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
Carolyn sends the first chapter of Dangerous, YA thriller. The full narrative follows the break.
It’s hot as blazes and we’re out picking berries in the woods out by Donner Woods Road when my older sister confesses the worst possible news ever about her love life.
"I'm dating Geoffrey Whittington, the Third, one of the richest men in town," Cort, short for Cortland, pushes her straw hat down over her golden curls and gives me a look of pride.
She’s got to be kidding. Not again. I pull my shirt off and tie it around the waist of my two-piece bathing suit with a determined yank. I hold myself back from shouting, and say in as normal of a voice as I can manage, "Are you crazy? Didn't you learn anything from the fiasco with that thief you were dating last month?"
“He only took the jewels his aunt had promised him in her will. Stop being so melodramatic. He wasn’t a thief.”
I take a deep breath and force myself to say in a calm voice, “You have to stop choosing boyfriends based on their bank accounts. Besides, the rich guy’s got to be too old for you.”
“He is not. I’m almost eighteen and he’s only twenty-five. Mom and Dad have at least that many years difference between them.”
“Yes, but Dad doesn’t kill people.” I bang on the side of my berry bucket in a rhythm to the Jaws theme.
She drops a berry into my pail as if she’s giving to the poor. “Come on. When are you (snip)
I definitely like the voice and the writing is good and clean. But there’s little tension for me in this page. There was something on page 2 that, if the cuts shown in the notes below are done, could increase the stakes a little. It would insert into this paragraph:
“Yes, but Dad doesn’t kill people. Rumor is your new boyfriend set fire to Parson Johnson’s barn and he has a lab in his basement where he experiments with animals."
That would help. So would the info, also on page 2, that the protagonist thinks of herself as a detective. Let me add that I would try to get the character’s name on the first page, too. It can be as easy as: “Oh, Cameo, he only took the jewels his aunt . . . etc.
There’s a good bit of set-up here that I suspect could wait until later. Carolyn tries to hook us with the “worst possible news” notion, but that’s not all that powerful. On the next page, Cameo jumps in the river and something grabs her ankle--now that begins to sound like a thriller. That piqued my interest. Maybe try starting a little later and cut the set-up. Notes:
It’s hot as blazes and we’re out picking berries in the woods out by Donner Woods Road when my older sister confesses the worst possible news ever about her love life.
"I'm dating Geoffrey Whittington, the Third, one of the richest men in town," Cort, short for Cortland, pushes her straw hat down over her golden curls and gives me a look of pride. You can work in the source of the nickname later, perhaps by having the protagonist use it. She wouldn’t ordinarily be thinking of something like this at this time, it’s the author, not the character tossing this bit of info in.
She’s got to be kidding. Not again. I pull my shirt off and tie it around the waist of my two-piece bathing suit with a determined yank. I hold myself back from shouting, and say in as normal of a voice as I can manage, "Are you crazy? Didn't you learn anything from the fiasco with that thief you were dating last month?"
“He only took the jewels his aunt had promised him in her will. Stop being so melodramatic. He wasn’t a thief.”
I take a deep breath and force myself to say in a calm voice, “You have to stop choosing boyfriends based on their bank accounts. Besides, the rich guy’s got to be too old for you.” You’ve already told us she’s using a normal voice.
“He is not. I’m almost eighteen and he’s only twenty-five. Mom and Dad have at least that many years difference between them.”
“Yes, but Dad doesn’t kill people.” I bang on the side of my berry bucket in a rhythm to the Jaws theme. The reference to killing people comes out of the blue—unmotivated, it seems like an accusation, but Cort doesn’t even react to the “kill” part, so it must not mean anything. But it could have. I didn’t think the bucket banging contributed, and there’s better stuff to get on the first page.
She drops a berry into my pail as if she’s giving to the poor. “Come on. When are you (snip) Seems to me humming the Jaws theme would be more appropriate--what it its rhythm?
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 Carolyn
Continued:
going to give up this childhood dream that you’re some kind of detective?”
“Never. Check out their criminal records first, I say. Rumor is your new boyfriend set fire to Parson Johnson’s barn and he has a lab in his basement where he experiments with animals."
Cort stops picking berries and pulls her full lips into a pout. "Rumors. Who believes them? If you had one ounce of romance in your soul, you wouldn't say such things about a wonderful man like Geoff." Her sappy smile and dewy eyes tell me she's a goner again.
She poses in the shade of a cottonwood tree like a movie star. In that white sundress, with the late afternoon sun shining down through the leaves, she looks almost angelic.
Something snaps in the brush near the path and I turn to see who it is.
Goose bumps jump up my arms. Nobody there—just high bushes and forty-foot trees shrouding our path and leaves crunching under my feet. It's creepy to think somebody could be watching us.
Before I can rush to the edge of our tiny South Carolina river and kick off my flip flops, Cort calls to me: "Cameo! Don't jump."
So like my older sister to get everything totally wrong.
After squirming out of my jean cutoffs, I push back my messy brown hair, suck in my gut, and pretend my sixteen-year-old figure's as good as my sister's. It's depressing that she's like a size zero, when I'm the one who's always dieting.
"It's okay," I tell her. "I know where the rocks are."
I can almost taste that cool water and feel it washing over my parched body. Without another word, I dive deep into the river, anxious to get away from Cort and her take on the finer points of Geoffrey Whittington—at least for a few minutes.
A luscious wetness covers and soothes me until something large swims in my direction. The pitch black underwater makes it impossible to see what it is. Something in my gut warns me whatever it is isn't friendly, and I swing into a fast breast stroke in the other direction.
The water below my feet sends chills up my body. A rough current tumbles me along the river bottom into a sunken tree. Something large bumps into my leg.
Oh God, alligators live here.
My inner compass is totally screwed up now, giving me no idea of which way to swim to find Cort. Adrenaline rushes through my body and I battle up from the muddy river bottom.
Something grabs my legs from behind.
This is not a fish.
For sure, this is not an alligator.
Water fills my nose and burns in my eyes. Lungs nearly exploding, I twist one leg free, kick against solid muscle, and am released. Up out of the water I leap and find myself next to shore, gasping for air.
Hanging onto a tree by the river bank, Cort stretches her free hand toward me.
Choking and kicking my legs, I grab her wrist and she pulls me up onto shore.
I flop on my back on the rocky ground and snort in some breaths.
She yanks my hair out of my eyes, and stares at me, brows down, lips up in a why-do-you-keep-doing-crazy-things? look. "You were down there forever. I didn't think you'd ever come up. What happened?"
I gulp for air, not sure I know what happened. I could have dreamed being held down until I nearly drowned, but I doubt it.
"You shouldn't go swimming here. The tides are too dangerous." Cort puckers her face into a disparaging squint. If Cort has one thing down, it's being disparaging, but even then, she's got that blonde pretty thing going for her.
When I finally get enough air to speak, I sit up and stare into her corn-flower-blue eyes. "Somebody was down there. A guy. He tried to—"
She places one hand on the waist of her sundress, and stamps her sandaled foot. "Don't start with your fantasies. You're always dreaming up some kind of adventure."
I grab my jean cut-offs and don't argue because I'm always on the losing end with her. Instead, I bang on the side of my head with the palm of my hand to get the water out of my ear, and wonder if my parents would notice she was missing if I pushed her into the water and walked home. I shove my legs into my shorts. Nah, I couldn't do that, no matter how mad she makes me.
She is my sister, and we've been raised to protect each other from all outside-of-the-family forces. Inside family forces—well, that's an entirely different thing."Come on, let's go. Mom will have a cow if we're not home in time for supper."
She grabs the bucket of berries we'd been picking for dessert and we start off.
On the walk home, I try to tell her what happened underwater, but she keeps interrupting me with questions. "Should I wear my pink or my yellow dress tonight? I mean, the yellow one fits me better, but the pink, well, Geoff says that favors my beautiful skin."
I could care less if she wears a clown suit as long as she doesn't tell our parents what happened. If she does, I'll get grounded or worse, just because I dove into the river. According to them, well-bred young ladies don't dive into rivers.
The image of Cort's boyfriend forces its way into my brain. Now I remember him. I've seen the guy downtown, driving around in a red convertible, laughing in that sadistic way he has. For some reason, I think he could have been the one under the water, trying to drown me.
Of course, that's totally silly. Maybe I'm just suffering from post traumatic stress or something from half-drowning. Still, Cort's boyfriend's always around when barns burn down mysteriously or pet animals disappear. I even get an image of him torturing a tiny terrier in his basement laboratory. That makes me totally sick to my stomach.
***
Thank God, Cort doesn't breathe a word to our parents when we get home. Of course, she wouldn't, she's all about Geoffrey, the Great.
Mom greets us at the door, perfect blonde hair framing her smiling face. Cort got her looks; I got Dad's. She grabs the berries I push in her direction. "You girls did good, but you're a little late for me to make pie." She ushers us into the kitchen to help set the table and serve oven-baked BBQ ribs and biscuits with gravy.
At dinner, Daddy with his white shirt sleeves rolled up and tie loosened raises a bushy eyebrow after Cort goes on and on about her new beau. I give him a secret smile, knowing he's not totally taken in.
After we've cleared the table and I do the dishes, I make a point of peering out from the kitchen when Geoffrey, the Great, appears at the front door. He is handsome in a dangerous kind of way with black hair brushed back, intense brown eyes, and a tall, muscular body.
I help Mom with the dishes and then try to read, but my mind keeps circling back to what happened under the water in the river today. There was a man. I’m certain.
Cort comes home late all breathless and wide-eyed. She’s got her lipstick on, so maybe he didn’t kiss her. That, or she reapplied it to pass Mom’s scrutiny at the door.
I figure Geoff’s bamboozled her totally, but I have to make another attempt to get her to break it off. I try to put as much sisterly concern in my voice as I can. “So, how was your date?”
She kicks off her shoes and nearly swoons while she’s taking off her dress. “Fantastic. Better than that. He is so polite, so gallant, so wonderful. And the restaurant he took me to. Fabulous French food served by waiters who actually speak French. Divine.”
“Umm hmm. I’m sure it was fantabulous, but what about his lab and guns? Did he show them to you?”
She scowls at me, and stomps over to her bed. “Of course not. A gentleman never brings a lady to his house so early in a relationship.”
Whew! I’m glad she’s still thinking it’s early in the relationship, but a little nauseated that he’s being so normal. How am I ever going to convince her he’s a murderer unless she sees him for what he is?
According to her he’s nothing but charming, polite, and oh-so-sexy.
When I make another attempt to tell her to break it off, she lies down in her bed and falls asleep. I pull the covers over her and go back to my bed.
I spend most of the night trying to come up with a plan, but nothing jells. What am I going to do about my sister? It feels as if the clock is ticking.