Submissions wanted. 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
Whitney sends the first chapter of The Seventh Debt. The rest of the chapter continues below the fold.
He walked among the market stalls, pretending to ignore the whispering and giggling women. His relaxed demeanor, handsome features, and ready smile meant no female in the town missed his weekly homilies. His plead to the parish regarding the fundraising goal for the Catholic Appeal was received so well, that neither of the priests could believe that the goal was met within the first eight days of the campaign.
Feeling a touch on his sleeve, he turned and his smile disappeared. Looking first left then right, he angrily spat, "I told you to leave me alone!"
She blinked, her long lashes brushing her cheeks, and firmly said, "But, I need to talk to you." Leaning closer, she paused, and lowered her voice, almost scowling at him. "You see, I’m not leaving here without you. You’ve been compromised. It’s time to go. Now.”
“What?” he hissed. “How is that possible? I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. How could I be compromised? Wasn't THIS was the safe option?”
“It seems you’ve created quite a fan base here,” the U.S. Marshall chided. “One of your admirers posted pictures of you on the St. Stephen's Facebook page and Twitter account, tweeting bits of your homilies and inspirational talks. Those pictures and tweets have gone viral. You are no longer safe here. It’s time to pack. We are leaving within the hour.”
While a pretty good story question is raised on this first page, there were too many rough edges for me to want to read more—I’ll give this an almost on the strength of the story question. This feels like first-draft material at the stage where you’re just getting the story on the page. It will need considerable polishing to be publishable, but that’s possible. One caution, Whitney—avoid the long diversion into backstory that follows in the chapter. Notes:
He walked among the market stalls, pretending to ignore the whispering and giggling women. His relaxed demeanor, handsome features, and ready smile meant no female in the town missed his weekly homilies. His plead plea to the parish regarding the fundraising goal for the Catholic Appeal was had been received so well, that neither of the priests could believe that they’d met the goal was met within the first eight days of the campaign. A point-of-view glitch here—we’re in close third person POV (we know he’s pretending) and he would not be thinking of a “relaxed demeanor, handsome features, and ready smile.” This is description from the outside courtesy of the author, and it takes the reader out of the close POV. The notion of no female in town missing his homilies suggests that every woman in the town is a Catholic who attends his services, which seems unreasonable. Every female in his congregation, though, works.
Feeling a touch on his sleeve, he turned, and his smile disappeared. Looking first left then right, he He angrily spat, "I told you to leave me alone!" The looking, while reasonable, isn’t really needed—a touch of overwriting.
She blinked, her long lashes brushing her cheeks, and firmly said, "But, I need to talk to you." Leaning closer, she paused, and lowered her voice, almost scowling at him. "You see, I’m not leaving here without you. You’ve been compromised. It’s time to go. Now.” In going for a little misdirection here—suggesting something between the woman and what appears to be a priest or a deacon—would be okay if that was the case. But in two paragraphs she is identified as a U.S. marshal. The time to do that is here, not later. If it’s here it raises the proper story question. Would her lashes really brush her cheeks? I don’t think that’s really possible. What is an "almost" scowl? Be definite.
“What?” he hissed. “How is that possible? I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. How could I be compromised? Wasn't THIS was the safe option?”
“It seems you’ve created quite a fan base here,” the U.S. Marshall marshal chided. “One of your admirers posted pictures of you on the St. Stephen's Facebook page and Twitter account, tweeting tweeted bits of your homilies and inspirational talks. Those pictures and tweets have gone viral. You are no longer safe here. It’s time to pack. We are leaving within the hour.” Good story question raised here. Being more specific about the danger would increase tension, though. For example: You are no longer safe here, they’ll be coming to kill you. We are leaving within the hour.
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 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 Whitney
(continued)
For six months John served as deacon at St. Stephen's Catholic Community, ministering to the youth group in this small town. He had grown to love Winter Springs. The town was smaller than the local University of Central Florida and it had a sort of suburban charm that just couldn't let go of its country roots. Neighborhoods backed up to conservation areas and pastures. There was a feed store in neighboring Oviedo. There were no high-end retailers, just Mom and Pop stores. The crime rate was low and many of the police officers coached youth sports. It was reminiscent of the small town in Kansas he’d left at 17.
As close as it was to Orlando, Winter Springs could feel a million miles away. Even some of the streets where his parishioners lived were still unpaved. John always felt at peace when the tires on his truck rumbled over the grooves of the dirt roads. The rattle of the truck bed and the bounce along the roads took him back to his childhood in central KS. Much had changed since he left home in search of something bigger than Winfield. How ironic that he, of all people, would spend his days pretending to be a deacon in a town of just 34,000 residents.
He could feel the jealous stares and curiosity of the women at the market as he obediently followed Special Agent Theresa Wilson and climbed into the black SUV with very dark tinted windows. For the six months he’d lived here, the women were the most friendly and generous, some of them recently divorced, others bored. It was typical. An athlete in his youth, John had maintained his fitness as an adult. He jogged every day along the dirt roads of Winter Springs. He was able to do as many push-ups as his age. And not to be outdone by the youth in the church, John accepted the boys’ pull-up challenge at the conclusion of their weekly group meetings. The priests of his parish were good men, but they were older and a little out of touch with the today's youth and their unique 21st Century circumstances. Even they conceded that his presence in the parish was good for the growth of their church and the community.
Once home John had just 37 minutes to clear out. He felt a pang of guilt realizing he would never have the opportunity to say good-bye to this community that took him in, invited him to dinner, brought him casseroles. Even though it was a “pretend” job, John would miss his ministry. Odd, that a man of his past profession would use ministry as his cover.
When he’d made that fateful decision to take one life in order to spare another he’d been haunted with regret and memories of his past. It had to be done, but he hated to be the one to do it at the same time. John hadn’t been careful and the FBI had caught up with him. Maybe deep down he’d wanted to get caught, to escape the turbulence that had dominated his life for 13 years. All he wanted was a simpler life, to find another small town, and live out his days with as much contentment as possible. Well, as simple a life as someone who turns State’s Evidence can have. He broke. He talked. He gave names, locations, everything. And as a reward he’d been relocated. John Matthews had come full circle. Winfield for Winter Springs. Criminal for Youth Pastor, maybe a Deacon.
Most of all, as he packed, John hoped he’d made a positive difference here. He had worked hard to find his faith and to make the right decisions. As he half-folded shirts and dumped the contents of his drawers into his suitcase, John was plagued with a case of the What ifs..."What if I hadn't answered the email that set all of this in motion? What if I hadn't met with Leon? What if I'd never given him the Gatorade?" Instead of packing, John might be entering his house to reheat a delivered casserole and prepare his talk for the next youth group meeting.
The military had instilled discipline and made him an expert marksman. He’d found the adventure he’d been looking for, but lived looking over his shoulder, sleeping with one eye open. The security of this town even the sanctuary of his church had been shattered. It was time to move on.
For a short while, he’d experienced real peace and contentment. And for the second time in seven months, he hurriedly sorted through the belongings that meant the most to him, the picture of his parents, his running shoes, the 1972 coin, and now his cross necklace. Pulling his suitcase behind him, John shut the door of his home, climbed into the SUV and prayed.
John thumbed the Rosary he kept hidden in his pocket. He started with the crucifix and whispered, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen." He didn't dare make the sign of the cross on his forehead and chest.
After pausing, he continued, "I believe in God the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and earth; I believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, He was conceived by the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary. He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended[1] to the dead. On the third day He rose again. He ascended into Heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. Amen"
The SUV moved along state road 434, to the 417 loop around Orlando and its suburbs. John rubbed his thumb on the first bead above the cross and continued to pray. He was thankful that Agent Wilson was too busy with her iPhone to notice him praying.
Our Father, who art in heaven hallowed be the name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. Lead us not into temptation..." at that statement John chuckled. Agent Wilson looked briefly at him before dialing a phone number. "...but deliver us from the evil one." I can only hope to be delivered from the evil one, for the evil I’ve done, thought John.
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