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
Lisa sends the first chapter of her novel—don’t know the title. The rest of the narrative follows the break. Help the writer with your comments.
Skinny jeans tucked into brown ankle boots, Addison McDonell warmed her fingers on the cardboard insulated hazelnut macchiato, its scent rising into her face. People chatted in the café, the steamer frothing in the background. Addison’s eyes flickered from the smart phone on the high table to the chalkboard list of espressos and teas: unseeing, unhearing, heart hurting.
How?
How could people do this?
Outside the corner café a jogger crossed the intersection in the weak November sunlight. Old fashioned brick stores lined the street, their grace jarred by an austere gas station. Further on a post-flower child food coop now sheltered under mature leafless maple trees. Banners hung from faux vintage streetlamps declared St. Paul The Most Livable City in America.
Lucian’s parents must be shell-shocked. She sure as hell was. You read about this online but it didn’t happen in real life, not to family.
Waiting for her brother, she reflected on the phone conversation frowning at the amber liquid. Something niggled the edges of her thoughts. She pursued it; drew back on memory. Then found her target. The police officers wanted to keep it quiet, no news report, to better apprehend the perpetrators.
What?
There is nice writing and description here but, for me, more than there should be for an opening page. We get bogged down in detail while the story waits to begin. And, as the first page foreshadows what is to come, I would expect more overwriting and lack of focus on the moments of story. Something pretty dramatic happens at the end of the chapter, but I wouldn’t have gotten there. My vote was no. Some reasons why in the notes:
Skinny jeans tucked into brown ankle boots, Addison McDonell warmed her fingers on the cardboard insulated her cup of hazelnut macchiato, its scent rising into her face. People chatted in the café, the steamer frothing in the background. Addison’s eyes flickered from the smart phone on the high table to the chalkboard list of espressos and teas: unseeing, unhearing, heart hurting. Signs of overwriting here don’t bode well for the rest of the narrative. A bit of POV break, too—in close third person, she wouldn’t be thinking of the nature of her jeans and boots.
How?
How could people do this? You’re raising story questions, which is good, but we need a clue as to what “this” is right away, and it’s not here.
Outside the corner café a jogger crossed the intersection in the weak November sunlight. Old fashioned brick stores lined the street, their grace jarred by an austere gas station. Further on a post-flower child food coop now sheltered under mature leafless maple trees. Banners hung from faux vintage streetlamps declared St. Paul The Most Livable City in America. While this expands the setting, I felt it wasn’t relevant to the story and slowed the pace. If it’s not germane to what’s happening in the scene, don’t include it on the first page.
The hospital had admitted Lucian to ICU. He remained sedated, in critical condition with broken ribs, a concussion, a swollen face, and…too vivid. I’ve added this from the next page. For me, it strengthens the story questions with detail and increases my interest. Give the reader some meat on that hook.
Lucian’s parents must be shell-shocked. She sure as hell was. You read about this online but it didn’t happen in real life, not to family.
Waiting for her brother, she reflected on the phone conversation frowning at the amber liquid. Something niggled the edges of her thoughts. She pursued it; drew back on memory. Then found her target. The police officers wanted to keep it quiet, no news report, to better apprehend the perpetrators. With the above addition of Lucian’s condition the story question raised here is much stronger.
What?
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 Lisa
(continued)
Her skepticism exacerbated by a feminist-oriented professor mother, she picked up the smart phone. Slender fingers, deft with short square-tipped French manicure, touched the screen pad putting in a few key words. She sipped her macchiato, scrolling through the list.
Nothing? She skimmed through the index again.
Not one article generated by the search engine. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But redirection to other related yet opposite tangents about gang beatings occurred. Yet she now possessed firsthand knowledge of this specific beating. It couldn’t be exclusive to her cousin. Nothing was unique anymore.
Why did law enforcement want silence? She put the phone down and leaned on table, chin on hands as she tried to consider options.
But her mind drifted. Her cousins had been taken to the hospital. Wait. What had mom said?
The hospital had released Xavier from ER but admitted Lucian to ICU. He remained sedated, in critical condition with broken ribs, a concussion, a swollen face, and…too vivid.
She shoved images aside; her jaws clenched, closing her eyes. Not here. Not now. With a deep breath, she straightened her spine. Pulling her hair over one shoulder, she ran her fingers through its comforting silkiness then exerted herself to notice the people in the café.
Her gaze glided past then veered back and settled on a man sitting by the wall of windows watching her, his arms lying on either side of his tablet computer. Shoulder-length, brunette hair waved back from a pale narrow face, prominent nose, and thin lips juxtaposed in an odd, appealing manner. He sat forward, clad in black skinny jeans and a dark navy sweater, sleeves pushed up to expose thin forearms. He held her gaze.
She scowled. What was he staring at? How rude.
Then she caught her off balance reaction. Ordinarily she kept detached around strangers, especially single men who potentially sought dates. Her auburn hair, heart-shaped face, and petite build contradicted her personality. Yes, she was a softy with a hospitable soul but only for animals, well-behaved children, and her small circle of friends.
“Hey!”
Distracted, she turned. Her brother approached, slender and lanky, a worried look on a face drained of color.
“Did Mom call you?”
“Just got off the phone. She’s at the hospital. I said we’d meet her there.”
“At United?”
“Yes.”
He paused then his eyes refocused on her, their grey irises darkened, “Do you have your car?”
“I walked.”
“OK,” he nodded, “I’ll drive but I’m gonna grab a tea first.”
Swiftly, he walked toward the counter.
With Lucian in critical care they wouldn’t be able to see him but they could visit his parents, Nate and Lataesha. Would Lucian’s brother and sisters have attended school today? Nate’s parents were there, unexpectedly, and his sister. Lataesha’s dad and grandma lived in Detroit but they would come in a heartbeat if Lucian remained hospitalized.
Addison’s thoughts lurched back to her own family. How her grandparents receive this news? And what about Tante? Turning 90 years old next spring, her mind remained sharp and her spirit strong but as a WWII survivor, how would she react?
Her brother was sliding a lid on his to-go cup. She stood, slipped her phone into her slouchy bag then buttoned her wool fit-and-flare jacket. Pressing the lid back onto her macchiato, she slanted another peek at the strange man.
Long elegant fingers, an artist’s hand, skated on the tablet screen. A slight foreign air clung to his clothing, the now exposed metal length double piercing his ear’s upper cartilage, and the long handled bag hanging on the chair. Definitely not a typical upper Midwestern male appearance.
Her brother returned, “Let’s go.”
A horn blared. Car wheels squealed.
Stepping backwards, she bumped into her brother. He steadied her, his hand tense on her upper arm. Jerking her head, she glanced toward the wall of windows, the people at the tables.
Curious faces panicked. Shouted warnings crescendo-ed. Startled jumping spilled drinks.
With a loud bang crash, a car blasted through windows. Its nose plowed over tables and chairs like a ship breaking through waves. The window-side tables and chairs screeched, toppled or cracked.
The car halted. Petrol and appalled silence filled the air.
Shattered glass shards fell to the floor. Krrschkpblədt.
The tinkling echoed.