Oops, got busy and forgot to flog yesterday. Here 'tis . . .
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
Chris sends first chapter for An Inconvenient Death. The rest of the narrative follows the break. Help the writer with your comments.
The voice of the caller on Matt Lanier's answering machine was calm, professional, and disinterested, considering the magnitude of the statement.
This is the Owatonna Hospital. Your father's in our emergency room. Please call us at...
Matt heard nothing after that because simultaneous joy and panic bolted to the surface of his brain like a long ribbon of gasoline set ablaze with a spark. On one side of his mind, the possibility of being free forever of his old man shot waves of energy through his fatigued body. On the other side, the weight of dread, finality, loss, responsibility, change, fought those waves with invisible pressure like the gravity pull of a full moon restraining the tide.
He replayed the message to copy the phone number, then called the hospital. A nurse answered in a tone consistent with the phone message voice.
"This is Matt Lanier. I'm returning the call I received earlier this evening. My father, Ray Lanier is there." Matt turned and looked out his living room window, bracing for the psychological impact of what he was about to hear.
"Oh ... yes, Mr. Lanier, I'll get the ER doctor for you."
Seconds later a male voice came on. "Mr. Lanier, this is Dr. Singh." He spoke with a British accent. "I'm afraid your father has suffered a stroke. He's in bad shape."
Stroke. So that was it. Not dead. Not yet, anyway. A vision came to Matt of Ray Lanier (snip)
The inner conflict Matt feels is what gives this opening energy and a chance, but, for me, the overwriting signaled less-than-crisp, storytelling narrative ahead. And I was right. There’s a long sequence of describing his drive through a snowstorm that doesn’t do anything but get him to the hospital—a simple transition would have done. There’s backstory that slows things, too. The final paragraph in the chapter did offer more conflict ahead . . .
Matt stared at his father and clenched his teeth as if that could contain the torrent of hate that was forcing its way to the surface. The torrent of hate that had brewed, simmered, boiled all those years. Why couldn't you have done us both a favor and died?
. . . but that was too late for me. Notes:
The voice of the caller on Matt Lanier's answering machine was calm, professional, and disinterested, considering the magnitude of the statement.
This is the Owatonna Hospital. Your father's in our emergency room. Please call us at...
Matt heard nothing after that because simultaneous joy and panic bolted to the surface of his brain (mind?) like a long ribbon of gasoline set ablaze with a spark. On one side of his mind, the possibility of being free forever of his old man shot waves of energy through his fatigued body. On the other side, the weight of dread, finality, loss, responsibility, change, fought those waves with invisible pressure like the gravity pull of a full moon restraining the tide. I felt that the similes distracted, and I’m not all that sure the first one works—the idea of a long ribbon of gas set ablaze with a spark is complicated, and it also suggests a single emotion while he describes two competing emotions. This does raise inner conflict, which is very good, but try to do it simply and with a sense of his emotions.
He replayed the message to copy the phone number, then called the hospital. A nurse answered in a tone consistent with the phone message voice. "This is Matt Lanier. I'm returning the call I received earlier this evening. My father, Ray Lanier is there." Matt turned and looked out his living room window, bracing for the psychological impact of what he was about to hear. For me, the details about replaying the message and the nurse’s tone amount to overwriting—detail that doesn’t contribute to moving the story forward. What’s important here is that he talk to a doctor, so cut to the chase--this took 65 words, the edited version 39. Also, would a character in such a situation really be thinking about "psychological impact?"
"Oh ... yes, Mr. Lanier, I'll get the ER doctor for you."
Seconds later a male voice came on. "Mr. Lanier, this is Dr. Singh." He spoke with a British accent. "I'm afraid your father has suffered a stroke. He's in bad shape."
Stroke. So that was it. Not dead. Not yet, anyway. A vision came to Matt of Ray Lanier (snip)
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 Chris
(continued)
sitting in a wheelchair, one side of his body numb and lifeless, eyes clouded and distant. A vision so powerful it blacked out his view from the window—the Mississippi River flowing through downtown Minneapolis.
Matt wiped a damp hand across his face, then ran its fingers through his hair. "How bad?"
"I'd prefer you to come here as soon as possible, so we can talk in depth."
"Oh ... yeah ...right ... I'll head out now."
Matt microwaved a cup of instant coffee, packed an overnight bag, and headed for his minivan in the condo garage. He eased onto southbound Interstate 35 as snow whirled around his car. It fell heavier than it had thirty minutes ago when he'd driven home. He recalled the weather forecast being for a serious March snowstorm—lots of heavy, wet snow, with blowing and drifting.
As he drove, Matt felt increasing sorrow for his father. Death might be preferable to life in a nursing home as an invalid. Matt's dark side preferred his father's death. But the dutiful son inside wanted Ray to live, if only to keep hope alive that reconciliation was possible. The knot in his stomach told him the emotional debate wasn't over, but much of his unease resulted from the tension of driving in the worsening blizzard.
Huge wet snowflakes splattered against his windshield and nearly overwhelmed the wipers, which ran at full-speed. Snow and slush obscured the lane lines. Small drifts driven by the fierce wind piled up sporadically on the road and tested his trusty Toyota Sienna's stability as he blasted through them. Matt crept along at thirty miles-per-hour, but eventually the road condition improved enough that he dared to speed up to fifty. Faint tire tracks and the reflector posts on the side of the road were the only clues he was on an interstate freeway and not in the middle of a cornfield.
Matt had already seen half-a-dozen cars in the ditch and two minor accidents since he left downtown Minneapolis thirty minutes ago. No sense becoming another statistic. If he had a fender bender or slid into a ditch, emergency help wouldn't be quick to respond, and he wasn't dressed warmly enough for more than a quick walk from his condo to his favorite neighborhood bistro. He didn't own a cell phone, so he'd have to rely on a Good Samaritan to make an emergency call for him. He supposed he should think about buying one ... someday.
His eyes ached from peering through the slop-covered windshield and fighting the hypnotic back-and-forth of the wipers. He held the steering wheel so tightly that the muscles in his hands threatened to cramp. A deep breath and shrug of his shoulders did little to relax him. Physical relaxation wouldn't come until he had safely arrived at the Owatonna Hospital.
Maybe he should have stayed home, gotten a good night's sleep, and made the trip the next morning. Surely, the hospital staff would understand. This was Minnesota. Travel in the winter months could be hazardous. But the dutiful son deep within his subconscious overruled practicality. His mother's words, spoken so many times so long ago, echoed in his head. Family takes care of family. End of discussion.
***
Matt found Dr. Singh chatting with a nurse at the emergency room check-in desk. Easy to do since they were the only two staff in sight at three in the morning.
"Dr. Singh?"
Singh turned. "Yes?"
"I'm Matt Lanier. How's my father doing?"
Singh scanned the clipboard he'd been holding under his arm. "Right-side paralysis. Not likely to regain use of his arm. Recovering his speaking ability is an unknown right now. He seems to be cognizant in other areas. He'll need intense therapy to restore his motor coordination."
Matt sighed and looked around. This was a new hospital and gave off a more competent impression than the old hospital downtown where Matt had been born. But young Dr. Singh gave off an impression of inexperience and foreign intrusion that offset Matt's comfort at the physical surroundings. "When can I expect him to recover enough to go home?"
The doctor looked at Matt with intense brown eyes that showed fatigue. "A reasonable prognosis is six months to regain speech and motor coordination. He might need a cane to aid in walking. I doubt his right arm will be of much use."
"Dad's a farmer. Will he be able to drive the machines, lift heavy loads, things like that?"
The doctor frowned and stared at his brown loafers, then took a deep breath before meeting Matt's gaze. "No."
The word hung heavy in the stuffy air. Planting time was imminent, possibly in a few weeks. A month at most. Could Matt handle the work? There didn’t seem to be another option right now. How much preparation had Dad done for the planting season? "Thanks for your candor. Can I see him?"
Singh nodded toward a hallway behind him. "First exam room on the left."
Matt walked into his father's room.
Even allowing for the five years since Matt had last seen him, Ray Lanier was barely recognizable. Matt inhaled sharply and felt pangs of anxiety and pity in his chest. Wisps of Ray's tousled white hair seemed to be glued to the pillow, and his normally ruddy complexion was now pasty gray. A breathing tube protruded from his mouth. Wires ran from his torso to a machine next to the bed. An intravenous line was taped to the top of his left hand.
Matt swallowed what little saliva he still had as he glanced at the medical technology that hummed and beeped in the background. "I'm here, Dad ... for the record." He subdued a brief impulse to touch Ray's hand.
Exhaustion reasserted itself in Matt's body like leaden armor. During the past eighteen hours, he had rehearsed for three hours with the Minnesota Orchestra, given two string bass lessons at the University of Minnesota, and played a four-hour gig with his trio at the Artists' Quarter in St. Paul until one a.m. He'd straggled home, eager to do nothing but sleep for the next twelve hours, only to hear the message from the hospital on his answering machine.
Matt stared at his father and clenched his teeth as if doing so would contain the torrent of hate that was forcing its way to the surface. The torrent of hate that had brewed, simmered, boiled all those years. Why couldn't you have done us both a favor and died?