Summer Ball, these were memories that would live on regardless of what else happened. She recalled her loving father, in stentorian tones, announcing guests resplendent in satins and silks. Then her father, bidden by Sir William, betrayed her presence in the gallery. “Sir William Harper welcomes his son, Master Douglas Harper and his young companion, Miss Lucy Yorton, both hiding behind the long-case clock.” He had held his right hand high and, taking her cue from Dougie, she came out to the top of the long winding staircase. With all the grace she could muster, she overcame her embarrassment and laid her hand on the gold and white balustrade garlanded with greenery and marigolds. Her eyes, her mind, her heart took in the glorious sight below. She curtseyed as Dougie bowed low. How grand her father looked in the Harper livery. And it was so kind of Sir William to invite them to spend a few moments with the delighted guests. She had willed the whispering silks to haunt her: one day she would dress like that.
That day had not come. The next morning, pulled from her roots like a weed, her mother had dragged her to the crossroads and they had taken the coach to Wintergate with nothing but a bundle of belongings between them.
The spell was broken and she shivered. She must tuck away her memories of her father, Dougie, and all she’d held dear. The tiny workman’s cottage at the end of a run-down terrace was home now. Whatever made her mother leave such a comfortable position? It was true she’d made the cottage cosy. True too that her mother no longer had to work, not since Lucy had found work seven long years ago.
A metallic scraping noise jarred Lucy’s thoughts back to the bleak scene before her. What was that mussel man doing? Lying flat, she edged herself to where she could peek over to the rocks below. He had dug far too deep; mussels didn’t hide way down in the sand. He was also in the one place which was hidden from the sight of the revenue officers at Watch House. He wasn’t alone either. A rough-looking seaman was filling in the hole now as deep as a grave. She watched as, without a word, they covered the sand with huge chalk rocks and, with a flourish, flung seaweed on the top. They had buried something. Or, God forbid, someone?
“Give us yer hand, Tynton, and swear an oath on your son’s life.”
Sydney Tynton spat on his hand, held it out, and muttered something inaudible to Lucy. She did, however, catch his last few words. “You now owe me.”
“You just let me know and we’ll be there, guns ablazing.”
Lucy withdrew as quietly as she could. She wished she’d never heard. Sydney Tynton was the disagreeable master of the farm where she worked.
The pale, winter sun was setting sending a shimmer of sparkles, like scattered diamonds, over the surface of the sea. She must hurry home, making sure the volatile farmer Tynton would never know what she had seen.
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