Submissions Wanted. Nothing in the queue for Friday. 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.
Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. 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. Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer.
A First-page Checklist
- It begins connecting the reader with the protagonist
- Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
- What happens is dramatized in an immediate scene with action and description plus, if it works, dialogue.
- What happens moves the story forward.
- What happens has consequences for the protagonist.
- The protagonist desires something.
- The protagonist does something.
- There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
- It happens in the NOW of the story.
- Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
- Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
- What happens raises a story question—what happens next? or why did that happen?
Anikó sends a first chapter of The Water Still Rules , a YA fantasy. The rest of the chapter follows the break.
I should have taken the signs seriously. The ache in my eyes as the streaks of sunshine found their way through the green blanket of tree leaves, the trembling of my hands, as I entwine them to pray, the numbness creeping up on the sides of my legs. By the time I feel my body jerk back, it’s too late. I hit the ground, my back cracking on a log. I’m having a vision, and I learned early on that visions meant trouble. The first time it happened was on the day I turned twelve. I spent the whole day curled up in fetal position, fighting the urge to vomit. Talk about a fun birthday gift.
I close my eyes, letting the power take over and my fingers clutch, scratching the earth under me. I feel coldness rushing inside of me, numbing the tip of my toes first and lurking its way along my spine, right up to my head.
The scent of the earth and trees is replaced by the smell of iron and wine, and the sound of rustling leaves blends into distant human voices. A heavy, wooden table stands in the middle of the room and behind it a man with his fists propped on it. He’s looking down, his dirty blond hair falling into his face. Sunlight floods in through the huge window, shining back from his torso. Judging by the sturdy, bronze breastplate he is a soldier, and not just a common one, but someone of high rank.
“We have to search the Orphan Forest again,” he says, his voice becoming clearer in (snip)
I definitely like the writing and voice here and we open with an immediate scene with something happening. But I think this opening could be stronger if, instead of reporting the vision, we could get more of a hint of jeopardy, of something the protagonist is going to need to do. Though the writing and voice tempted me to turn the page, I decided to give it an almost and hope that more tension can be created on this page. As it is, there’s not a lot in the way of story questions, especially what this vision means to the protagonist. Notes follow:
I should have taken the signs seriously. The ache in my eyes as the streaks of sunshine found their way through the green blanket of tree leaves, the trembling of my hands, as I entwine them to pray, the numbness creeping up on the sides of my legs. By the time I feel my body jerk back, it’s too late. I hit the ground, my back cracking on a log. I’m having a vision, and I learned early on that visions meant trouble. The first time it happened was on the day I turned twelve. I spent the whole day curled up in fetal position, fighting the urge to vomit. Talk about a fun birthday gift. This is an opportunity to easily let the reader know the age of the protagonist. For example: . . . first time it happened was six years ago, on the day I turned twelve. An opportunity to create some stakes was missed here in a couple of ways. Instead of visions meaning trouble, why not have them mean danger? “Trouble” could refer to a day of wanting to vomit, but I think more is needed here. Rather than the feeling of illness on that first vision, why not, instead, include the trouble/danger that was seen back then. We need a suggestion of jeopardy to come and, for my money, it isn’t on this first page.
I close my eyes, letting the power take over and my fingers clutch, scratching the earth under me. I feel coldness rushing inside of me, numbing the tip of my toes first and lurking its way along my spine, right up to my head.
The scent of the earth and trees is replaced by the smell of iron and wine, and the sound of rustling leaves blends into distant human voices. A heavy, wooden table stands in the middle of the room and behind it a man with his fists propped on it. He’s looking down, his dirty blond hair falling into his face. Sunlight floods in through the huge window, shining back from his torso. Judging by the sturdy, bronze breastplate he is a soldier, and not just a common one, but someone of high rank.
“We have to search the Orphan Forest again,” he says, his voice becoming clearer in (snip) Later it seems as if these men are searching for the protagonist and her brother, but that isn’t included. Can we have more jeopardy here? Could the line about searching the forest again be more dire? For example: To find the girl and kill her, we have to search the Orphan Forest . . .etc. We need a connection between the vision and the protagonist.
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 Anikó
(continued)
my head with each word. He is pointing his fingers at the huge paper folded across the table .A map. His neatly kept beard has streaks of white in it, and it reminds me of my father. But my father didn’t have cold eyes like he does, and his skin was copper instead of pale. “Would I have a Soultree, this is where I would hide.”
“You heard the innkeeper, Gaillard,” a younger voice says. He seems a bit older than I am, but I don’t think he turned twenty yet. He sits in a massive, wooden chair, one leg dropped over the other, his brown dress is decorated with fine needlework. He must either be someone very important or someone very wealthy. With his dark hair combed back and those ruby green eyes he looks like a prince. His strong jaws are moving, chewing on something. “She knows the forest as well as her own palm. She hasn’t seen anything.” He leans on the table, reaches into a bowl and pops a grape in his mouth.
Impatience flickers in Gaillard’s eyes, but his voice is steady. “Yes, Saro. I don’t think we should give her words too much credit, though. As far as we know, she can be one of them. Skin color doesn’t mean much anymore.”
Saro knocks his cup twice on the table and waits as a young girl pours wine it. “Fine. Have it your way.” He takes a gulp. “But whatever you do, do not come back to me empty handed. I want at least one of them alive, and I want the tree.” He stands up from the table, and turns back before leaving the room. “I give you ten men. You are dismissed.”
My eyes fly open, and I gasp for air, breathing the familiar scent of the forest in again. For a second, I think I will be fine, that the quick rush of fresh air into my lungs helps. When the second is over, I bend and empty my stomach next to a fig tree. Tear gathers in my eyes at the bitter taste of vomit.
I get up, sweat trickling down the small of my back, as I put my back against a tree to catch my breath. My back is aching where the log hit it and I massage it to make the pain go away. It still feels hot and humid, even though the sky is low on the sky. Nightfall is close, and I don’t know where the soldiers are right now, but they cannot be far. Last time I had a vision, we had no time to spare, an hour later they broke our door down and only me and my brother managed to flee. We might only have seconds now, I have to get back to our hut to warn him.
Dizziness takes over, and a tree catches me as I stumble. The raspy surface of the trunk barks the skin on my shoulder. I inhale deeply, and risk a couple of steps. Afraid that I’m going to faint, I don’t dare going too fast. There might not be enough time though, and it’s at least thirty minutes to get to my cottage from here. I have to be faster than this.
I know a ginger bush not too far away, and I decide to risk the small detour. When I find it, I start digging deep with my fingers, taking the root out of the earth. Not bothering to clean it, I break it open with my shaky hands. Taking a bite, I get up and start walking again while chewing. It’s pinching my tongue and my throat, but I stuff it down anyway. It won’t help immediately, but it’s better than nothing. The forest is getting darker, and I know I don’t have much time left. I start into a pathetically slow run. I fall, get up and fall again, but I don’t stop. Forcing my body now can mean my life. Or my brother’s.
I finally get within sight of our cottage and hide. I can’t quite see inside from so far away, so I wait for any suspicious signs, but nothing. I feel the knot in my chest tighten up a little and make my way closer. I look inside the window and my blood freezes. They’ve found us.