Submissions wanted—none in the queue for next week. 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
John sends the first chapter for Fighting Back, a Christian/suspense novel.
On the spur of the moment, Eddie Caruthers decided to help a damsel in distress, and thus began his long slide into darkness. Of course, that was not apparent from where he stood. Clarity about the genesis of one’s own misery comes mainly in the cold light of hindsight, too late to be of use.
The damsel in question was a doe-eyed young lady with a melodious voice, a sweet smile, and an astonishingly corpulent build. Rosalyn Pitts outweighed any three women of average size. Just twenty-three years old, she already suffered from limited mobility and near constant pain in her knees and hips. She and three other women had exited the big stone church that occupied half a block on Union Avenue in downtown Framingham, Massachusetts. Hobbling slowly and leaning on a cane, Rosalyn was now jaywalking in the spill of the streetlights, still talking cheerily and breathlessly to her three friends, who lingered on the sidewalk behind her as they finished their goodbyes and prepared to go home.
The source of her distress began spewing invective from the open window of a large black SUV. Rosalyn was in his way, forcing him to stop for her as she made her laborious crossing. The driver was ranting about the size, color, and unsatisfactory forward speed of the young lady’s posterior. He went on to proclaim that only his unwillingness to damage his vehicle kept him from immediately running over her.
The writing is nicely clean, the protagonist sympathetic, and there is tension and a promise of trouble ahead. But this is supposed to be a thriller, and, for my money, thrillers include action. Things happening that are told in a crisp style when they do. For me, this opening is just about all “telling.” For me, the same scene would be far more interesting if there were dialogue and action, not description and musing. The language, while good, is on the formal side. While it’s my job as an editor to respect a writer’s voice, as a reader I don’t have to keep reading if it doesn’t work for me. And this didn’t work for me. It foreshadows more formal language and overwriting, and I’d rather not read a novel written that way.
There is action that follows, and a sense of humor to the character. But, again, the narrative include a lot of “telling” that would have been better as action, internal monologue, and dialogue. Notes:
On the spur of the moment, Eddie Caruthers decided to help a damsel in distress, and thus began his long slide into darkness. Of course, that was not apparent from where he stood. Clarity about the genesis of one’s own misery comes mainly in the cold light of hindsight, too late to be of use. Rather than commentary and foreshadowing, I would prefer to begin with something happening.
The damsel in question was a doe-eyed young lady with a melodious voice, a sweet smile, and an astonishingly corpulent build. Rosalyn Pitts outweighed any three women of average size. Just twenty-three years old, she already suffered from limited mobility and near constant pain in her knees and hips. She and three other women had exited the big stone church that occupied half a block on Union Avenue in downtown Framingham, Massachusetts. Hobbling slowly and leaning on a cane, Rosalyn was now jaywalking in the spill of the streetlights, still talking cheerily and breathlessly to her three friends, who lingered on the sidewalk behind her as they finished their goodbyes and prepared to go home. By definition, hobbling is slow, no need for the adverb.
The source of her distress began spewing spewed invective from the open window of a large black SUV. Rosalyn was in his way, forcing him to stop for her as she made her laborious crossing. The driver was ranting about the size, color, and unsatisfactory forward speed of the young lady’s posterior. He went on to proclaim that only his unwillingness to damage his vehicle kept him from immediately running over her. Changed the verb because, if she is in distress as the story opens, then the driver is already spewing, not beginning go. “Invective” is pretty much a summary word that mean, well, other words. This would be stronger if it were what is happening rather than a report of what is happening. Also, most SUVs are large, no need for the adjective.
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 John
(continued)
Eddie Caruthers could clearly hear all of this from where he stood some twenty paces behind Rosalyn, in the courtyard of Solid Rock Church. This brightly lit space was dotted with shrubs and ornamental trees that were just beginning to shed their red and yellow autumn garb. Eddie was strolling under one of those trees, in rapt conversation with his — friend, girlfriend, wife-to-be? He was still trying to work all that out. But whatever the lithe and lovely Shawna Bell was to him, he enjoyed her company immensely, and found that her nearness made the whole wearisome world fade away.
He and Shawna had been the last ones out of the building after choir practice, and had hung back for the few seconds it took him to set the alarm and lock the door behind him. Eddie wasn’t actually in the choir, but Shawna was, and he considered that reason enough for him to volunteer to handle building security and lockup on Thursday nights. He’d been doing that for six weeks, just for the pleasure of accompanying Shawna to her car — as slowly as possible — and listening to her make small talk.
He definitely didn’t appreciate having the moment spoiled by the sudden stream of insults and profanities he was now hearing. He looked over and noted the make and model of the vehicle, an occupational habit that was now reflex. Then he focused his attention on the driver who was intruding on his happiness. It was especially aggravating that the target of this onslaught was poor Rosalyn Pitts. Roz, who was unfailingly pleasant despite being in perpetual discomfort; Roz, who never showed embarrassment at having to sit on a bench in the rear of Solid Rock’s sanctuary, a bench placed there because she was too big to fit on the cushioned chairs used by the rest of the congregation; Roz, who doubtless had a too-short life expectancy, and would probably never ever be asked out on a date. If anybody deserved a break, it was Roz.
Disgusted, Eddie found himself yelling, “Hey loudmouth, if you had any class at all, you’d shut up and leave the woman alone!” He fully expected an answering salvo of bluff and obscenities. People always acted tough from inside a car. Being wrapped in a 4,000-pound steel and glass cocoon had a way of making people lose whatever inhibitions they normally had. Well, if listening to some thug curse at him would spare Roz further humiliation, then so be it. But the driver didn’t say another word. Instead, he slammed his vehicle into reverse and whipped it into a curbside parking space. Eddie was briefly impressed with the maneuver. Not many people could fling a Range Rover around so precisely in reverse, and fewer still would try it while sporting those oversized two-piece chrome wheels. What kind of a nutcase would risk curbing rims that pricey? That fleeting question evaporated when the driver got out, slammed the door behind him, and strode toward the courtyard.
Eddie’s next words were to Shawna: “Stand clear.” He glanced quickly in her direction and made a shooing gesture with his right hand.
“Eddie!” …Shawna’s normally silky voice fairly squeaked, and when she spoke his name a second time she drew the word out to great length. “Eddiiieeee…Don’t get into it with him! Let’s just go!”
But Eddie had already turned his attention back to the lout who had been Roz’s problem, and was about to become his. This man was compact, some three inches shorter than Eddie’s six foot height. “Loudmouth” had an olive complexion, dark hair slicked back, and a small moustache. His leathery skin looked to be damaged by either too much sun or too much hard living. He was powerfully built, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and well-muscled arms displayed to good advantage in a short-sleeved pullover shirt. Eddie was not heavily muscled, but stronger than he looked, and confident enough in his own abilities not to be intimidated. The approaching man covered ground quickly, walking with head up, chest out, and arms rather stiff at his sides. His fingers were curled, not quite clenched into fists. He had hard, close-set eyes, and wore an ugly expression that suggested he wasn’t coming over to chat.
Eddie figured him for a sucker puncher. The man would probably try to get nose to nose, the way boxers do when getting their pre-fight instructions from the referee. Then he’d attempt a knockout by throwing a sneaky roundhouse punch from out of nowhere. It’s an old trick, demonstrated in a thousand YouTube videos. No way he gets that close, Eddie thought to himself. He could see his own reach was greater, and the other guy was leading with his chin. Then, on the edge of his awareness, he saw and heard the passenger door of the stranger’s Rover open and shut, as a second man exited the vehicle and started toward the courtyard. Two of them. Not good.
Eddie’s heart was hammering under the influence of an adrenaline surge. But this wasn’t the remembered terror of all his childhood confrontations. This was just the body’s way of prepping itself for fight or flight. He took two calming deep breaths, as he had been trained, and then positioned himself for what came next.
He took two steps backward and raised both hands slightly above his head, palms out. Most watchers would instantly recognize the universal gesture of surrender, a posture which says, “I am not a threat.” A more careful observer might notice the fact that his hands were not out to the sides, forearms in line with ears in the classic pose; instead they were well in front of his face, ready to be instantly deployed to block, grab, or punch.
“I don’t want any trouble, man.” Eddie spoke loudly enough to be heard by both the advancing attacker and any bystanders who might later be asked who started it. He knew he needed to win the physical fight first, and then any legal proceedings that might ensue from it. It was never too early to lay the groundwork for that court fight.
“You should’ve thought of that before you shot off your mouth, punk. Now trouble is exactly what you got.” The smaller man began to accelerate, closing the distance between the two antagonists. He was still talking, declaring what part of Eddie’s anatomy was about to be kicked.
They were about seven feet apart. Eddie took another step backward, and as soon as the ball of his foot hit the ground, he reversed direction and charged. Always strike while they are talking. That was the rule, because an opponent has slower reaction times when he is busy spouting off.
The two men closed in an instant. Eddie landed the first blows, as it was not far from his already upraised hands to the aggressor’s face. He missed with a straight left, but landed a right and a left in rapid succession as the shorter man raised his arms to block and tried to twist out of the way. None of Eddie’s punches were hard enough to do serious damage, but that was not the point of the initial flurry. The point was to get the man off his plan of attack. A foe who is defending himself from you is not hitting you.
Eddie was somehow more acutely aware of the sounds of the fight than he was of the tactile sensations. He heard the impact of his fists on flesh, and of his foe grunting under the rain of blows, and of Shawna stifling a scream somewhere to his right. The attacker recovered from his surprise, dropped into a crouch and spread his hands. Lunging forward, he wrapped powerful arms around Eddie and set himself to throw him to the ground. Eddie raked his thumbs across the shorter man’s eyes, making him jerk his head back and loosen his grip. This gave Eddie room to insert his right arm under his opponent’s left armpit. By twining his arm under, behind, and back over the shoulder, he trapped the man’s arm and put painful pressure on the rotator cuff, forcing his foe to bend down and to his own right.
Loudmouth’s face was now at belly level. Eddie palmed that face with his left hand and ran forward, pushing his overbalanced assailant, who was forced to scramble backwards to keep his feet. Eddie only needed three running steps. The back of the man’s head met the rough granite stonework of the church with a sickening thud. His arm freed, the man sank to the ground, where he feebly thrashed and twitched. His eyes were open, but did not appear to see anything. From first punch to lights out had taken around eight seconds.
Eddie spun, looking for the Rover’s passenger. He was standing about fifteen feet away, and not advancing. He was a large man who looked at least ten years older than the one on the ground. His hair was mostly gray. He was paunchy, wider at the waist than at the shoulders, and for some reason, was wearing sunglasses at night. He shook his head, and almost smiled. When he spoke, the voice was raspy. “I got no beef with you. I just want to collect my hot-headed friend and be on my way.”
Eddie nodded, and edged his way over to where Shawna and Roz’s three friends were standing in a little clump. He knew better than to turn his back to the second man, but his caution proved unnecessary. The older man went straight to his fallen friend. He held him still and spoke quietly to him for a minute or two. Then he hauled him to his feet, and half dragged, half carried him back to the Rover. There was definitely some muscle under all that flab. He laid his dazed companion across the back seat before getting in the front and driving off.
Only then did any of the women in the courtyard speak, and they all began talking at once. The voice Eddie focused on was Shawna’s. “You could have killed that man!” She still sounded squeaky. She turned to gaze wide-eyed at the spot where the attacker’s head had hit the wall with such an awful sound. “What were you thinking?”
Eddie considered the question, and was a little stung that there was no word of congratulations for having successfully defended himself against a dangerous opponent; no show of concern for his own well-being; no expression of thanks for having stuck up for Roz. “I was thinking…” He too turned and looked toward where his attacker’s cranium had met the stone wall. His lip curled. “I was thinking…Welcome to Solid Rock.”