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.
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
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.
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 Sarah
Full Prologue and Chapter:
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.
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.