I just returned from doing two workshops at the Idaho Writers’ League 2014 conference in Idaho Falls, ID, and want to express my thanks and appreciation for being a part of the event.
I did my Crafting a Killer First Page and 3 Keys to Killer Storytelling workshops, and the writers who attended were sharp and talented. I had a great time talking writing with them—these events are always stimulating to me and I came away with ideas for the writing craft book I’m working on.
The conference was well-organized and featured professional speakers—I was very well cared for and felt quite welcome. I was lucky enough to be asked to come back next year, and I gladly said yes.
If you’re considering going the self-publishing route, go to this article full of insights from writers who have been there. And then go to my website for how I can help writers publish strong books. Here’s an excerpt from Self-Publishing Stars Speak Out by Betty Kelly Sargent:
“Before you do it, take time to understand why you’re doing it, to research your opinions, and to hire experts if needed to help you achieve your goals. Take enough time to produce a product that’s worth your reader’s time and money.” Jane Friedman
Submissions Needed. 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.
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). Directionsfor submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.
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
RM sends the prologue and first chapter of The Descent of Brigid , YA suspense/historical fantasy. The rest of the narrative follows the break.
Prologue
Brigid’s instincts screamed run, but her feet refused to obey. Standing in the courtyard, she could do little more than watch as her older sister squeezed through the broken window four stories above. “No, no, Fiola, please don’t,” she chanted. Only nine-years-old, Brigid couldn’t conjure the words to calm her older sister. Fiola staggered onto the ledge, inching across the roof of the Victorian house. Oh god… Brigid opened her mouth to scream, but only managed a whisper.
Fiola skidded past the chimney, landing with a smack onto the cupola balcony. Her singsong voice drifted across the backyard. “You deserve the truth, little one.” Unkempt hair billowing in blonde clumps and a manic grin stretched across her face, Fiola stepped over the balcony’s guardrail. “We live among a coven of deceitful vipers, kept here against our will.” She teetered on the ledge, nothing but stagnant ocean air between her and the stone terrace below.
Though drenched in sweat from the mid-day sun, Brigid shivered. I can’t get to her in time. She gulped for breath, stumbling into the overgrown bushes crowding the backyard. The pungent stench of blooming hawthorns filled her mouth. She fought the urge to vomit.
“Fiola, no!” Erin sprinted up the hill, staring at her twin perched high on the roof. Brigid crumpled to her knees. She’ll know what to do. Erin, twelve years older and the most levelheaded of the three sisters, knelt beside Brigid and squeezed her hand. Never taking her eyes off of Fiola, she directed the man hobbling onto the porch, “Mac, she’s on the roof! Find Gran or Inneen.”
There are good story questions raised here and plenty of jeopardy served up, so I turned the page. However, there are clarity issues in the last paragraph. At first it looked like we had shifted to Fiola’s point of view due to the unattributed dialogue, which rightfully should have been Brigid’s as she was last person mentioned in the previous paragraph. A transition is needed. And then there’s a pronoun with an unclear antecedent—it seems as if “her twin” should refer to Erin as she is the one sprinting up the hill and the only person in the sentence. But then we’re told that she’s twelve years older. Since one can’t be twelve years older than one’s twin, the twin reference is to Fiola—but that’s lost for me.
Chapter 1, nine years later
Morgana soared high above the shores of the Black Ocean. Without warning, she careened into the cliff side, hurtling through branches of the menacing rowan tree. Gnarled treetops tore at her flesh. She plummeted to the ground, landing with a thud amidst a flurry of her dusky feathers.
Brigid jolted from sleep, struggling for breath. The dream again…Stories Fiola always told about Morgana and ancient Delbaeth. Wait, not a dream… Her heart raced. Holy Hell…I’m actually falling. Unlike the dream, she didn’t plummet from the night sky, just the fifth floor of their Manhattan townhouse. The treetops ripping her skin were not those of a mighty rowan tree, but the branches of the neighbor’s overgrown shrubs. What is going on?
“Oomph.” She landed on the neighbor’s roof deck, one floor directly below her room and looked up. I know I closed it earlier. Her bedroom window was wide open. How did I not break any bones? Rubbing her backside, she gasped. Where in god’s name are my clothes? She glanced across the Newman’s deck. Empty. One hand over her chest, the other over her backside, she crept to the far corner and tested the terrace doors. Please, please… Unlocked. Yes. She slipped inside. The house was still. Without turning on a light, she inched across the room to a set of stairs and stepped carefully down one flight then another. Moonlight streamed through a partially open door. Tiptoeing down the hall, she peeked in. A bathroom. She searched the cabinets for something – anything – to cover herself. Hand towels…too small…bath matt…no…
Hmm. More good story questions—but more lack of clarity again, and more of it. I can buy that the actual falling was reflected in a dream, but I can’t buy that the dream came first and then Brigid came awake during the fall. After she lands, yes, but to have all this quite coherent thought while falling from a fifth-floor balcony strained my credibility beyond the breaking point. And what kind of “shrubs” are four stories tall? There’s good writing and the promise of a fun story here, but I think RM needs an editor. I gave it an almost, with regret. The narrative that follows the prologue portion above is below the fold. Worth a read and your input for RM.
Submissions Needed. 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.
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). Directionsfor submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.
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
Adan sends the first chapter of One Night in the Hill Country . The full chapter follows the break.
Parked in the shadows of a line of one and two story western style wood buildings, Tara spied the young girl, barely a teen, if that, start and stop to cross the small border town's roughly paved street.
Hesitant. Fearful. Hearing the protestors down the street like a funeral procession.
Yet, hiding it well, thought Tara. Remembering to flick her hair, gaze upward, as if unfazed, walking about. Definitely a girl with her bearings about her. Definitely someone the right age her brother would want. Rolf will be proud of me, Tara smiled.
Down the flat street, dusty as a barren riverbed, just a few blocks down, the immigration rally picked up momentum. In a spurt, bullhorns chanting, it began heading their way.
Tara stepped out and shoved the old pickup truck's door closed. Just loud enough to catch the young girl's attention, yet not alarm her.
Sharp dark eyes, wary, yet unafraid, peered back at Tara. The little girl looked like a Mexican version of a young Shirley Temple. Pixie, full head of curls softening the wide bright eyes. Stretching slightly, Tara mimicked the young girl's practiced motion, also glancing upward, feeling the hot blue sky, unwavering as ice, above them. Peripherally, she saw this set the young girl somewhat at ease. Like a bluster, settling into a breeze.
The child grinned, then hid it, hearing the marchers, a slow motion flood of bodies, now half (snip)
For me, there just wasn’t enough tension to either earn a page turn—although it came close in that department—and to overlook the craft needs. There’s what is to me overwriting, breaks in point of view, and clarity issues. I do think there’s good stuff here and in the rest of the chapter, but the narrative needs to worked with to be more crisp and clear. The rest of the chapter follows--and it suggests a good story might come along. Here are notes on the first page:
Parked in the shadows of a line of one and two story western styleweathered wood buildings, Tara spied the young girl, barely a teen, if that, start and stop to cross the small border town's roughly paved street.Not sure what a “western style” building is. Are you thinking of the old buildings we see in Western movies? This bit of over-description, including the texture of the street, slows the action. And part of that is unclear—how does the girl start and stop to cross a street? Do you mean started to cross and then stopped? That would be clear. Words such as “young” and "small" are conclusion words and are relative—a 40-year-is young compared to an 80-something. The “barely a teen” did the job, the reference to young just isn’t needed.
Hesitant. Fearful. Hearing the protestors down the street like a funeral procession.Break in POV—Tara can’t know if the girl is actually fearful and is hearing the protesters. You can use expressions such as an unhappy frown to suggest fear, but don’t tell us. And what kind of a funeral procession is a protest like? I associate protests with shouts and chanting, and funeral processions are silent unless they’re in Louisiana or Mexico, where they can be noisy. The simile didn’t work for me as it is.
Yet, hiding it well, thought Tara. Remembering to flick her hair, gaze upward, as if unfazed, walking about. Definitely a girl with her bearings about her. Definitely someone the right age her brother would want. Rolf will be proud of me, Tara smiled. Hiding what well? If Tara thinks she’s an illegal immigrant and hiding that, then we need more of a clue than a pronoun with no antecedent. The reader needs to know what’s going on. The detail about her brother was tantalizing, but unclear. If there were a little more, something such as “would want her to bring to him,” would strengthen the suggestion of jeopardy or troubles ahead for the girl.
Down the flat street, dusty as a barren riverbed, just a few blocks down, the immigration rally picked up momentum. In a spurt, bullhorns chanting, it began heading their way. The description is trying too hard for this reader. Keep it simple. We know this is a border town, and if it’s hot and dry, it doesn’t make much to signal that. Once again, keep it simple and easy to see/grasp. I’m not wild about “in a spurt” and suggest deleting it and starting with the bullhorns chanting.
Tara stepped out and shoved the old pickup truck's door closed. Just loud enough to catch the young girl's attention, yet not alarm her.
Sharp dark eyes, wary, yet unafraid, peered back at Tara. The little girl looked like a Mexican version of a young Shirley Temple. Pixie, full head of curls softening the wide bright eyes. Stretching slightly, Tara mimicked the young girl's practiced motion, also glancing upward, feeling the hot blue sky, unwavering as ice, above them. Peripherally, she saw this set the young girl somewhat at ease. Like a bluster, settling into a breeze. For me, the description is getting in the way, similes and metaphors all over the place. And saying a hot sky is like ice took me out of the story to deal with the contradictions--I know you're going for stillness, but "hot" and "ice" are the strongest words and lead the reader's thoughts.
The child grinned, then hid it, hearing the marchers, a slow motion flood of bodies, now half (snip) “hearing the marchers” is another break in pov, she can’t know what the girl is hearing. the way to do this is something like: The child grinned, then hid it when a burst of cheers came from the marchers. That shows the girl hearing something, and doesn’t tell us that she has inappropriately.
the distance from where they stood - the street, otherwise, nearly deserted.
Tara grabbed the kitten through the truck's open window, its eyes wide below the striking white on black starburst on its forehead. Walked directly to the child. Looked back to the crowd approaching the next block, the chorus of protest becoming strident voices, abrupt shouts – Tara giving the young girl the hint she was afraid also – and thrust the wiggling kitten into the small girl's hands, the protestors crossing the intersection into their block.
“Smile,” Tara smiled to the little girl.
She smiled.
“Wave if anyone looks at us.”
Both girls waved. Big sister, little sister, it must have seemed, to the passersby intent in shouting their meaning. Like thunderclaps rumbling away, the marchers passed. The dust settled back where it'd always been. The young girl choked a sob, and flicked a tear, as if clearing an errant strand of hair from her vision.
Silently, she offered the kitten back to Tara.
Tara began walking. “Keep smiling. Talk to me, pretend I am your sister.”
The child reached for and grasped Tara's hand, tugging it.
“Your kitty -”
“You like him?” asked Tara.
“Oh, si -”
“It's yours. If you take care of him.”
The girl nodded.
Tara felt relief. Yes, her brother will be proud of her. Another illegal for them.
Tara gazed down at the girl - staring at Tara's childhood whelp on her arm. Dry and gnarled as the land around them.
“No matter how hard. Or, how much..it hurts...” Tara said, eyeing the wiggly kitten.
But Tara already knew the girl's answer. It was in her gait.
Child-like, she'd pressed the kitten to her chest.
It’s Banned Books Week, focusing on efforts across the country to remove or restrict access to books, and the American Library Association makes it quite clear what we lose with this brief photo essay on 10 books that have been and are banned in American communities. The first is below.
Submissions Needed. 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.
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). Directionsfor submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.
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
Joanne sends the prologue and first chapter of Re-homing Pigeon. The full chapter follows the break.
If it weren’t for the Voo-Doo curse, she would have been a terrific mother. Cecile Lafayette Boudreaux stroked the Gris-Gris amulet around her neck. Born in the Louisiana bayou, she wasn’t supposed to scare easily. The weatherman drew spaghetti lines that snaked through the Gulf of Mexico, all heading right toward the mouth of the Mississippi. Mayor Nagin advised people to evacuate, while the die-hards of New Orleans planned their hurricane parties. Fire up the outdoor cooker; them mud bugs were waiting for cayenne pepper, hot sauce and 'taters. Laissez les bons temps rouler (Let the good times roll.) At 9:30 a.m., Sunday, Mayor Ray Nagin issued a mandatory evacuation. Governor Blanco told anyone refusing to leave to write their names and social security number on their arms in magic marker so they could identify the bodies. They named her Katrina.
Cecile told herself that she'd be safe in their sturdy home in Saint Bernard Parish on the east side of the Mississippi River and New Orleans proper. Her husband, Armand, had made preparations ahead of time, boarding the house so not a sliver of daylight peeked through the plywood sheets. This wasn’t the first hurricane she'd witnessed in her thirty years, and it wouldn't be the last. No matter the warnings, she couldn't leave without Armand. He had responsibilities as drilling manager for Murphy Oil Refinery and hadn't been home in three days.
She opened the door and stared at ominous dark clouds and things that had no business (snip)
Right away the subject matter of Katrina creates interest, and the first paragraph does a good job of setting that scene. But the tension falls off considerably in the second paragraph as we do a little info-dumping and set-up. I ended up not turning the page.
I recommend eliminating much of that second paragraph and starting with ominous things happening, and include the fact that she’s pregnant. I think the stakes need to be raised right away. Here’s a rough draft of material from later that I’d replace that paragraph with. With the edits to the first paragraph, this would take you through 17 lines on the first page:
She opened the door and stared at ominous dark clouds. Thousands of mosquito hawks (dragonflies) flew in a frenzy, forming a gossamer purple and green funnel. Grey sky that turned black pelted rain in straight arrows, and then suddenly whipped sideways, almost knocking her over, sending loose shingles and garden tools rolling across yards and down the center of streets. She staggered inside and locked the door.
The baby kicked hard against her rib cage. “Agh. Whoa there Junior.” Straightening, she rubbed her swollen belly, soothing her son that wouldn't arrive for another ten weeks. Through the boarded windows, she heard large objects slam against the house. She prayed they wouldn’t (snip)
What do you think? For me, I get much more involved with the character and the trouble that’s coming, and I would have turned the page with this as an opening. Here are notes on the pages as it is:
If it weren’t for the Voo-Doovoodoo curse, she would have been a terrific mother. Cecile Lafayette Boudreaux stroked the Gris-Gris amulet around her neck. Born in the Louisiana bayou, she wasn’t supposed to scare easily. The weatherman drew had drawn spaghetti lines that snaked through the Gulf of Mexico, all heading right toward the mouth of the Mississippi. They named her Katrina.Mayor Nagin advised people to evacuate, while theThe die-hards of New Orleans planned their hurricane parties. Fire up the outdoor cooker; them mud bugs were waiting for cayenne pepper, hot sauce and 'taters. Laissez les bons temps rouler (Let the good times roll.) At 9:30 a.m., Sunday, Mayor Ray Nagin issued a mandatory evacuation. Governor Blanco told anyone refusing to leave to write their names and social security number on their arms in magic marker so they could identify the bodies. They named her Katrina.I realize that the spelling of voodoo might be charactercentric, so keep it if that’s the case. Otherwise, my dictionary says it’s “voodoo.” The rest of that sentence, though, didn’t work for me because there’s no clue as to her being a bad mother—no sign of children, anything. In other words, the reader has no idea what this refers to with no expansion and so it is, in essence, meaningless. Either give it meaning or delete it. I eliminated the first mayor reference because there’s another that’s stronger, and one seems like enough. The magic marker is a terrific detail. I moved the naming of the hurricane up to seat the information and end the paragraph with the deadly bit about magic markers and bodies.
Cecile told herself that she'd be safe in their sturdy home in Saint Bernard Parish on the east side of the Mississippi River and New Orleans proper. Her husband, Armand, had made preparations ahead of time, boardingboarded the house so not a sliver of daylight peeked through the plywood sheets. This wasn’t the first hurricane she'd witnessed in her thirty years, and it wouldn't be the last. No matter the warnings, she couldn't leave without her husbandArmand. HeArmi had responsibilities as drilling manager for Murphy Oil Refinery and hadn't been home in three days.I felt the overly detailed location wouldn’t mean much to a lot of people, and it clogs up the story. It’s a little awkward when you’re in close third person to use something like “her husband, Armand,” so I made little changes that will let the reader know who he is without having to state it directly.
She opened the door and stared at ominous dark clouds and things that had no business (snip)
Submissions Needed—none in the queue for tomorrow! 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.
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). Directionsfor submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.
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
Sarah sends the prologue and first chapter of Guardian . The full prologue and chapter follow the break.
Prologue
I sat on the edge of the gravel road, my knees bent in front of me as I stared at my boots. It seemed the most terrible moments in my life were spent looking at my shoes. Other people might have a beautiful slide-show tribute documenting their memories of joy. My life felt like a collage of the shoes I wore as I stared down at them trying to make sense of the next horrible change in my life.
For as long as I could remember, when my adults gossiped or talked about things they didn’t want me to know, they used phrases like “not in front of the children.” Once, in the hospital waiting room, a great aunt who was speaking with my grandmother, looked over at me and said, “Bless her heart, do you think she knows?”
The thing is, children do know. Grownups don’t always whisper and secrets don’t keep in small houses and small towns. If I did cry, or show emotion, adults always tried to swoop in and fix it. Their soothing words weren’t to make me feel better; they were to make everyone else more comfortable. I learned that looking down and trying to disappear was my role in times of trouble. I had become an expert at melting into the background.
In third grade, I was wearing brown leather Mary Janes when I learned that my father's parents had been in a terrible accident. I remembered those shoes distinctly and the sound they made on the linoleum as an adult led me through the halls of the hospital.
The writing is smooth and seductive, the voice clear and attractive. But there was little in the way of story questions or tension for me here. As you’ll see if you read on, the shoes meme continues to bring up past events until we get to the present with, finally, a significant detail:
Now, chocolate suede snow boots as I sat atop the hill across from the fresh dirt on my father's frozen grave.
In the end, all we’ve learned from this prologue is that her father has died. Doesn’t seem to me that it was necessary despite the writing.
Chapter 1
The cold from the single pane windows interrupted my dreams. I rolled over in my bed and groaned, trying to wake up. Last night we completed the final stage of our move back to my parents' hometown. My mom said it was like coming full circle, whatever that's supposed to mean. We were officially living with my grandparents.
I stretched and became instantly alert from the cold sheet's frosty assault against my toes. Reflexively, I drew my legs to my chest, trying to regain my warm spot. My bedroom back home had always been my hideaway, my safe place. I opened my eye a crack, to see if all the sadness and change from the last few months had been a dream. Reality hit as I looked around the room.
Usually when I woke up at my grandparent's house, it was fun and exciting. It meant summer vacation or the holidays. Today, I didn't know what it meant. My surroundings were foreign and familiar at the same time. My down comforter from home sprawled across my bed, and intermingled with Grandma’s patchwork quilt. The scent from my mother's fabric softener collided with the smells of a wood-burning stove and the aroma of pancakes wafting up the stairs. It was everything great combined, but in a new and uncertain way.
Not yet able to take on the day, I sucked in a deep breath and blew it out heavily, letting my head drop to the pillow. I closed my eyes and tried to convince myself change would be good.
It had been painful to drive away from our home--my normal. Leaving my school and (snip)
Once again, voice and writing are just fine. It’s the kind of writing and voice that might draw you in . . . but the lack of story could easily leave the page unturned, which it did for me. This chapter is pretty much introduction and set-up: it’s the character in her new home, living with grandparents after her father’s death. Once again, very nicely written, but you end the chapter still not knowing what the story is about as it affects this character. No story questions have been raised, and there’s no particular jeopardy in the future for this girl.
I think Sarah has started too soon. This reminds me of the time I took chapter 3 of one of my novels in to my critique group and one member said, “The story starts here.” I didn’t accept that for a few months, then I realized that he was right. I rewrote and started there with a much stronger opening. I encourage Sarah to take a tough look at her narrative and start it where the story starts. That I’d like to read.
I sat on the edge of the gravel road, my knees bent in front of me as I stared at my boots. It seemed the most terrible moments in my life were spent looking at my shoes. Other people might have a beautiful slide-show tribute documenting their memories of joy. My life felt like a collage of the shoes I wore as I stared down at them trying to make sense of the next horrible change in my life.
For as long as I could remember, when my adults gossiped or talked about things they didn’t want me to know, they used phrases like “not in front of the children.” Once, in the hospital waiting room, a great aunt who was speaking with my grandmother, looked over at me and said, “Bless her heart, do you think she knows?”
The thing is, children do know. Grownups don’t always whisper and secrets don’t keep in small houses and small towns. If I did cry, or show emotion, adults always tried to swoop in and fix it. Their soothing words weren’t to make me feel better; they were to make everyone else more comfortable. I learned that looking down and trying to disappear was my role in times of trouble. I had become an expert at melting into the background.
In third grade, I was wearing brown leather Mary Janes when I learned that my father's parents had been in a terrible accident. I remembered those shoes distinctly and the sound they made on the linoleum as an adult led me through the halls of the hospital.
Black ballet flats when I attended their funeral.
Blue Keds with white laces the day my mother and father gathered me and my sister to talk about cancer.
Wool-lined slippers the night my father collapsed and was taken to the hospital.
Sketchers the day he passed.
Now, chocolate suede snow boots as I sat atop the hill across from the fresh dirt on my father's frozen grave.
I barely heard the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel road as they came behind me. He coughed a little as he got closer, hoping I guess, to give me some warning without having to break my reverie. He draped a folded quilt across my shoulders, and I reached to pull the corners into me.
"Your Grandpa sent me," he said simply, his voice a deep soothing baritone.
Instinctively, I reached to wipe the tears, and likely mascara, from my swollen eyes. Before I looked up to see who this mystery Samaritan was, habit drew my eyes to his shoes. He was wearing the biggest boots I have ever seen. When he offered his hand to help me from my crouched position, I saw his eyes. They were a startling shade of blue that held me -- his gaze so intense, it felt as though he could see right into my soul. Today it was too much. Without thought, I averted my gaze and we walked away from the headstone towards my Grandpa's ancient Dodge.
As he opened the door, he said, "Your Grandpa asked me to warm up the truck for him. I saw you up here in the cold. It should help to thaw you out."
"Um, thanks," I said, hoarsely. The last few days were full of little sleep and a lot of crying. My throat was sore. All this unexpected kindness from a stranger somehow made me feel even more vulnerable and self-conscious.
In silence, we drove down the hill from the cemetery to the church in town. As he got out of the truck, he looked back at me and in that same deep voice said, "I'm sorry."
Chapter One
The cold from the single pane windows interrupted my dreams. I rolled over in my bed and groaned, trying to wake up. Last night we completed the final stage of our move back to my parents' hometown. My mom said it was like coming full circle, whatever that's supposed to mean. We were officially living with my grandparents.
I stretched and became instantly alert from the cold sheet's frosty assault against my toes. Reflexively, I drew my legs to my chest, trying to regain my warm spot. My bedroom back home had always been my hideaway, my safe place. I opened my eye a crack, to see if all the sadness and change from the last few months had been a dream. Reality hit as I looked around the room.
Usually when I woke up at my grandparent's house, it was fun and exciting. It meant summer vacation or the holidays. Today, I didn't know what it meant. My surroundings were foreign and familiar at the same time. My down comforter from home sprawled across my bed, and intermingled with Grandma’s patchwork quilt. The scent from my mother's fabric softener collided with the smells of a wood-burning stove and the aroma of pancakes wafting up the stairs. It was everything great combined, but in a new and uncertain way.
Not yet able to take on the day, I sucked in a deep breath and blew it out heavily, letting my head drop to the pillow. I closed my eyes and tried to convince myself change would be good.
It had been painful to drive away from our home--my normal. Leaving my school and friends behind had been hard, but, closing and locking the garage door made it final. My life would never be the same.
I tried to look at the bright side. Starting over did have its advantages. At home, everyone gave me sympathetic stares and silence. No one knew what to say to the girl who lost her dad to cancer. It seems that just when it's the most important to say something, everyone stays quiet. There are no words to fix a broken heart and the emptiness it leaves. When people did speak, it was almost worse. Each time I saw someone I knew, we would have awkward conversation until they brought up my dad. I hated sharing my personal feelings, but social rules meant I had to be nice. So, for the sake of manners and to avoid my mother’s wrath, I found myself comforting and reassuring them I was fine after losing my dad. There was no safe place.
My mom didn’t talk about it, but maybe it was like that for her too. In her typical clinical nursing style, she had laid out the brochures from her hometown, and listed all the pros and cons of the move to me and my sister. The information she provided wasn't anything we didn't already know. It was just Mom's way. She operated in facts, because it made it easier to subtract the feeling. Long before she met with us, it was a foregone conclusion we would be moving to Phillipsburg. A hundred years ago, it had been one of the first booming mining towns in Montana. Now, Phillipsburg was all that remained of a time passed. It was literally encircled by ghost towns. In some ways, it seemed like the perfect place for us. We were the haunted left-overs of a complete family.
Tired of the depressing direction my mind wandered, I launched myself out of bed. The balls of my feet slapped against the frigid, wooden floor boards and instantly changed my mind. I flew back onto the mattress and landed directly on my little sister, Eugenie.
"Ouch! Stop it, Maggie!" she whined, trying to wriggle out of the blankets.
"Scoot over." I pushed her closer to the wall, and crawled back under the covers. "It's cold!" When did you get in my bed anyway?"
"You’re kind of a baby," she said. "You cry in your sleep."
"Whatever, Nene, you came in here because you were cold. It's time to get up!"
"Why?" She whined in her little girl voice. She couldn’t pronounce her name right when she was little, earning her the nickname, Nene.
"Can't you smell the pancakes? Those aren't mom's pancakes down there. Grandma's cooking. GET UP!" I ordered, laughing as I threw a pillow at her.
She jumped out of bed, dragging her blanket, and yelled, "You’re a jerk!"
I shouldn’t tease her. Secretly, I liked it when she snuggled with me at night. In this drafty old house, there were definite advantages to sharing a bed with someone who wears fuzzy pjs. Plus, everything was better when she was with me. Even if she got up and left before I woke, I could always tell when she'd slept in my bed--and not just because of the stuffed animals trailing behind.
Grandpa interrupted the momentary silence, his voice thundering up from the base of the stairs. "Daylight's a wastin'. Nothin' better for the soul than a little bit of work."
Grandpa had warned he would be taking me with him to work today. I thought he was kidding. What I really needed was alone time. I ached for a long run. I wanted my muscles to hurt more than my heart and for the wind to burn my lungs and race through my hair. But that dream would have to wait. It was January in Montana; Snow and ice made running an impossibility.
Grandpa was a semi-retired veterinarian. I had fun going to work with him as a little girl. Now, I worried that helping Gramps at the clinic would mean I got to be in charge of "poop patrol". It was still a good compromise though. If I didn't go to work with Grandpa, I would be expected to go to church with Grandma, and I wasn't ready to take on the sympathy brigade just yet. All those religious women in dress suits and pearls would want to hug me and give me sad looks. Grandma's friends were emotional kryptonite, and I still wasn't strong enough to keep it together.
I looked momentarily at the girl staring back from the mirror before putting in my contacts. As I blinked, waiting for them to come into focus, I peered into my almond-shaped eyes. They are a blend of my mother's green and my father's blue--a true marriage of the bits and pieces that made me. I smiled knowing part of Dad was always with me.
With no need to glam-up for the animals, I pulled on some old jeans, a generous sweatshirt and thick socks. Then I threw my long brown hair in a ponytail, did a quick swipe of mascara, and stuffed the iPod on my dresser into my pocket. Hard work required mood music. Out of habit, I fastened the chain of my necklace and tucked it into my shirt before going downstairs.
In the kitchen, I was greeted by the smell of bacon, maple syrup and the sound of Grandma's voice. "Good morning, Baby."
"Morning, Grams," I smiled and loaded pancakes and eggs onto my plate.
"It's so nice to have you here." Everything about Grandma soothed, including her voice. "I was hoping to spend a little more time with you, but your grandpa called dibs. She smiled at me, a glimmer of mischief dancing in her eyes.
In a conspiratorial tone, I whispered back, "You know I'd rather be with you, but I don't want to hurt Grandpa's feelings." I grinned and gave her a half-hug.
I found Grandpa in the foyer waiting, dressed in his usual flannel shirt, work gloves and rubber-toed boots. Laughter colored his voice. "That was real nice, you lying to your Grandma to make her feel good, when everybody knows I'm the one you want to be with."
"Yeah, you're the one Gramps. The company is good and the fashion is amazing."
"Don't get much better than this, Girl." Grandpa handed me a fuzzy wool hat complete with ear flaps, and a pair of fingerless gloves with pull-over mitten tops. Before I put them on, I strung the laces on a pair of my own fleece-lined boots and tied a neat bow at the top. He grinned at the girly flourish and said. "Fashion don't mean nothin' round here. It's function that counts."
Grandpa opened the door against the morning wind. The sting of it bit my cheeks, and I pulled my hat down tighter. Steam from the exhaust curled in the arctic breeze as I rushed to get inside the warm truck. We made the short drive down the private lane and Grandpa turned right onto the high-way leading to town. I loved the Flint Creek Valley. From the south end where we were, it looked like a bowl carved out in the middle of the mountains. On the right, the Pintlar Mountain Range guarded the valley, while the Sapphire Peaks closed in from the other side. The view framed in the windshield looked like heaven. I stared out at the fog lowering down from the mountain where it almost merged with the mist rising from the creek. The sun broke over the rugged horizon and a tingle of hope grew in my chest.
I came across a post about a tribute to Dr. Seuss that includes pages done comic-book style that illustrate and tell his history and story. I found it fascinating to read about the man whose words I've said so often to my children. Tidbit: I learned that the original correct pronunciation is "soice" as in "voice," but that changed. The article is here. Below is a clip from the art.
Submissions Needed—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.
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). Directionsfor submissions are below--they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.
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
Aleena sends the opening chapter of Fraven Ends , which looks like a YA fantasy to me.
There were seven of us, at first. All young, late teens or early twenties. Long enough past schooling age to be called men when the elders were pleased with our contribution to the tribe, young enough to be called boys when they were not. And we knew what they would call us if they saw us meeting together in the clearing just over four miles out from the encampment-- passing flasks of ale among us and a spread of various maps between us as we sat near a fire that crackled into the crisp autumn air-- boys. But we thought we were men.
Our people were quiet. Peace was our golden rule, one we learned as soon as we could talk. Do not bother others and they will not bother you. Do not treat others with contempt. Do not retaliate any evil and your enemy will lose interest. Do not engage in violence of any kind. Do not live for selfish gain. Do not use your gifts for your own advantage. Do not feel jealousy. Do not hate. Do not disrespect. Do not. Do not...
This was not peace. This was enablement.
That is what I told my friends. First Oakley, whom I found had been silently harboring the same sentiment. Encouraged by his reaction, I confided in Cyrus, receiving a positive response. Soon, our little group grew with the addition of Elan, Rinnal, Jacob, and Morvan.
Each agreed—in Morvan’s case, only after a full-blown and, ironically, nearly violent argument—that our druid people were being taken advantage of and oppressed by the humans of (snip)
The writing is strong, and I like the voice. Aleena is approaching this fantasy story in a fairly traditional way—introducing the world. However, nothing much is happening, nor does it in the rest of the chapter. She spells out an interesting world with Druids who are not human, apparently, but have magic, and oppressive humans.
But it’s all set-up, and no actual jeopardy or story questions arise in the opening page or the chapter. I suggest you start much closer to the inciting event, the place the actual story starts happening to the character. The background material can be woven in as the protagonist deals with what happens. One caution: this first page introduces a lot of uncommon names. In my view, the reader will not be able to absorb them. And introducing a flood of characters can overwhelm. If you can trim it down to one or two, that would be better. It sounds like there’s a good story ahead, and I’d turn the page if we started with that—story.
I'm giving a shout-out for a client/friend, Pete Barber, who has a new book out--I didn't have anything to do with this one, but I guarantee he's a very good writer and storyteller. Here's a blurb, cover, and a link:
Lab assistant and avid climber Amber Wilson is no stranger to risk. But she feels invisible around her handsome boss, Mark, until she accidentally doses him with an irresistible aphrodisiac that leaves him with a suicidal hangover. Abruptly fired, Amber and Mark partner up to research the source of the drug—a rare New Zealand mushroom—in hopes of refining it for safe use.
On their way to New Zealand to collect fungi samples, Amber is blindsided by a deep and intense romantic connection with Mark. Their new business plan is endangered by ruthless Maori mobsters who control a mushroom scheme they’re killing to protect. As the body count rises, Amber struggles to salvage her and Mark’s dreams, but when she risks her heart and acts alone, both of them could end up paying the ultimate price.