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
Yvonne sends a first chapter of Fugue The rest of the chapter follows the break.
Lakeview Neighborhood, Chicago
Even the rain was just a broken thing in her screwed up mind; Lake Michigan transmogrified into suicidal shards. The deluge coated her picture window at dawn, materializing in Viola Collier’s dream as syncopated percussion gone wrong.
No!
The nightmare music had felt so real that Viola was certain she had been working still. She massaged her neck, cranked at an unnatural angle from sleeping in her chair as a bombastic measure of thunder rattled her studio apartment, assuring her she was awake now to deal with her real nightmare.
Ugly peg stubs. Nasty skin comb-over. Disgusting.
Viola surveyed her legs, never getting used to the fact that they ended at her knees now. Three years and she still woke each morning believing she was whole, phantom feet ready to bolt for a quick shower before rehearsal. But everything had ended with her accident: Her career, her ease of life, her bourgeoning relationship with Andrew… everything.
The train: She needed more from the horns to bring it to life. And the rhythm that had seemed so perfect last night was all wrong this morning. The rain had shown her that.
Courtyard light cast shadows of fat raindrops onto her bedroom walls. The light was murky, as if coffee tracked down her windows in continuous rivulets, but it was just bright (snip)
Very nice writing and voice, and you introduce a hugely sympathetic character. Yet there’s no story question raised, nothing happening other than waking up. If you can do without the dream reference and just get into something happening that raises a story question about what’s going to happen to her next, this would be a winner. I gave it an Almost tending to Yes. Notes:
Even the rain was just a broken thing in her screwed up mind; Lake Michigan transmogrified into suicidal shards. The deluge coated her picture window at dawn, materializing in Viola Collier’s dream as syncopated percussion gone wrong.
No!
The nightmare music had felt so real that Viola was certain she had been working still. She massaged her neck, cranked at an unnatural angle from sleeping in her chair as a bombastic measure of thunder rattled her studio apartment, assuring her she was awake now to deal with her real nightmare.
Ugly peg stubs. Nasty skin comb-over. Disgusting.This briefly took me out of the story. Yes, the next line fills in the gap, but I still had to stop and think about it. I suggest you try preceding this paragraph with the first sentence of the next one, then return to the “three years…”
Viola surveyed her legs, never getting used to the fact that they ended at her knees now. Three years and she still woke each morning believing she was whole, phantom feet ready to bolt for a quick shower before rehearsal. But everything had ended with her accident: Her career, her ease of life, her bourgeoning relationship with Andrew… everything.
The train: She needed more from the horns to bring it to life. And the rhythm that had seemed so perfect last night was all wrong this morning. The rain had shown her that.
Courtyard light cast shadows of fat raindrops onto her bedroom walls. The light was murky, as if coffee tracked down her windows in continuous rivulets, but it was just bright (snip) I would cut these two lines to get the reader more imbedded into what’s going on by going directly to this from the next page:
She needed to hurry before the lines of the last movement dissipated into smoke. The distorted rhythm of her dreams presented her with what was lacking: The adagio was too harsh. A softer reticence to act as portent, that’s what Viola needed.
Submissions Needed 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
Tim sends a first chapter of Labyrinth. The rest of the chapter follows the break.
Flames rose from the burning manor as the cloaked figures approached my carriage.
I frowned at the view from the coach window. I’d sent three people to infiltrate the manor. Counting the turncoat within the walls and the prisoner, there should have been five people in the approaching band. The approaching group numbered three.
The plan didn’t call for burning the manor, either.
Something had gone wrong.
“In you go,” said Gerent, opening the door and thrusting the prisoner into the carriage.
The prisoner glared at me. She was pretty, blond, and all of eighteen years of age. She was also a distant relation of the imperial house, thought lost for years until she abruptly surfaced in this stinking pesthole last week and underwent the simple ritual confirming that she was indeed the descendant of Vania DuSwaimair and Gilos Euripides.
“Let me go, you knife nosed bastard,” she said, spitting the gag out of her mouth.
“My lady, this is a rescue, not abduction,” I said. “And my nose is aristocratic, not ‘knife nosed.’”
She lifted her bound hands by way of reply.
I put on my best false smile. “Merely a precaution,” I said.
A likeable voice and good story questions—what will happen to the prisoner girl? Why is she being taken? There are a few issues and the narrative could be crisper, but that can be dealt with. I turned this page. Notes:
Flames rose from the burning manor as threethe cloaked figures approached my carriage.
I frowned at the view from the coach window.I’d sent three people to infiltrate the manor. Counting the turncoat within the walls and the prisoner, there should have been five people in the approaching band. The approaching groupnumbered three. wordy
The plan didn’t callhadn’t called for burning the manor, either.
Something had gone wrong.This seems obvious, why waste a line on it.
“In you go,” said Gerent, opening the door and thrusting the prisoner into the carriage.
The prisoner glared at me. She was pretty, blond, and all of eighteen years of age. She was also a distant relation of the imperial house, thought lost for years until she abruptly surfaced in this stinking pesthole last week and underwent the simple ritual confirming that she was indeed the descendant of Vania DuSwaimair and Gilos Euripides.
“Let me go, you knife nosed-bastard,” she said, spitting the gag out of her mouth.If she could spit it out, why hasn’t she already done that and called for help? Doesn’t seem credible. Suggest he take it out.
“My lady, this is a rescue, not abduction,” I said. “And my nose is aristocratic, not ‘knife-nosed.’” Nice characterizing line.
She lifted her bound hands by way of reply.
I put on my best false smile. “Merely a precaution,” I said.
The coach jolted. I refrained from cursing the local despots who’d long ago stolen the paving stones from its surface to use in building their own crude palaces.
“Where are you taking me?” demanded the girl.
“To the Solarian Empire,” I said.
Outside her window, the pitted and cracked wall of Saba drifted past. I’d had quite enough of the place, thank you very much. I’d spent much of the past fortnight amid those stinking huts and weird temples, listening to eunuch priests prattle about their pagan deities. I’d negotiated with nearly naked hunters for ivory, and with black skinned merchants who smiled far too often as they sold their kin into servitude.
The view from the window on my side revealed a steeply rising unpopulated slope covered with bizarre orange grass and dotted with immense ebony boulders with crude faces carved into their surfaces. One of Saba’s priests had told me the stones were guardians set in place by the god Geb to guard his realm. If so, they hadn’t done a very good job.
“Suppose I don’t want to go,” said the girl.
“My Lady Bethany,” I said, “you have no choice. Nobility brings with it obligations. Obligation to empire is why your mother and father wed.” I refrained from mentioning the fratricidal bloodbath seven years after those nuptials which saw her brother and both parents slaughtered. Officially, she’d died along with them. Unofficially, there’d been doubts.
I also forbore mentioning my families interests did not align with those of the current imperial clan. It was possible my grandfather would see Bethany married to one of my cousins before turning her over to the emperor. It was also possible he might decide the best place for Bethany was an unmarked grave in the wilderness. Or he might simply decide to extract a few concessions. But his decision would have the Maximus family interests at heart.
We rounded a corner, approaching the main road from Saba’s gates. Now the broken bulk of Mount Radix loomed outside my window. The local cults forbade settlement on the mountain. One priest’s I’d spoken too claimed the mountain was Geb’s stronghold and the deity made the ground tremble beneath would be settler’s feet. A rival cultist informed me another deity had imprisoned Geb beneath the mountain, and the mountain shook as a result of his efforts to break free. I cared for neither myth. What I cared about was the galley I’d hired was waiting for my party in the cove on the mountains far side when I arrived. Officially, I was already on that galley, sailing north towards Ismara with ivory and slaves.
The coach slowed. Something was wrong.
A hard cracking sound filled the air. The floor tilted and turned into the wall. Bethany collapsed into a tight ball in the corner. My landing was undignified.
Screams and shouts rang from outside, along with the clash of metal on metal. From the sound of it, Casein was giving a good account of himself.
I popped the door open, stuck my head out, and nearly lost it to the blade of a hairy brute whose exposed skin was so pale a shade of pink it practically glowed.
My return thrust pierced him through the chest.
He fell backwards.
By the time I’d made it out of the toppled carriage, the fight was over.
I took in the scene. Casein bled from a nasty cut across his chest. Gerent held his side. Horace spat out dirt and stones. A solid wall of Saba’s residents lined the road, watching, pointing, and jabbering. All the horses had perished or run off in the attack.
“Titus,” said Casein. “There’s more behind this bunch.”
“Get the girl,” I said.
Gerent climbed atop the coach and lifted the door. I heard him mutter something.
“Stop mumbling and get the girl,” I shouted.
“She’s not here,” said Gerent.
“What? That’s impossible!”
I refrained from uttering a string of obscenities. Instead, I kicked the corpse of the man I’d slain. His body rolled over. My blood chilled. I was staring at the corpse of Carl DuFloret, a minor scion of a major imperial family. The Imperial Eyes would have hard questions about the demise of a ranking nobleman, even in a pesthole like Saba.
A trio of Saba’s elite citizens ran into the city, their brightly colored robes flapping. A nearly naked hunter with a bone through his nose took a step towards us, leaf bladed spear pointing in our direction.
We had to get out of here. We couldn’t stay on the road or reach the harbor. That left the mountain. I began scanning the slopes. Hopefully, fear of Geb would keep Saba’s denizens from following us.
Casein glared at the approaching hunter, who retreated into the mob. The hunter shouted something in a tribal dialect.
I remembered encountering Carl DuFloret’s older brother in Saba a few days earlier, preparing to hunt the giant lizards which roamed Mount Radix’s slopes. I was willing to wager giant lizards weren’t the only creatures he was looking for out here. He must have known about Bethany. Being an imperial loyalist to the core like the rest of his clan, he really would attempt to rescue the wayward princess.
A bit of movement on the slope above caught my attention. It was Bethany.
“There, my lord,” said Horace, pointing to a steeply climbing gully before us.
We began running towards the crevice.
The gully was just shy of vertical. Fortunately, there were abundant hand and footholds. Horace climbed without apparent effort, a talent developed during his housebreaking days. I followed, drawing on skills unused since my time in the legions.
A steep grassy slope dominated by giant black stones waited at the top of the cleft.
I stepped back from the cliff and took in the scene below.
A mob of Saba’s citizens stood outside the gate. I saw at least ten of the nearly naked hunters, bones through their noses and hair tied back in knots among them. Each carried a long spear and a sharp knife.
A large ragged band of footmen approached along the road from the still flaming manor, led by the peacock Eugene Parthenon, as impeccably mannered and utterly treacherous as the rest of his family.
Another party of hairy, pale skinned westerners emerged from Saba’s gate. I recognized Simon DuFloret’s tall frame in their midst.
The local gawkers fled at the sight of the chained vree held by two of Simon’s men, no doubt fearing the venom in the creature’s tentacles. I remembered those vree. DuFloret had been proud of acquiring the dog sized, six legged beasts with tentacles growing out of their heads, prattling on endlessly about the creatures tracking ability, and how difficult it was to train them. He’d been especially proud of the packs leader, an ancient beast the size of a pony.
The two groups converged at the fallen carriage. I expected a fight. Instead, they exchanged words.
The two bands were negotiating with each other! Utterly loyal Hairy Simon DuFloret stood before the treacherous, effete Free City nobleman, engaged in intense conversation.
“They won’t be getting those beasts up the crack we took,” said Casein.
“I found her trail,” said Gerent.
“We’ll follow her, then,” I said. “Maybe we can salvage something from this debacle yet.”
We began climbing the steep slope, following a faint trace past fractured stone blocks tall as castle towers.
The slope ended at the lip of a sheer drop into a swampy dell with an aroma reminiscent of an open sewer rising from its depths. My stomach churned at the stench. “It smells like droath,” I said, remembering the six legged house sized beasts from the war. The quartermasters valued the ugly things for their sheer pulling power, but they stank worse than a garbage pit mixed with a barn full of manure.
“No, not droath’s,” said Gerent. “I drove a droath cart in the legions. That’s thunder lizard stench.”
I remembered Simon saying he’d come to Saba to hunt thunder lizards. I also remembered a priest mentioning that thunder lizards were sacred to Geb.
“There’s a road,” said Casein, pointing at a dark line angling into the dell across from us.
“Her trail leads straight for it,” said Gerent, who’d knelt to the ground.
“Damn,” said Casein. “She’ll get us eaten by thunder lizards.”
I couldn’t decide if she was being stupid or smart. “We go after her,” I said.
We began working our way along the valley’s lip.
“My lord, we must hurry,” said Horace, tugging on my sleeve and pointing at the slope we’d just ascended. A large band of pale figures was visible at the bottom of the slope, Simon DuFloret plainly visible in their midst. Past them, outside Saba’s gate, half a dozen priests were haranguing a crowd of several hundred locals, many of them waving their traditional spears. I glimpsed smoke rising from several parts of the city. I doubted they were mere cook-fires.
We reached the road, a worn trace surfaced with black stones. Bethany’s trail followed it right into the pit. The road leveled out just above the bubbling green and brown fluid.
Gerent paused.
“Out with it, man,” said Casein. The stench was so bad his eyes watered.
“She went into the muck,” said Gerent, “but came right back out.”
“Why would she do something like that?” Casein demanded.
“To mask her scent from the thunder lizards.” I considered the glop while attempting to keep my stomachs contents in place. This woman thought more like an imperial scout than an imperial princess. I splashed some of the disgusting fluid on my arms and legs.
Gerent nodded approvingly. “Thunder lizards do track by scent,” he said, and applied a dose of the vile substance to his own garb.
Horace and Casein followed suit.
“Let’s press on,” I said.
Gerent obliged, and we followed the road along the edge of the crater until it ascended a short slope and turned sharply into a narrow gorge. The gorge ended in a round black hole twenty feet across, flanked by crude statues of lizards with huge maws, six legs, and long tales - thunder lizards. Great claw marks marred the ground where massive beasts had passed.
Casein stared at the tunnel mouth. “You’re not serious. She went in there?”
Gerent nodded ascent.
Horace tugged my sleeve. “My lord, they’ve reached the edge of the valley.”
I turned to Casein. “We don’t have a choice. We go in after her.”
“It’s dark in there,” Casein complained. “What will we do for light?”
I pointed at Gerent who held up a bundle of sticks with their ends wrapped in rags. “There’s a pile here at the entrance,” he said. He brought out a packet of precious matches and used one to set three of the torches ablaze.
We stepped into the dark.
The round tunnel ran straight. There were no intersections.
“There’s light ahead,” said Gerent, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“Is it her?” Casein asked.
I glared at him. “Of course it’s her. Who else would be in here with a light?”
I was wrong. The light came from a bubbling red pit in a large chamber at the end of the tunnel, with other round passageways leading from it. The chamber reeked of sulfur. Bethany stood next to an opening on the chambers far side, clenching a flickering torch, her filthy pale dress gleaming slightly in the gloom.
A six legged, scaled monster three times the size of a horse slept on a flat stone between her and us.
A faint racket sounded behind us, the sound of many men attempting to move silently and failing miserably.
We didn’t have a choice. We began skirting the cavern, keeping our distance from the sleeping thunder lizard.
I reached the Bethany’s ledge. She ignored me, her gaze fixated on the sleeping monster.
Hoping she wouldn’t cry out, I grabbed her arm. My hand passed right through her flesh. The dress fell to the ground. The girl’s image flickered and vanished.
I silently cursed.
Bethany was a witch! She’d used magic to escape the carriage.
I remembered similar sorcerous tricks from the war.
A clatter of steel on stone came from the passage we’d entered by, followed by a not silent enough oath.
The thunder lizard’s eyelids opened, revealing yellow orbs the size of my head.
The vree tore into the cavern, leaping for the thunder lizard’s throat. A roar that sounded like the trumpet of doom erupted from the creature’s throat, followed by high pitched cries as it squashed one vree flat and knocked a second into the magma with its armored tail. But more vree escaped its wrath, dodging claws, teeth, and tail, circling and leaping.
Behind the vree came men, carrying bright swords and long spears. The thunder lizard ignored the high pitched yaps of the vree and focused its attention on these new intruders. Then it leaped. Three men died in as many heartbeats, impaled by claws or crushed by jaws large enough to swallow a dog.
Simon appeared in the tunnel entryway. He ducked under the thunder lizard’s tail and dropped next to the magma pool.
My party retreated into the tunnel behind the false image.
The barest hint of movement from a third opening across the way caught my attention. I was willing to wager it was Bethany, watching the carnage she’d unleashed. But there was an angry thunder lizard between me and her.
Across the chamber Simon plunged his spear into the thunder lizard’s side. Its tail knocked him twenty feet in retaliation. Simon came to rest right at the mouth of the portal where I’d sensed movement. He saw something. A pale arm reached from the gloom.
A second warrior jabbed a spear into the thunder lizard. The thunder lizard swatted him into the magma.
More men entered the cavern, flanking the beast on both sides.
One of the vree wrapped itself around the giant reptile’s right rear foot.
Simon led Bethany from the shadows.
I ground my teeth in frustration. I lacked the men to fight either the thunder lizard or its executioners. If I remained, Simon would execute me once he’d finished with the thunder lizard. His prowess was legendary, along with the backwoods code of honor his clan adhered to. I doubted even Casein could match him.
One of the vree, the largest of the bunch, turned its attention from the thunder lizard to the tunnel where we crouched.
It leaped. Caseins sword flashed. The vree gurgled and died.
I turned and began working my way along the tunnel.
The clamor faded behind us.
At length, a dot of daylight appeared before us, which grew into a round opening. We stepped into another narrow valley with crude idols of thunder lizards and other monstrosities lining its slopes.
The view didn’t cheer me. I dreaded the tongue lashing awaiting me from grandfather. I feared he’d do more than that: he’d kept my cousin Quintus confined to his room for year for a much smaller blunder.
Casein noted my despondency. “Cheer up, Titus,” he said, smacking me on the back with a meaty paw which still stank of the swamp. “At least we won’t die in that pit now.”
“No,” said a new voice, “you will die out here.” Eugene Parthenon emerged from behind a nearby boulder, his clothes not stained or disheveled in the slightest.
More men popped out from behind other stones, some of them carrying bows.
“Murdering a member of the Solarian aristocracy is a poor idea,” I said. “Such acts have started wars.”
“I’m certain the thunder lizards will leave no evidence of homicide,” Eugene said. He nodded. The archers pulled back on their bow strings.
I looked for cover, and but saw nothing more than a shallow pit and a knee high boulder.
A scream rang out.
For a moment, I couldn’t figure out who’d screamed. An immense trumpet like roar sounded as a thunder lizard came running across the dell, one of Eugene’s men kicking feebly in its grasp.
Eugene turned and stared disbelievingly as the armored creature lifted a three toed foot the size of a tree trunk.
Before he could run, the foot came down, crushing him to bloody pulp.
A swipe of the monsters tail knocked a second man into a boulder. He slid to the ground, chest crushed, leaving a red stain on the grey rock.
Eugene’s remaining guards fled. One launched a single arrow at the beast before fleeing, which bounced off its scaled hide.
The thunder lizard paused and stared uncertainly in our direction. It sniffed.
My companions and I stood stock still, not daring to breathe.
The thunder lizard’s horse sized head shook. Then it spotted a man running down the hill and took off in pursuit.
I remembered to exhale. My body shook. “Let’s go home,” I said, considering the implications of both a dead solarian noble and a dead free cities aristocrat.
I have the privilege of conducting my Crafting a Killer First Page workshop at the very first Writer Unboxed Unconference this coming week in Salem, MA. The unconference is from November 3 through November 7 and features luminaries such as Donald Maass and other writing pros.
Get more information about the workshops and sessions being offered here.
This one should be even more fun than the others I do since I’ve been a contributor to the Writer Unboxed blog for, egads, 10 years, and WU has become quite a community. Many of the attendees will have seen my posts there over the years, and I theirs. I’m excited about meeting in person the people behind all the good writing I’ve read.
There are 11 seats left! There’s still room, and right now you have a chance for a $100 discount. Go here for the conference schedule and to register.
Submissions Needed. Nothing in the queue. 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
Stanley sends a first chapter of The Tapping I believe it’s intended for middle grade readers. The rest of the chapter follows the break.
Kathy first heard it the night of the picnic. She and her boyfriend, Bill, had spent the evening sitting around the campfire with their friends roasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories. It was now just past 11 p.m. and she had gone to bed. It had been a fun day, the picnic and all.
Kathy had always enjoyed scary stories, but the one about the tapping noise from the trapped coal miners had caused her to shiver with fear. It was good to be back home in her own bed. She needed the rest because she was going hiking early the next morning with Dawnese, Bill and Jeff to the Emery Hot Springs at the old mining camp. Kathy turned out the lights and drifted into sleep.
Just past midnight, Kathy stirred. She saw and heard the miners tapping on the walls of the tunnel, trying to get out before they suffocated. The roof of the tunnel had collapsed and the water was rising, trapping all 15 of the men. They scrambled for higher ground, but it was no use. .
Kathy woke up. She was shaking. Her pajamas were wet. Had she actually been there? Was it just a bad dream?
She checked the clock; it was 12:01am. "I must have been awaken by the chime of the clock in the hall," she thought.
This opening page (and the chapter) has storytelling issues that need to be worked on. It opens with a good deal of backstory and exposition and then leads into a dream, all things that tend to defuse tension. Then the character wakes up, and that’s about all that happens. There’s no real story question raised other than the wet pajamas, which, if true, could have been the start of something interesting—but the character ignores it. Later in the chapter she recounts her dream to her friends but doesn’t mention waking up wet. I passed. Notes:
Kathy first heard it the night of the picnic. She and her boyfriend, Bill, had spent the evening sitting around the campfire with their friends roasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories. It was now just past 11 p.m. and she had gone to bed. It had been a fun day, the picnic and all.The unattributed pronoun “it” at the beginning refers to something the reader doesn’t know, so it’s basically meaningless. And this opens with backstory instead of the “now” of what’s happening.
Kathy had always enjoyed scary stories, but the one about the tapping noise from the trapped coal miners had caused her to shiver with fear. It was good to be back home in her own bed. She needed the rest because she was going hiking early the next morning with Dawnese, Bill and Jeff to the Emery Hot Springs at the old mining camp. Kathy turned out the lights and drifted into sleep. A lot of “telling” and info dumping in this paragraph. What happens tomorrow doesn’t matter now. The list of names doesn’t add, either.
Just past midnight, Kathy stirred. She saw and heard the miners tapping on the walls of the tunnel, trying to get out before they suffocated. The roof of the tunnel had collapsed and the water was rising, trapping all 15 fifteen of the men. They scrambled for higher ground, but it was no use. .
Kathy woke up. She was shaking. Her pajamas were wet. Had she actually been there? Was it just a bad dream? Her pajamas are wet but she doesn’t react other than to notice it? If I woke up in bed with my pajamas wet, I’d get out of bed. Seems like the bed would be wet, too, but in the chapter she just stays in bed and goes back to sleep. Not credible to this reader.
She checked the clock; it was 12:01am. "I must have been awaken awakened by the chime of the clock in the hall," she thought.
Kathy laid her head down on the pillow and again started to drift into sleep. It was not long before she heard it again, the tapping sound. Was she back in the same dream? "No," she thought, "I am still awake." She listened closely. The tapping was coming from under her bed. She pulled the covers over her head and tried to go to sleep again. The tapping soon stopped, but she kept her head under the covers for the rest of the night, and vowed she would not listen to ghost stories ever again.
Suddenly, there was knocking, this time at the door. Kathy still had the covers over her head. Kathy's mother was saying, "Wake up, Kathy. Dawnese is on the phone." Kathy, blurry eyed, noticed it was morning. The sun was shining through the window.
Kathy's mother knocked again and said, "Kathy! Dawnese is on the phone."
"Yes, mom," Kathy responded sleepily, "tell her I'm coming." What a night it had been! She was sure it had just been a bad dream, but the tapping noise had sounded so real. She was still very sleepy. "What time is it?" she thought. "Seven thirty! I'm late!" They had planned to get everything ready at seven for an early start on the hike. Dawnese was probably calling to find out why she wasn't ready yet. Kathy threw on a robe and headed upstairs to the answer the phone.
Kathy was a happy girl of 14 with a long slender build, brown hair and eyes. Dawnese was just slightly younger. They had been friends for a long time and had just discovered fun things to do with boys. It was summer time and they didn't want to waste any of it.
"Yes, Dawnese," Kathy said with an apologetic tone, "I overslept. Those ghost stories last night at the campfire kept me from sleeping very well."
"You'll have to tell us all about it on the hike, but we late getting started already."
"Okay," said Kathy, "I'll hurry. Come on over. We can leave in about 10 minutes."
Kathy hung up the phone and quickly ran to the bathroom. Over her shoulder, she shouted to her mother, "Mom, can you make my sack lunch right away?"
Kathy quickly showered, unusual for her, and hurried off to her room. Her room was in the basement of the house built almost 50 years ago. It was dark and gloomy in some parts of the basement, but Kathy had painted her walls a lively yellow color and plastered pictures of mountain scenes and movie stars throughout the room. Linoleum squares covered the floor, but she had a large throw rug in the center of the room to add some warmth. Her bed was a big old fashion four-poster painted white. Kathy's bedspread was a lively plaid and gave the room a comfortable feeling.
Kathy turned on the radio as she picked out light blue shorts and blouse to wear. She would wear her sneakers and take a daypack with her. She and her friends planned to spend about three hours walking up Emery Gulch to the old mining camp. The area had a swimming hole with a hot spring feeding it. Living in the mountains at about 5000 feet elevation made many of the swimming areas too cold in early June. The hot springs made the water very comfortable this time of year.
Kathy picked out a white swimming suit and said to herself, "I hope this doesn't get too dirty at the Emery swimming hole." She finished dressing and made one more quick glance at the mirror to see how she looked. She heard the knock on the front door upstairs, and quickly left her room; bed unmade, and slammed her door as she darted up the stairs to her waiting friend.
"Hi, Kathy," said Dawnese, "I see you are ready."
"Yes. How is my lunch coming, Mom?"
"It’s ready. I packed you two tuna sandwiches, a granola bar, an apple, and soda. Anything else you want, dear?"
"No, Mom, the lunch is just fine."
There was a knock at the door. Kathy said, "Come on in Bill."
As he opened the door, Jeff said, "Do I look like Bill? Of course, I am better looking!"
"Not so fast, Jeff," said Bill as he pushed his way inside. "Are you girls ready to go yet?"
It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining and just cool enough to make the walking enjoyable. Kathy look at Bill. He was tall, thin and muscular. At 16 he had hint of a mustache, brown hair and brown eyes. Her mother said she was too young to date so these group activities gave her time to spend with Bill, even if they were not alone.
"I wonder how the Emery swimming hole fared this last winter," Bill wondered aloud.
"I am sure the hot water will feel just fine," Kathy said. "I can't wait to go swimming again."
"Did you learn any new strokes in school last year, Kathy?" asked Jeff.
"I sure did," said Kathy. "I learned to do the breaststroke. I also did a few backflips, but they are still a little scary."
"I can give you a few instructions," said Bill.
"Thanks,” said Kathy as she smiled at him.
They walked in silence for a few minutes as they opened the gate through Olsen's yard and started walking towards the Gulch. Emeryville had been a coal mining town in early 1900's but several mining accidents had closed down the mines. It had been just too expensive to reopen them, although there had been recent talk about opening up the mines using newly available extraction methods. Kathy's grandfather had been a miner, but he had died several years ago. Kathy's father was an engineer and felt it might be possible to make money on the mines again. He believed there were gold and other valuable minerals still present in the mine.
There were many superstitious people in this old mining town. There were some who said they had heard the cries of the dead when the mine collapsed in 1917. They were afraid of the ghost of the dead men from the mine. Times were changing and less of the people believed old tale.
"Kathy," said Dawnese, "you were going to tell about your dream last night."
"What dream?" asked Jeff.
"Well," said Kathy, "you know we told ghost stories around the campfire last night. Some of those stories seem just too real to me, especially with the old timers still talk about the night of the mine collapse. When I went to bed last night, I must have still been thinking about the Emeryville Ghosts because I woke up last night about midnight."
"Yes, go on!" said Bill.
"It is hard to describe. Spooky! My room was dark. The moon must have gone behind a cloud. The room was deathly quiet. I felt as if I was in a cave and there was no way out. Now, you know I am not afraid of caves, but this was different. I heard the tapping of the miners’hammers and the distance sound of those trying to reach us. I could feel the water getting higher and higher, and I struggled to breath. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't!"
"Scary," said Dawnese.
"Strange," said Bill, "we have told those stories many times before and nobody had those types of dreams.
"What did you do, Kathy?" asked Jeff.
"I covered my head and tried to go back to sleep. I was even too scared to try to turn on my light."
"I would be too," said Dawnese. "Could you get any sleep?"
"No, it was strange. Occasionally I heard a tapping noise again. It seemed to be under my bed."
"Were you asleep?" asked Bill.
"I must have been because there couldn't be a real noise under my bed," said Kathy slowly, but she was not sure herself. "Let's talk about something else, please."
I’m only a proof and a couple of weeks away from publishing Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling, a sorta-new writing craft book.
My original book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells, is now out of print. I’ve gone through it to polish the content, reorganized it completely, and added new content and examples. It still feels good to me, and it seems I’m in good company: a couple of quotes from Amazon reviewers on the original about what's in my book(s):
“This is one of the outstanding 'how-to' books about writing. I keep it right beside two other favorites, Self-Editing for Fiction Writers by Dave King and Renni Browne and On Writing by Stephen King.”
“Ray’s . . . advice on experiential description is on par with Donald Maass's 'micro tension' advice—critical to delivering top-shelf writing.”
Why a new version with a new title and new cover?
By going from 8.5” by 11” to a 5.5” by 8.5” trade paperback, the new size lowers the price—$16.99 versus $21.95—and may make it more convenient for writers to have in their bookshelves. At 320 pages, it should look something like the 3D image at the bottom of this post.
The change in print format also enabled conversion to ebooks, too, so there will be a Kindle edition published at the same time. Maybe an epub too, but I’m focused on Kindle for now.
By the way, did you know that you can get a free Kindle reader for a PC or a Mac that enables you to read a Kindle book on your computer? Same goes for epub (Nook) ebooks, too, with Adobe Digital Editions.
New title? I’m hoping that a more benefit-oriented title will attract more readers.
New cover? I felt the original wasn’t all that good and needed refreshing.
And I’m hoping the new ebook formats will also reach more readers.
Want to receive a free Kindle ebook in return for a review?
On Amazon, the new version won’t be able to bring to its pages all the amazingly positive reviews of the original. While it can point to the old FtQ page, it would be good to have fresh reviews—if, of course, they’re positive. But that’s the chance all authors take.
If you want a free beta Kindle version to read for review purposes, please email me. I’ll let you know when the book is officially published and has a page on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.
Submissions Needed. Nothing 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
George sends the first chapter of Guardians.
The City lay in darkness under a full moon and a cloudless sky. A thousand armored vehicles of the Guardians of Peoples’ Rights patrolled a city so vast that it was sectioned off into forty eight self-sustaining districts. Equal in every respect to the armored ground vehicles, a thousand drones flew above the rooftops of the high-rise apartment buildings. Together they assured the citizens a safe and peaceful slumber.
Corporal Joe Higgins sat behind the wheel of Ground Patrol Vehicle 688, District 9 (GPV688D9), trying to keep his eyes focused on the wide and deserted avenue before him. On top of the armored vehicle a camera slowly rotated 360 degrees. Accompanying its wide-angle rotating lens were three-sensor pods; one detecting sound, another heat and a third, motion. Should any of these sensors go active, the camera would stop and its lens would focus on the direction of the disturbance. Activation of any sensor also armed the machine guns mounted on a turret atop the rear compartment of the vehicle. He glanced
at the clock on the dashboard and smiled. This part of his watch was coming to an end. He neared an intersection, shifted gears and slowed his vehicle to a stop in the center. Higgins unbuckled and shifted to the passenger seat.
Sergeant Wells emerged from the rear compartment, dropped onto the driver’s seat and buckled in.
Good clear writing but where’s the tension? A story question? In this opening page all is well. There’s no problem for the characters to deal with. All the world-building, while necessary in science fiction to some extent, could wait until something happens to start the story moving. As you’ll see in my notes, I think most of it should go, at least from this page. They are attacked; why not begin that on the first page? The rest of the chapter follows the break.Notes:
The City lay in darkness under a full moon and a cloudless sky. A thousand armored vehicles of the Guardians of Peoples’ Rights patrolled a city so vast that it was sectioned off into forty eight self-sustaining districts. Equal in every respect to the armored ground vehicles, a thousand drones flew above the rooftops of the high-rise apartment buildings. Together they assured the citizens a safe and peaceful slumber. Good use of shallow POV to set the scene.
Corporal Joe Higgins sat behind the wheel of Ground Patrol Vehicle 688, District 9 (GPV688D9), trying to keep his eyes focused on the wide and deserted avenue before him. On top of the armored vehicle a camera slowly rotated 360 degrees,. Accompanying its wide-angle rotating lens were three-sensor pods; one detecting sound, another heat and a third, motion.Should any of these sensors go active, the camera would stop and its lens would focus on the direction of the disturbance. Activation of any sensor also armed the machine guns were mounted on a turret atop the rear compartment of the vehicle.He glanced at the clock on the dashboard and smiled. This part of his watch was coming to an end. He neared an intersection, shifted gears and slowed his vehicle to a stop in the center. Higgins unbuckled and shifted to the passenger seat.
Sergeant Wells emerged from the rear compartment, dropped onto the driver’s seat and buckled in. I would cut most of the above—it’s detail that’s not needed now or, really, later. The sensors mentioned do come into play, but when it happens they are a natural part of the machine and don’t really need explanation or set-up, in my view. I suggest that George get to the place where they’re attacked, and do it on the first page. The world-building that takes the place of something happening can wait—get to the story.
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
Iziah sends a first chapter, title unknown.
PETER LOOKED UP from his office area as he heard approaching footsteps. The unfamiliar man caught his eye and hefted a package forward.
“It’s a heavy one, Peter.” He placed the box on the desk. Peter thanked the delivery man as he walked away. An occasional thank you letter or financial report made its way into his mailbox, but this package was too big to be either. He lifted the box and moved it up and down to note its weight. He moved it closer to read the sticker.
To: Peter Winecrest
Kane/Goldstein Tech Co.
San Fernando, CA
From: The Time Traveler
Hmm. Peters' coworkers knew of his addiction to the more unknowable things in life, and of his impractical interests. His drawers were filled with Science magazines, and the more fantastic fiction.
He ran to the door and looked down the hallway.
“Hey Jane, did you see that delivery man come through?”
“He left already—kinda funny fella,” she screeched. He grunted and shut his door.
What a joke. A time traveler, Peter thought, as he plopped down in his chair. A (snip)
This opening works at injecting some tension here with the mysterious appearance of the delivery man and the curious “From” part of the address label but, for me, it didn’t get the job done. The story questions raised are pretty minor, to me, and there’s no suggestion of a problem ahead for Peter. And there were writing craft issues that foreshadow more to come. It seems to me that there’s an interesting story, judging from some of the elements in the chapter, but the storyline wandered and spent valuable words on set-up that didn’t impact the NOW of the story. Having introduced the mysterious package, it seems to me that the story needs to stay with that. The contents are briefly set up to be intriguing, but then they are left behind for other events that aren’t related. Notes on the opening page:
PETER LOOKED UP from his office areadesk as he heard approaching footsteps approached. The An unfamiliar man caught his eye and hefted a package forward. “office area” was unclear, and it turns out he’s in an office (has a door). “he heard” is a filter that distances readers from what’s happening. And there was some overwriting.
“It’s a heavy one, Peter.” He placed the box on the desk.
Peter thanked the delivery man as he walked away. An occasional thank you letter or financial report made its way into his mailbox, but this package was too big to be either. He lifted the box and moved it up and down to note its weight. He moved it closer to read the sticker. This is overwriting, the inclusion of detail that really doesn’t matter to the story.
To: Peter Winecrest
Kane/Goldstein Tech Co.
San Fernando, CA using valuable lines for an address sees a waste to me. look for another way to get to the “From.” It could be as simple as simply saying, Peter read the sticker. It said the package was from “The Time Traveler.”
From: The Time Traveler
Hmm. Peters' coworkers knew of his addiction to the more unknowable things in life, and of his impractical interests. His drawers were filled with Science science magazines, and the more fantastic fiction.Feels like it’s missing a conclusion—is he thinking it’s a prank?
He ran to the door and looked down the hallway.
“Hey Jane, did you see that delivery man come through?”
“He left already—kinda funny fella.,” she screeched. He grunted and shut his door. I see no reason to have her screech, and a dialogue tag isn’t needed as we know who says this. Since the man is gone and Jane doesn’t really reveal much about him, this isn’t necessary. Get on with what’s in the mysterious package.
What a joke. A time traveler, Peter thought, as he plopped down in his chair. A (snip)
Yep, I've sold out the first printing of Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells and, rather than reprint, I'm coming out with a new-and-improved version.
In November, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling updates and expands the content of the old FtQ. The book is completely reorganized, the original content polished and expanded, and new material has been added.
But wait, there's more!
Print format: 5.5" x 8.5" trade paperback, 320 pages (not the 8.5" x 11" of FtQ)
Ebook formats: will be available in Kindle and epub
Insterested in pre-ordering for a discounted price? Tell me if you're interested in pre-ordering the print edition--I would set up discounted prices for books purchased through my website. I'm not sure about the ebooks yet as I'm considering doing the Amazon Select program for promotional reasons and couldn't sell ebooks myself for 90 days.
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
Jack sends the prologue and first chapter of Amethyst: Stocks & Mods Book One. The full narrative follows the break.
The story of how my sister took over the world probably starts with a brawl in a bar, eighty years ago. Not a brawl my sister was involved in, naturally, for she was only nine years old at the time. But Moira was the reason I was there, in that bar, and my being there is why Yvonne Lambert was there.
To tell you about Moira, I have to tell you Yvonne’s story, too. And not just because it was Yvonne who started the brawl. And not just because Yvonne and I fell in love.
This meeting in the bar, followed by the brawl, was my and Yvonne’s first date. We called it that after we were together, anyway, both appreciating the irony of a “first date” that resulted in minor injuries, a night in jail and my banishment from civilization.
It was on Aldrin, specifically its inland mountain resort town Montessecchi. Yvonne had a spacecraft she was willing to hire out for twelve months. So were a lot of other people with spacecraft, but this trip would be hell and gone from anyplace else, and would also be illegal. From what little I knew of her before we met -- reputation algorithm, her vid advertising her ship for hire -- Yvonne seemed like she would be open to the idea. In fact, I half expected her to be enthusiastic about it. The illegal part, at least.
Aldrin back then was a lot like it is now: a vacation destination for the filthy rich. Its reason for being was its four spectacular resorts, attracting a wealthy transient population.
This opening page promises a lot of fun to me. The voice is strong and inviting, the prose is clear and clean, and the story suggested by the very first line sounds like one I want to read. While it “breaks” many of the guidelines for an opening page, does that matter if it’s compelling? It doesn't.
The narrative does slip into a little backstory and set-up that I think could be pruned somewhat, and I would find a way to avoid a clear signal of set-up happening on the first page as it is. There’s a lot of conversation regarding the protagonist’s plan, and I think it could also be trimmed, but it’s interesting stuff that drew me deeper and deeper into the story. Other than a tiny comma issue here and there, I don’t have any notes on this one, but I do recommend that you read on. Thanks, Jack, for some fun on a Friday.
Permanent residents were blue collar workers, most of whose livelihood involved supporting the resorts and their customers. My parents, my sister and I -- we were in the “wealthy transient” category -- spent a few months every other year at Montessecchi. Truthfully, before age nineteen I had never given any thought to the natives on Aldrin. If you’ve never been to one, you would be surprised at how smoothly a resort can run without anybody doing any visible work.
To give you an idea of how well-off my parents were: I had no idea where they got or how they made money. To this day, I can’t tell you concisely what it was that Padraig and Melissa Galvin did.
We were Stock, of course. Back then, if you were Stock, it almost went without saying that you were wealthy. That’s something that has changed since eighty years ago.
I had never been to Montessecchi -- the town, as opposed to the resort -- and Yvonne had never been to the resort. Rigidly self-reliant, constantly agitated, with no patience for leisure, I don’t know what she would have done with herself in a resort. Or what the resort would have done with her. So in a way, by meeting in Pat’s, the bar, we were meeting on her turf.
It was a lot darker on the inside than out, and when I came in out of the low evening sun my eyes (being Stock) had to adjust. The place was brimming with loud, rough people just off work, most of them only just down off the mountain. Voices were raised to be heard over other voices, the ones that weren’t raised because the speaker was half drunk already. The place smelled like peanut shells and body odor. You couldn’t have walked five feet without having to maneuver around somebody.
Growing up, a roomful of off-the-shelf Mods always looked to me like copy after copy of the same person. Not that I was in a roomful of Mods all that often.
Off-the-shelf Mods back then, in general, and in Pat’s, in particular, were right around the same height, weight and body type as others of their gender -- and you had to squint to see the difference between the genders. Their complexions ran the gamut from coffee with one cream to coffee with three creams. Dark hair. Bland, unremarkable facial structure and features. Amethyst-purple eyes -- that was the law. All of it came in the same box with disease resistance, improved cardio and pulmonary, 20/5 vision, all the in utero improvements the Government picked up the tab for.
The upshot of all this was that in a working-class bar at happy hour, I was conspicuous. I was gawky, pasty, and I was the wrong size and shape, on top of being obviously nervous.
I didn’t know if I had arrived before or after Yvonne, but I soon spotted her. She stood out, too, for very different reasons. Yvonne was a Mod, but not like the seventy-five percent of humanity that nineteen-year-old me couldn’t tell apart.
Yvonne was military grade.
She had been engineered thirty years earlier to serve as a Marine on Tereshkova once she was old enough. Tereshkova: a huge, mostly water world, baked by lethal radiation.
Her hair was blond enough to pass as white, and she had a bluish tint to her skin, spattered with thousands (I could much later confirm) of lighter flecks, which she called her “reverse freckles.” It was coloring that meant Tereshkova’s radiation didn’t cook her. She was shorter than off-the-shelf Mods, and thicker, for a lower center of gravity – dimensions that meant Tereshkova’s gravity didn’t crush her.
Despite her size she didn’t seem shrunken, compared to everybody else. Right away you could see she had unusual physical strength, and the potential for the surprise violence of a coiled spring. It was like she had been packed into too small a container.
Today, it might take some effort to spot her in a crowded tap room. Back then, she was like a flash reflection of sunlight off ice.
She was seated at a tiny, two-person table closer to the entrance than the back, facing me, watching me look for her. She smiled a pudgy smile as I approached.
I had rehearsed our entire conversation a dozen times -- I’m not the extemporaneous type. But I realized to my horror that I hadn’t decided what the very first words I would say to her would be: “Ms. Lambert?” “Corporal Lambert?” “Yvonne?” I blurted out the first one. One side of her mouth curled upwards and she said, “Mr. Galvin.” I told her just Galvin -- everybody called me Galvin, unless their last name was also Galvin.
I pulled out the chair opposite her, but froze halfway down. I’m sure I looked like somebody who suddenly remembered something I’d almost forgotten. That’s what I was. Yvonne was puzzled, and cocked her head a little. I extended my right arm toward her, stiffly formally, as for a handshake. She smiled and extended her own.
I gripped her hand firmly and said, “Shepard, pension, research, resort, disinter, fairy godmother, agency, bank, obstacle, refund, Morrisonite.” Yvonne mimed a solemn frown and nodded, as though I’d introduced myself as the Prince of Whatever.
My ears were hot and I’m sure red as beets, for I had not only almost forgotten to do that, but I had also neglected to explain in advance. I pawed around for a piece of paper in my breast pocket, one that I was supposed to have shown her before the handshake/nonsense words bit. I found it, took it out, and with conspicuous inconspicuousness I pushed it toward her on the table. It said,
WE NEED TO EXCHANGE CIPHERS
Which we had done, and so the tense was wrong. Believe me, I was keenly aware of each little thing that wasn’t going as well as rehearsal. Yvonne glanced at the note, fished a pen out of her bag, wrote on a paper napkin and pushed it to my side. (I had finally sat down.)
I KNOW
I was thrown off; of course, it wouldn’t have taken much. The important thing was that we could talk, and what we said would be recorded, analyzed, synthesized -- it was a public place, and back then, that’s what happened in public places -- but certain words that would have flagged a Government techie to take a closer listen would be replaced by Shepard, pension, research and so on. The physical exchange, through our “handshake,” meant that our Cereboosts would make us say, out loud, the replacement words instead of the ones I wanted replaced, but we would understand one another.
Yvonne’s nonchalance was startling because nobody I knew had ever used that kind of tech, besides myself. I would learn to appreciate more and more in the years to come that I didn’t know that wide a variety of people at nineteen.
“How did you --” I had to ask, sputtering before I could get it out.
She smiled again. Yvonne didn’t have a disarming smile, and never a smug one. Her smile was utilitarian, almost always used solely for the purposes smiles were invented. For instance, at that moment it was involuntary, and reflected amusement. “Not my first…” she said, and pointed back and forth to the words on my note, CIPHER and EXCHANGE.
The more ill-at-ease and out of my element I seemed, the better chance Yvonne would take me seriously. I told myself that, anyway. Would I go through all this for something that wasn’t important?
“Nice place,” she said, making a show of looking around. “We’re in Stock vacationland, and you pick a bar that’s lousy with Mods.”
“No one here is likely to run to the Government [agency, is what my Cereboost made me say out loud] with what they overhear,” I said.
I always felt guilty when I met a Mod for the first time, being part of a family that had a ridiculous amount of money and plenty of influence, including with the Government. The thought embarrassed me, and my ears bloomed again. Yvonne rescued me by getting right down to business.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Laika.” Shepard, is what I said out loud.
“What’s there?”
“Nothing, right now. In a year or so there will be three thousand settlers [pensioners] living there.”
“Including you?”
I did need her to take me seriously, that was true. I had thought about saying “yes” to this question, was I going to Laika myself. But I thought I had a better chance of getting her to trust me if I told her the truth. “No.”
“So you’re some kind of broker?”
In time I would explain to Yvonne why I got involved with the “Laika 3000” project -- because of Moira -- and Yvonne, being Yvonne, would understand that that was half the truth, that what I was really doing was sticking it to my parents, like most late-teens do, and in such a way as to not actually jeopardize all the goodies I got for being a Stock in a Stock family. This being our “first date,” I dodged. I had to raise my voice over an adjacent table of six that had gotten boisterous. “This has been planned for more than two years, and I’ve been involved since the beginning.” A little defensive.
“What’s been planned? I mean, right, three thousand settlers, but why them, and why there?”
This part, I had rehearsed over and over. “It’s a wildcat colony. [Fairy godmother.] People who would rather be out from under the Government’s thumb than live off its scraps.”
“Wildcat colonies don’t work.” Yvonne had helped clean one up as a Marine: it involved letting the colonists clear the land, build a rudimentary infrastructure, and just start to get comfortable, then arresting and imprisoning them all. Then the Government settled new people there, subject to its rules, and under its watchful eye, and stamp of approval.
That was the clinical description, anyway. Yvonne’s experience “cleaning up” a wildcat colony on Tereshkova was not clinical. She herself had been directly guilty of no more than indifference to the dignity of the wildcat colonists. But it was the kind of indifference that when you’re older makes you wonder how you were ever at peace with who you were, and makes you worried that somewhere inside, you’re still that person.
“This one will work. No one’s been to Laika in seventy-five years.”
“They haven’t had a wildcat colony to go arrest.” Disinter.
I was in a groove. “It’s weeks out of the way from anywhere. It’s not even useful for military purposes.”
Yvonne was not yet convinced that I was an expert on military matters. “Until you clean the place up and make it presentable.”
“Three thousand people. We’re keeping it that small on purpose. If it were twenty or thirty thousand, then the Government might find some use for it. They won’t bother.”
“How big do you think wildcat colonies usually are?”
I bloomed, and shrugged.
“What kind of people?”
“I’m sorry?”
“These settlers. Who are they?”
“Mods. Off-the-shelf, government subsidized.”
“That’s ninety-five percent of humanity.”
“Ninety-one and a half are Mods, that’s what you’re thinking of. Only seventy-five percent are Government subsidized. Three thousand of them want to go live on Laika.”
“Just Mods, huh? Nothing else in common?”
“Mods who don’t think they gave up their basic human rights when their parents decided to make them healthier, stronger and smarter.”
“How many criminals?”
Jesus, I thought, having slipped out of this groove as quickly as I always seemed to. This conversation was ten times easier when it was just me having it with myself. “None.”
A raised eyebrow.
“None! None are... violent criminals.”
An eye roll.
“Look, there are a lot more than three thousand people interested in going. If you have done anything that physically harmed another person, you don’t make the cut. Period.”
“I’ve killed people, and you want to pay me to be involved.”
“Not...” I made a frustrated sound. “Not military. Criminals. Military gets you to the front of the list.”
“Is that a good idea for a bunch of people who don’t like authority?”
“You have to have -- you have to be serious about what we’re doing. To be considered at all. If you are, and if you have military or relevant civilian experience with, you know, survival, infrastructure, organization, then you... ”
“Can kill as many people as you want?”
Here I ground my teeth and shook my head. Maybe I ground my teeth and shook my head the last time and made a frustrated sound here. I don’t remember. But Yvonne started to feel sorry for me at that point. And I didn’t only learn that well after the fact, I could tell then and there. When Yvonne smelled your blood, she was ruthless, and mine was all over the place. Yet I could see her face soften. She strategically retreated.
She only felt a little sorry for me, though -- she wasn’t going to spend a year of her life being an accessory to the crime of establishing a wildcat colony on a forbidden planet if we weren’t serious. Nevertheless, she called off the dogs.
“When do you want to leave?”
“September.”
“Laika is...” She looked up, figuring. “... five months....”
“Twenty weeks, but yeah.”
She glared at me. Not for the last time. “Twenty weeks, then. I can carry forty people for twenty weeks, not including me and two or three crew. That’s not a huge bite out of three thousand.”
“We’re looking at forty- to fifty-person ships now because we’ve got a bunch of Watson carriers and one-hundred- to two-hundred-person craft committed already. We’ll be about fifteen to twenty spacecraft, all told.”
This was good news, in Yvonne’s effort to decide if we were -- if I was -- serious. Still: “A bunch and about? How do you do math with numbers like that?”
Now I glared. For close to the last time. “Three Watsons, four-fifty apiece. Six other craft that average one-eighty. One hundred fifty on three other smaller craft, like yours. That’s two thousand, five hundred eighty. Working on three other one-fifty-some-person ships, at least one of which we’ll get. We’re buying another, for which we may need to hire a pilot, who can then keep you company on the ride home, if you want. And four other people are having conversations right now similar to this one with other captains of ships your size. Then we’ll have more of them if we need to. The math works out.”
That it did. “I pick the forty.”
As she said this, my chair was violently jostled, and I almost spilled onto the floor. The noise the table of six was making was getting louder, and one of the six had rammed his chair into mine whilst getting up.
“What was that?”
“I pick the forty people that go on my spacecraft.”
“No.”
My refusal impressed her, I think. She would have to insist on some form of vetting, but that wouldn’t hold anything up, at this point. “My contract will have the number 40 in it, bold and in bright red.” She was having to shout, now. “Person number 41 does not board.”
“Not a problem.”
“Under any circumstances. Forty will be crowded, but comfortable. I’m not spending five months of my life elbowing my way through fifty people stacked one on top of the other.”
At this I nodded solemnly, looking her square in the eye. It would end up being fifty, we both anticipated, when this or that ship fell through at the last minute. Yvonne was so certain of it that her cost analysis of this proposal would include the 50 percent increase in her fee for the 25 percent increase in people right off the bat. So, about that fee…
My chair was rammed again, this time by an arm. The Mod who did it loomed over me, a little unsteadily but none the smaller for it, and shouted a faux apology in a mocking, sing-song voice: “Sorry, Stock boy. Am I ruining your date?” He was drunk (already!), and leveled a menacing stare at Yvonne, whom he likely took for Stock, too, on account of her unusual shape and color.
So she showed him her eyes. Mods back then, as I’ve said, were required to have eyes colored an amethyst shade of purple, and this was no less true for custom Mods like Yvonne. Hers were a little lighter than normal, a sort of pastel shade, in kind with the rest of her coloring, but there was no mistaking their purpleness.
Showing the drunk she was a Mod may or may not have diffused the situation, but Yvonne had decided to do so by pointing to her eye with her middle finger, the other three curled down. There was no mistaking that, either.
A couple of the drunk’s friends were up now, too, and one grabbed my chair and shook it. This time, I did tumble out of it.
Yvonne stood, almost casually. It was my turn to strategically retreat, by which I mean I remained on the greasy floor of Pat’s.
“You don’t like Stocks? Aren’t you on kind of the wrong planet?” She addressed none of the three in particular.
One replied, sizing her up, “Aren’t you kind of a freak?”
“That’s what we called ourselves, in the 11th Artillery Regiment.” This was not true: they called themselves Bluebirds. But be that as it may. I was frozen on the floor, my arm comically (it seems to me now) up to block anything coming at my head. I gawked at Yvonne, and it occurred to me to wonder whether letting someone who didn’t back down from potential bar brawls fly forty people to Laika was wise.
“They let you in the Army?” one of the drunk Mods (there were now five, at least, up and hovering) spat. “For what, Fun Size? 'Cause you could blow the soldiers standing up?”
Yvonne’s expression never wavered. “Marines.”
The drunk started to blurt what was sure to be another hilarious put-down, but he never got it out, because Yvonne punched him in the face, hard enough to loosen at least two teeth.
The din of the tavern had died right before that, as everybody’s attention was pulled toward the disagreement. Now it erupted, and Yvonne was set upon by at least three drunks, but only temporarily: they were off her, and sprawled on the floor, almost before they could make fists. I scrabbled away, still on the floor, backwards. Like a crab, I remember thinking.
One of the drunks Yvonne had set down had put a shoulder into someone at another table on his way to the floor. That table (of three), likely predisposed to take the side of the “normal” Mods, all things being equal, nonetheless picked out the drunks to pair off with and start beating. Yvonne had made it obvious that all things weren’t equal.
Maybe a dozen others surged toward the brawl from behind me, and I was thumped and battered by knees and shins. I finally worked my way upright and behind a post supporting the ceiling, where I could peek around to watch. Yvonne already had a bruise blooming under her right eye– with her pigment, she liked to say, she bruised if somebody sneezed on her. But she was far from the worst for wear. She pounded anybody who found themselves in front of her with such dispatch that for a few moments, she actually ran out of people to beat.
Around her, forearms and fists pushed their way at and around heads. Silverware and plates and glasses clattered to the floor as tables were shoved and upended. Waiters and waitresses cowered behind the bar, but someone who might have been a manager was trying to shout everybody calm. It wasn’t working. This went on for maybe five minutes.
Then all at once the surge of people seemed to reverse and come back towards me, and I ducked behind the post out of its way. Brawlers who were ambulatory and not tangled with anybody made haste for a rear exit, as were those few patrons who had been uninvolved in the melee. I soon saw why: three Justice cops in combat gear had arrived at the entrance and were pulling brawlers apart, occasionally zapping them with stunners, though they seemed to prefer using their armored limbs and legal impunity to subdue.
As I tried to shrink all the way behind my post more cops arrived, and more customers, brawlers and otherwise, tried to escape out the back. One such fell sideways as he went by me, and knocked me back down to the floor. There I decided to stay, again, this time covering my head with both arms.
The cops hadn’t quite subdued everybody when I was yanked up by my arm to stand. It was one of the cops, who got a look at me, realized I was Stock, and roughly escorted me toward the front entrance, shouldering a colleague and a couple of restrained brawlers out of our way. As I was propelled forward I was able to look back to see Yvonne bent over a table by a policeman, who had wrenched her arms behind her back. Her face was to me, and she grinned when she caught my eye. She shouted something I couldn’t hear or lip-read -- later, she told me it was “nine hundred credits per person per light year!”-- and the cop restraining her jostled her to shut her up.
Then I and the policeman were outside. The cop let go of me, and even held up his hands, palms forward, as if to apologize and say he meant no harm. He jerked his head the other direction, away from the tavern. “You ought to get out of here,” he said. He hesitated, seeming to hope I wouldn’t argue or, worse, yell at him for treating me roughly, then he turned and loped back in to the tap room.
I stood staring at the entrance for a bit. I was as convinced as I ever had been that 3,000 Laika settlers had the right idea, getting away from all this.
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
Kelsey sends the prologue and first chapter of Blood Walkers, which reads like a YA fantasy to me. The full narrative follows the break.
The young witch skimmed her fingertips across the bowl of blood. She muttered an incantation and wherever she touched the blood it turned black. When the entire surface shone like midnight, she dumped it into another bowl filled with flowers. The petals withered but did not completely shrivel into themselves like last time. They were supposed to turn to dust.
Bryn wiped her hand with a wet rag then flung it across the room. She grabbed at the crown of her tangled hair, swearing under her breath.
“By the goddess!”
The crystal clock above her bed tinkled twelve times. It was time for the midday meal in the great hall. Bryn wouldn’t have to put on a smile to hide the failure weighing down on her shoulders since she had never before had a reason to be cheerful in her life.
She sat down on a worn, backless bench at a long wooden table with other witches her age. She grabbed a piece of grainy bread and ladled thick soup into her bowl. She dipped her bread in. The seedy taste mingled with the sweet and smoky flavour of the soup.
“Did you hear the news today?” Syam asked. She was an acquaintance of everyone in the coven, even Bryn.
“No.” Bryn said, staring at her soup.
Syam turned to eye her; she clearly hadn’t been talking to Bryn.
We’re introduced to a likeable character in an effective way, but the tension quickly fades to having lunch for what’s happening in the now of the story. There was a level of overwriting—the use of micro-detail that doesn’t bear on story—that foreshadows problems with the narrative craft ahead. The rest of the chapter, except for the very last paragraph which launches a cliffhanger, is set-up and world-building, but there’s no real jeopardy for Bryn nor are story questions with consequences raised. I suggest starting as close to the incident as you can, which I suspect happens in the next chapter. I think Kelsey also need to take pains to make sure that she differentiates this world with that of Harry Potter, which is also a school for witches and has a great hall with benches, etc. My notes:
TheyoungwitchBryn skimmed her fingertips across the bowl of blood. She muttered an incantation and wherever she touched the blood it turned black. When the entire surface shone like midnight, she dumped it into another bowl filled with flowers. The petals withered but did not completely shrivel into themselves like last time. They were supposed to turn to dust. Good opening in many ways, characterizes the protagonist and lets us in on the magic. “Young” is a relative word and, since we don’t know young compared to what, it’s essentially meaningless. In the world of witches, forty could be young. Look for another way to suggest her age. Also, this stops short of setting the scene in terms of letting us know where she is. It could be as simple as an opening phrase such as: In the coven laboratory, Bryn skimmed her fingertips . . . etc. Also, since her actions pretty much shows her witchiness, I’d start with her name.
Bryn wiped her hand with a wet rag then flung it across the room. She grabbed at the crown of her tangled hair, swearingswore under her breath. Grabbing at the crown of her hair is excess detail that doesn’t move the story. Keep it simple on the opening page. We don’t need to know the state of her hair, and it doesn’t affect the story.
“By the goddess!”
The crystal clock above her bed tinkled twelve times. It was time for the midday meal in the great hall. Bryn wouldn’t have to put on a smile to hide the failure weighing down on her shoulders since she had never before had a reason to be cheerful in her life.
SheIn the hall, she sat down on a worn, backless bench at a long wooden table with other witches her age. She grabbed a piece of grainy bread and ladled thick soup into her bowl. She dipped her bread in. The seedy taste mingled with the sweet and smoky flavour of the soup. I see this description of her food as overwriting. Description should have something to do with characterization or the story, even in setting the scene. This doesn’t clear that hurdle. Needed a little transition at the opening of the paragraph.
“Did you hear the news today?” Syam asked.She was an acquaintance of everyone in the coven, even Bryn.Rather than use precious words asking, why not just state the news—if, that it, it advances the story. Syam’s level of knowing people doesn’t seem relevant to any kind of story issue at this point. If you want to characterize her, find another way. For example, what if Bryn is jealous of Syam’s popularity with the other witch and warlock students?
“No.” Bryn said, staring at her soup.
Syam turned to eye her; she clearly hadn’t been talking to Bryn.