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.
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—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.
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 RM
(continued from the prologue's first page)
Without hesitation, Mac walked into the house.
“Take care of her while you still can, Erin. After today, she will hate you more than I do,” Fiola said, her mouth twisting into a scowl. “You and Gran plotted against me, but I know everything you’ve been hiding.” Her arms floated above her head in a perfect pirouette. “Now, Brigid will know too.”
“We’ll tell her everything, I promise,” Erin pleaded. “Please Fiola, just go back inside.”
Fiola leaned back and spoke to someone through the cupola window. Brigid exhaled. Gran has reached her. Fiola listened intently, but remained on the ledge, turning away from the open window. Why isn’t she going inside?
“Are you ready, Brigid?” Fiola asked, smiling defiantly.
Terrified of what might happen next, Brigid dragged her eyes from Fiola and gazed at the cupola. Spellbound, she stared at an unfamiliar face peering through the window. A young woman observed Fiola from behind the gauzy curtains, her dark hair fluttering in the breeze. The hypnotic pattering of a summer shower filled the air. The chaos dimmed. Smiling, the lovely brunette backed away from the window. Lightening flashed, then a crack of thunder. Brigid shuddered. It can’t be…Morgana? The sky darkened. Gentle rain strengthened to a pounding deluge and the woman was gone. Screeching tires in the driveway startled Brigid from her stupor. First, one car door slammed, then another. Gran and Inneen raced into the backyard. Rain pelting her face, Brigid’s stomach churned. No one is in the cupola to save Fiola.
“My darling girl, I’ll be right up,” Gran yelled.
“Stay where you are!” Fiola screamed, her eyes darting wildly. Smoothing her disheveled dress, she stretched her arms wide and extended a pointed toe. “I’ll come down now. Brigid, watch.” She gracefully arched her back, and with complete certainty, she stepped from the ledge.
“No Fiola,” Erin sobbed, running to her twin, arms outstretched, as if to catch her. Brigid gagged, pitching forward. Soggy ground rushed toward her. Damp grass pressed against her face and dirt filled her mouth, muffling her soft cries. The snap of splintering branches was followed by a desolate thud. Gran’s screams filled the courtyard. Brigid’s world descended into darkness.
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… She checked behind the door. Bingo. A pair of men’s pajamas hung on the hook. She slipped them on and continued down the stairs to the main floor.
The microwave blinked twelve AM, but the clock on the mantle read eleven-twenty. Mail was piled on the hall table and unopened packages crowded the entryway. She checked the alarm system near the front door. Armed. She gripped the deadbolt. If the Newmans are home, I won’t have much time. A car door slammed. She sneaked a quick look. Her grandmother stepped out of a town car. Brigid shrank into the shadows, praying Gran hadn’t seen her in the neighbor’s window. Keys jangled, the front door of their townhouse opened then closed. She’s in. Another minute and she’ll be in her bedroom. The town car drove away. Taking a deep breath, Brigid opened the Newman’s door. Bare footed and wearing pajamas, she scrambled down the steps. The burglar alarm blared in her ears, but she did not stop. She raced to the corner of Charles Street then headed north on Bleeker.
What to do, what to do? Find a phone and call Nell… An NYPD car flashed its lights, but she did not stop, did not look back. Her feet throbbed, not from the underbrush of the bog, but from glass and debris on the streets of the West Village. A police siren wailed behind her. Strong arms caught her. “Hold on, sweetheart.” Breathing hard, he pulled her up the steps into a darkened alcove. “Be still.” His grip tightened. She twisted against him. “Brigid, cut it out or you’ll get your ass arrested.”
“Conlan?” she whispered, turning to face him. “What are you doing here?”
“Keeping you out of jail. Hush for a minute.” The police car rolled passed. “I hitched a ride with your grandmother after the lecture and thought I’d walk home from your street. I had just sent the car service away when you raced out your neighbor’s door in your jammies.” He grinned. “I could hardly go home without finding out what the hell you were up to, now could I?” He tilted her face up. “What gives with the breaking and entering, Brigid?”
“Sleepwalking,” she said, loving she did not stand eye to eye with him. She was tall, but he was taller. “Right out of my window and onto the neighbor’s roof.”
“I see.” He eyed her from head to toe. “Makes sense. You hurt? Do you need a doctor?”
“I’m fine, for now.” She smiled. “You can call an ambulance after Gran has to let me back in the townhouse. She’ll surely wring my neck.”
“Well, we can’t have that.” Conlan kicked off his shoes, slipped off his suit jacket and handed them to her. “Here, best I can do until we get to my place. Then, I’ll get you back into your house without Mrs. Donand damaging your pretty little neck.” He helped her into his jacket. “You didn’t have to make me chase you so long, you know. Though I did enjoy the view.”
God, such a flirt... “I’m sorry Conlan.” She laughed. Good thing I’m over my crush…maybe… Though several years older, he was one of the few people she was comfortable with. They had similar backgrounds. He also lost his parents at a very young age and lived with his grandfather a few blocks from her. “Thanks for catching me.”
He draped his arm around her. A couple, very obviously on a date, passed them. The woman gave her the once over. Brigid cringed and ducked her head. Navy suit jacket over striped pajamas, men’s shoes and her long hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Certainly not a winning date outfit. “I look like a mental case,” she whispered.
“You are a mental case, but completely adorable.” He pulled her close. They walked a few blocks in silence. “I thought the sleepwalking stuff hasn’t happened since you were a kid,” he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “You okay, doll?”
She tensed. Gran, good friends with his grandfather, hired Conlan as her assistant when he was a freshman at NYU. He was around the townhouse regularly since Brigid’s release from Payne Whitney Psychiatric Clinic more than four years ago. They often joked about her history, but this was the first time he addressed it seriously. No need to put everyone on high alert. “I’m good, just under a deadline and up too late the past few nights. Nell’s a slave driver.” She smiled. “Honestly, I probably dozed while smoking a cigarette and fell right out my window.” Sounds reasonable. “Promise you won’t mention this to Gran. You know how she worries.” Now in graduate school, Conlan no longer worked for Gran, but they were still close.
“I won’t say a word if you’re really okay.” His grey eyes bore into her. “And you promise to cut back on the smoking.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” she said. He raised his brows, waiting. She groaned. “Infuriating. I promise, only one cigarette per night. Scout’s honor.”
“Then we have a deal.” He unlocked his front door. “We’re taking Boogie for a walk.” An enthusiastic puppy greeted them. “Run up to my room and grab something to wear.”
“How will you get me in my house?” she whispered, dropping a kiss on Boogie’s head.
“Leave it to me. And you don’t have to whisper, Grandpop’s away.” He motioned her to the stairs. “Now go get dressed.”
They waited on the corner until the security company and police car pulled away. Conlan pointed to a dark corner beside the stoop. “Wait there, I’ll signal you.” He walked Boogie up the steps and rang the bell. “Inneen, are you ladies okay? I was walking Boogie and saw a police car.”
“Conlan, you sweet boy.” Inneen smiled. “No need to worry - just the neighbor’s security alarm. We’re fine. Aintin has already gone back to bed and Brigid slept through the whole thing.”
“Oh, good. I guess we’ll head home.” He lingered. “Grandpop’s in London you know.”
“You want to come in for a snack?” Inneen asked.
Brigid giggled. Putty in his hands. The chestnut hair gets her every time. Inneen, her childhood nanny, had moved with them from their Victorian house in quaint Seaside to New York. The older woman had a soft spot for Conlan and he was definitely playing it up. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he said, already half through the door. He nodded at Brigid, pointing to the doorknob. She waited a few minutes, then slipped in the front door, closing it softly behind her. Bless you, Conlan. She ran up the stairs to her room.
Her heart still racing, she had no desire to sleep. She grabbed her robe and shoved it against the bottom of the door. Instinctively, she slid her had behind the headboard and grabbed the wooden box hidden there. Lifting out a single cigarette, she sank onto her window seat. Hello, my little friend. As the large glass panes swung wide, she clicked the lighter, savoring the first taste. Shaking her head, she scanned the Newman’s roof garden. I could have been killed. How did I end up down there...? The dream… She didn’t remember details, but the dream was all too familiar. The girl, Morgana and the ancient kingdom of Delbaeth from Fiola’s dark tales… At the psychiatric hospital, they warned her to forget the stories. She thought she had. Then, the night of her eighteenth birthday, the stories began creeping into her dreams. She smashed her cigarette in the teacup stashed on the ledge.
Jesus… The tee shirt and underwear she had worn to bed dangled from a tree branch just below her window. Leaning out, she snatched her clothes and pulled the window shut. With a firm twist, she locked it. Just in case… She also flipped the safety latch Gran had installed years ago and slid a chair in front of the window seat. She sank into her pillows. Aaah…finally.
#
Morgana’s body ached and the bloody gash on her leg throbbed. What sinister magic had caused her to fall from the night sky? Without bothering to assess the severity of her injuries, she forced herself up and ran. She could not be caught beyond the walls of Delbaeth Castle at this late hour. No longer a child, but a young woman of fifteen, how would she explain why she was completely unclothed?
Bruised and bleeding, she raced across the bog, heading straight for the sacred oak grove in the center of the forest. It was the first night of dark moon. She prayed the lack of light in the dense thicket might shield her from view. Her feet slipped across the mossy terrain. Low hanging vines whipped across her face, entangling her thick mane, ripping at her scalp. Thorny underbrush clawed her bare skin, but she dare not stop. She reached the grove undetected. Alert to any sound, she searched all around the ancient oak tree. Her momentary relief turned to panic. Morgana sank to her knees and fought the urge to cry. Her clothes were gone.
Footsteps approached. She crouched against the oak’s mammoth roots, shielding her naked body. Arms wrapped around her legs and face buried in her knees, she did not draw breath. The footsteps stopped. She was caught. Morgana risked a glimpse of her captor, but a scratchy serge cloak settled over her. Enveloped in darkness, she recoiled as strong arms lifted her from the mossy refuge. A familiar scent of musky cedar mixed with juniper filled her nose. Morgana wept with relief. Circling her arms around his neck, she sank against his chest. “I fear I’ve been discovered,” she whispered.
“We have far worse things to fear, princess,” came his gruff response.
Arms flailing, Brigid sat up and gripped the edge of the bed. Oh thank god…I’m still here… No more sleepwalking since the incident a few days ago, but almost every night, dreams of Delbaeth returned. Each was more vivid than the last. Tonight, I remember every detail. She checked her phone. Almost four. I’ll never sleep now... Sliding her hand behind the headboard, she pulled out the small wooden box. Not caring she had reached her new self-imposed limit and not bothering to open the window, she lit a cigarette. Sorry Conlan. Inhaling deeply, she stared at the red ember. The dreams are becoming more frequent. This cannot be good. She grabbed her laptop. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Dangerous to dwell on Fiola’s stories... But she couldn’t help herself. Ignoring the risks, she began reconstructing Fiola’s epic tale of ancient Delbaeth and the girl, Morgana.