Submissions Wanted. . 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.
Download a free PDF copy here.
Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.
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?
Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.
Christine sends the first chapter of Echoes in the Rain. The remainder of the chapter is after the break.
"Do you hate him; do you sometimes wish he was dead?” At first, my daughter’s eyes were elusive, but then her eyes locked in and she looked deeply into mine, waiting for a response.
Those words kept playing in my head. How am I supposed to respond to that question? Yes, I wanted to scream out loud, "Yes! I wish he was out of my life and that we had never met. I knew better than to unload on my daughter like that.
Why did she ask that question today - of all days? Every February, we take a day off to attend the Québec City Winter Carnival, Carnaval D ’hiver de Québec. This would be our last time because Céleste would be graduating from high school this year.
“Céleste, be careful,” I cautioned. The streets in the Old Champlain quarter were covered with ice. In my thirty-nine years living here I never tired of the old city and its ambiance which always transported me back in time. Echoes of old Europe, or at least my image of it. Québec is one of the few cities in North America that still boasts of the old wall fortifications that originally surrounded the city. “Ma chérie, you are going too fast! It is slippery” I warned again. Visions of her 5’2” frame falling flat on the ice haunted me. Being a hovering mother was my downfall; one in which I would probably never overcome. I’ll would never stop protecting her.
For this reader, the first page is not the place to narrate feelings about a city (unless they bear on what happens, and it doesn’t). While this opening does establish the characters and their relationship, what it doesn’t do is make me wonder what will happen next. The opening paragraph is a pretty good hook, but then we detour off into musing. No real story question, no jeopardy ahead. One little note—it’s not a good idea to send your work out into the world with a grammatical error such as “I’ll would” in it. Proofread mercilessly.
Much of what follows in the chapter is setup. We finally get to a violent scene and the story picks up. But still there’s a lot of setup. So I took what I felt was truly dramatic, story-raising stuff toward the end of the chapter and edited it down to create what might be a stronger opening page. It needs work, but see what you think and give a vote. The rest of the original chapter follows the fold.
Celeste was curled up in a fetal position at the corner of her bed. It broke my heart to see my child in such anguish. “Céleste! Get those suitcases out and fill them as quick as you can. We are going to leave tonight.”
Her expression was a collage of fear, hurt and anger. She opened the closet door and pulled out the suitcases.
“Going somewhere?” I froze when I heard his voice behind me.
I straightened and faced him. “We are leaving you! You are an animal. What kind of a savage behaves the way you do? It will be over my dead body that you hurt Céleste again.”
He pounded his fist against the wall. “I call the shots around here.” His voice filled with splinters. “You don’t leave unless I say so…and I don’t say so. You belong to me!”
He had something in his other hand. How pathetic was he, not able to bear being without his precious beer. But it was not a beer. I wanted so desperately for it to be a beer. It was a gun!
A scream choked in my throat. All I could think was that I had to get Céleste out of there. I spread my arms to shield her. I edged her towards the door.
“Get out of here!” I begged Céleste. “Just get out of here.”
Her father wrapped his fingers around the trigger of the gun and took aim at me. “If I can’t have you, no one will.” The gun went off.
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.
Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.
Flogging the Quill © 2015 Ray Rhamey, story © 2015 Christine
Continued
I had to laugh at Céleste. She did not let the 20°F (6° C) weather stop her from enjoying this day. Her pace did not slow as we climbed the mounds of snow that had accumulated from the snowstorm the night before. Undaunted by the ice that slicked the alleyways, Céleste saw them as her personal dance floor. She twirled around as her crazy black mane of hair danced in the air. Her lack of inhibition was my envy. Self-conscious of my own lackluster locks, I tucked some grey strands into my bun. My hair was wild and curly like hers years ago. I was quite attractive in my younger years. Time and stress have not treated me favourably, my looks have eroded. I’m still the same person, just downgraded. We continued our trek towards Rue Grande Allée to grab something to eat.
Walking to the pastry shop, we entered the arched entrance of the walled in city.
“Butter and cinnamon and don’t hold back on the maple syrup s’il vous plaît.” She ordered one the famous French Canadien pastries – the Beaver Tail.
“You know that is my favourite” Céleste said.
“Want one, maman? Céleste yelled. “You know you do, come on maman, live a little.”
I had to chuckle to myself. Papa and I started that tradition. We came to this very same shop to buy pastries. My favourite was the strawberry and whipped cream.
Céleste already knew how I would respond. It is the same every year. “Non, ma chérie, none for me” I yelled back. Even though these pastries were delicious, I could not afford the calories. Ever since her father commented on my weight gain, desire for those pastries eluded me.
Céleste had a strength that I used to know. She ignored what others thought, or at least that was the persona she projected. She licked the maple syrup running down her face like an eager child, paying testimony to my theory.
“Shh maman, be quiet” Céleste ordered as we sat at the café table. “There is that golden oldie song you love on the radio, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden. Isn’t that from the 60’s something about raining, gardens and roses or whatever?”
“Yes, I smirked,” that is one of those ancient songs.”
“What’s up with that? Why do you love it? Every time that song plays, which isn’t often thank God, it reminds me of you.”
Hesitation set in as I tried to formulate an acceptable reply. “It is not really that I love the song so much; it is more that it was relatable.” Pausing, I struggled for an adequate response. Then another side of me poured out, the part of me that wanted to be understood.
“I thought when I met your father we’d have the perfect life, complete with the white picket fence and a beautiful rose garden”. I regretted saying it. The words sounded immature, desperate but it was the truth. Still my daughter didn’t have to hear her mother complain about a life unfulfilled. I paused, reminding myself to choose my next words carefully.
Sometimes I feel a little cheated - no roses just rain.” “Things happen to us that we are not in control of. Life is like a garden, weeds grow, our hands become dirty and plants die. So, the song reminds me that no one promised me roses and I better get used to the rain.”
“That’s it - that is why you like that song?” Céleste mocked. “Maman, you’re such a downer,” she patted my head with a patronizing tap. “Not on my watch,” she directed. “We have to pick another song, something more positive. What about ‘I Don't Want To Miss A Thing’ by Aerosmith?”
“Arrowroot”, I queried, “don’t they make cookies?”
“Argg, you really need to get with the times. No, they don’t make cookies. They are a band.” She grabbed the maple syrup bottle mimicking a microphone and started to sing the words.
“Okay, ma chérie” I said with an inward smile, not sure if Céleste could see the crinkle in the corner of my eyes. Of course I knew Aerosmith was a band; I was just perpetuating the archaic maman role.
Grabbing her hand I stared into her eyes. “Céleste, I hope you know you’re ma chérie, my reason for living.”
Céleste stopped singing and paused for a moment, recognizing the external punctuation in my eyes. She clutched my hands in hers. “Maman there is something I want to ask you…. Do you hate him?” her eyes searched for an answer “Do you sometimes wish he was dead?”
I tucked her locks behind her one ear. “I love it when you wear your hair back, it shows your beautiful eyes, each one a different colour, accentuating your pretty face”
“Mom, you are avoiding my question.” she accused while unhooking the hair from behind her ear.
“Non, ma chérie, it is not hate, it is pity. Why are you asking?”
“Maman, I know something is going on. Suitcases are hidden in the back of my closet. I know you have something set up because yesterday some guy called saying the security system you asked to have installed could not be done for a few weeks.”
“Merde!” I swore, angered at my sloppiness. Suddenly forgetting how to breathe, fear gripped me.
Céleste continued, “He said not to worry and assured me that it would be ready in time for when we moved in.”
You I-d-i-o-t I chanted to myself. What if her father had answered that call?
“What did you say to your father?” I pleaded.
“Chill mom, dad doesn’t know. I wanted to talk to you first. Maman, what was he talking about? Are we moving?”
She paused. It all clicked - she understood. Her rhetorical question hung in the air, but she wanted an answer anyway.
“Maman, don’t lie to me, whatever you’re doing, affects me too”.
I knew this day would come. Wiping my glasses, I stalled, not trusting my voice. My words carefully curated. I believed that if my words were well manicured they could withstand the tightrope, the delicate balance between telling the truth and still acknowledging he was her father. I wanted to respect the fact that she loved him.
“When two people fall out of love….”
Céleste hushed me, “the truth….” Her injured eyes convinced me to abandon my practiced spiel. Truth was spoken with a few omissions and compressions.
“Your father and I are not right for each other.” My voice tightened as I twisted my ring around my finger. “He has some demons in his life, demons that are bigger than him. Bigger than you and me. He needs help before…” I did not want to articulate the words that screamed in my head. “Instead of facing his fears, he has chosen different ways of coping. Alcohol and drugs are his love. You should know, your father’s drunken rage has been a part of our daily life. Your father has abused me for years, which I allowed to happen, thinking I deserved it. I tried to hide as much as possible. I know now you saw too much. His abuse is worsening. I’m afraid it will extend to you. We need to get out of that house. For the past year, I have been secretly putting money aside for an apartment. I finally put a deposit down for one the other day.”
Céleste leaned forward and rested her chin on her hand, understanding the seriousness of my words.
“The apartment is near the Université. It should be ready in a few weeks. I stayed this long, petrified to be on my own and poor, like my maman.” My hands were shaking; I was like a nervous seamstress stitching my words together without a pattern. “I wanted to love your father and make it work. How can one love someone they fear?” I felt so exposed, shifting my thoughts into words. “Sometimes we have to give up on people, not because we don’t care, but because they don’t. Céleste, you have always been my reason to stay, now you are my reason to leave.” She sat quietly processing my words.
Her despondency revealed she already knew all this, and had for a while. My silence helped her deny its existence. Now it was real. I was prepared for a long discussion. Whatever Céleste felt was distilled to this question, “I sort of know what you mean” her lips quivered, “Is it possible to love and hate someone at the same time?"
I was silent. I did not know the answer. I wish I had been stronger for my daughter.
The silence was broken as we neared the cemetery. “Ready ma chérie?’” I asked. It was tradition to visit my papa’s tombstone on the way home on our special day. “Put your hood up, the rain is coming down.” Quickening our pace we walked up Taché Boulevard. The rusted gate was wide open. Céleste had never met my papa. He died in a motorcycle accident long before she was born. Papa’s memory lived on in my stories. She knew papa had been my rock, my best friend.
Céleste had the sensitivity to give me a few private moments with my papa, sensing my inward journey. The gravel bit at my knees as I knelt down by his headstone. Pain was inconsequential and I was numb and soaked with failure. “Je t’amie papa. I love you”, I whispered as my hand caressed the top of his tombstone. Touching his memorial somehow made me feel closer to him. Here today, love had a way of bringing us together even if death kept us apart. I surveyed the sky desperately wanting to believe that he had found a way to see me, to listen, love and still protect me.
“Don’t know if you can hear me papa,” I whispered. “My heart aches for you and I miss you. I find it hard trying to navigate this life, to understand it. Give me the strength to do what is right for Céleste; to offer her a life that holds promise and security. I want to give Céleste the life I always wanted”.
After a while I motioned for Céleste to join me. Resting her hand on my shoulder, she gently brushed some tears from my face. The enormity of the moment revealed itself in the tiniest of gestures. Then suddenly out of the corner of my I eye I saw a hummingbird. I was in complete awe of the intangible, ephemeral blur; this tiny creature hovered over papa’s tombstone.
“What is that hummingbird doing here?” Céleste asked. “It is too cold hummingbirds to be flitting at this time of the year.”
An inward smiled formed as I remembered in my younger years when papa shared the legend of the hummingbird. Papa told me, when a person dies a part of them continues to live on earth in the hearts of those that love them. The other part becomes a hummingbird. In the afterlife, the hummingbird feeds on the nectar of the flowers in the gardens of paradise. The hummingbird angel watches over their loved one on earth and if the loved one seems troubled, the hummingbird sneaks back to earth, like a messenger. Then it injects sweet nectar from the afterlife, into their hearts, reminding them they are loved. That is why the hummingbird is so small and its wings flap so fast. So they can fly between the afterlife and earth so easily.
Skepticism filled me when I first heard the legend. Glancing upward now; I knew why that beautiful wisp of a creature was here. Papa was sending me a message. He was with me.
“Céleste, I could try to give you a scientific answer that would probably not be correct. I will give you the answer in my heart. Céleste turned in my direction, her face hungry with curiosity.
“The hummingbird is considered a messenger, and symbol of devotion and protection. Papa is sending me a message. I believe he is here with us now and somehow everything will work out.” Uncertainty filled me as I did not know if Celeste understood the power of the moment. I did. “‘Merci papa,” I whispered as the hummingbird flew away.
Rain poured down hard but I was undaunted because I felt a comforting warmth at this moment. We headed back home.
Turning a corner Céleste noticed a kitty near a garbage can wet and shivering. “Look maman, a kitty. It looks lost. Can we bring it home?” Céleste pleaded.
“No, Céleste. Your father does not do well with animals. He would not approve and it would upset him.”
Her eyes begged.
“Its fur is all tattered and it is skin and bones. You can tell the kitty has not eaten for a while. Please… What if we just take the kitty home for tonight and in the morning take it to a shelter?”
“Okay, but your father must not see the animal. You’ll have to hide it in your room until morning. Then we take it to the shelter first thing – agreed?”
“Yes, sweet victory” she sang, pumping her fist in the air.
She cuddled the little kitty in her arms. She was already in love. We headed home.
♦♦♦
“Where the fuck were you?” her father demanded, his large hockey hands gripping the door frame. Her father had the looks of Brad Pitt but the heart of O.J.Simpson.
“We were out for our mother/daughter day. I left you a note.” I stammered. “Sorry if you did not see it.”
“Your note said you would be home in time for supper. You’re late,” he slurred. He could hardly keep his six foot, husky athletic frame upright.
“Sorry, it was raining hard and we stopped by the cemetery to see papa.”
“It has been more than twenty years for fucks sake, you should be over him by now.” I cringed at his callousness. “I come home after working all day and there is no dinner,” he complained even though we both knew he had been at the bar for hours.
I immediately realized this was a warm up to a fight and I did not want to get into the second act. I waved Céleste past me and motioned for her to hide the kitty in her room.
“Sorry.” I left some spaghetti in the fridge. I’ll get it for you.” I pacified.
“This is shit,” he bellowed, and flipped his hand up in the air knocking the dish out of my hand causing spaghetti to spill all over the floor. “You know I hate leftovers.”
I manufactured a smile. “I’ll make something else. What would you like?” His usual liquid appetizer of choice had already been consumed.
Awaiting his response, I noticed he froze mid-sentence, concentrating on something in the hallway. My insides twisted. I knew what held his attention, even before turning around. Céleste didn’t close the door of her room, the kitty was now wobbling into the kitchen.
“What the hell is that?” he demanded, his voice threaded with hooks.
“It is a kitty,” Céleste responded as she mouthed to me that she was sorry the kitten escaped from her room.
“Who gave you permission to have a kitty?” he demanded.
“Maman”… Céleste started to say but her father did not give her a chance to finish.
“Who the hell are you to give her permission to have a kitty?” he spit moving closer to me, pinning me up against the cupboard. “It is me who makes the decisions around here. I bring home the money,” he hissed in my ear. You live a sweet life. Do you know how many women would love a piece of this?” he crooned slicking back his full head of blond hair while pointing at himself.
Zero, ran through my head, actually negative zero. I did not have the courage to correct him. It was my salary that paid the bills now. He has not held a steady job since his own father fired him from the company. I just glared at him with a blank state, loathing the sight of him. His mouth twitched and I could see the frustration seeping through his pores. His grip tightened as he started to twist my arm. Céleste’s father hated that I was not being the obedient wife he had cultivated. His grip twisted my arm further. Was he trying to break me again? Does he not see that I’m already broken? I felt detached from his threatening violence, knowing I would soon be free of him. My escape plan was set in place. Céleste and I would soon leave this house, and never return. He would not be able to hurt me anymore. His nails dug into me, but did not get the desired reaction. He became more agitated. Yanking the kitty out of Céleste’s arms, he gripped it tightly, his frenetic energy intense.
Céleste cried out, “Dad, you are hurting the kitty!”
Her father held the kitten high in the air, as if an offering to the gods and then flung the kitty with all his might, hard against the wall. The tiny body crushed on impact and its lifeless frame slid down the side of the wall.
I felt raw and my eyes were spiked with shock. Blindsided, how could I have known he was capable of hurting - no killing an innocent kitten. I started to hyperventilate. For all these years I was his punching bag, but now his locus of control had ruptured. I knew what had to be done, for remaining in this house was no longer an option. We had to leave tonight!
“I hate you!” Céleste’s words came out like thunder. “How could you do that? You’re evil.” Her revulsion ricocheted around the room as her lips trembled.
There was an eeriness in her father’s eyes. A potential I could not decipher. Placating the barbarian was my next move. Then I could retreat to the bedroom and sneak Céleste out.
“Let me get your supper, I offered meekly. “I know how much you love French toast. What if I make that?”
Céleste’s eyes furrowed as she sneered at me; disgusted at my groveling. She could not understand how I could kowtow to such a monster. She headed to her room feeling betrayed.
“See what you did? Filling her with lies about me and turning her against me.” He rationalized and twisted the version of events. A greasy sheen on his face gleaned as he leaned into me. He kissed me hard; and seemed turned on by this nightmare. Finally, his heavy breathing stopped and he pushed me aside.
“Sorry she spoke to you like that,” I placated while refilling his beer. “Eat your dinner. I will go speak to her about it.” Backing away from him as one backs away from a poisonous snake, I quickly turned and ran to Céleste.
“Céleste!” I ordered in a frantic voice. She was curled up in a fetal position at the corner of her bed. It broke my heart to see her in such anguish. “Get those suitcases out and fill them as quick as you can. We are going to leave tonight.”
Céleste’s expression was a collage of fear, hurt and anger. She opened the closet door and pulled out the suitcases.
We wildly grabbed whatever we could and shoved it into the suitcase. “I refreshed your father’s beer, so that should occupy him for a little time. This is our chance to leave.”
“Going somewhere?” My body froze with fear when I heard his voice behind me.
“Just straightening up,” I whimpered as my eyes moved slowly trying to locate Céleste.
“Doesn’t appear that way to me,” his neck veins throbbed.
At that very moment in time I knew that this was the point of no return. The smell of fear darted back and forth between me and Céleste. I knew we could not go through anymore of this. Courage pierced my spine and there was shift in the air.
I straightened my body, repositioned my shoulders and faced him eye to eye. “We are leaving you! You are an animal who needs help. What kind of a savage behaves the way you do? For too long abuse has been your tool of persuasion. You’ve worsened and now cannot be contained. It will be over my dead body that you hurt Céleste again. We are leaving you, for our own safety!”
In one quick explosive thud he pounded his fist against the wall. “I call the shots around here,” his voice filled with splinters. “You don’t leave unless I say so…and I don’t say so. You’re not going anywhere. You belong to me!”
The room pulsated. I noticed he had something in his other hand. How pathetic is he not able to bear being without his precious drink in his hand. My body shuddered upon closer examination I could see it was not a beer. I can’t believe I am saying this, but I wanted so desperately for it to be a beer. It was not a beer. It was a gun!
The reality of the moment swirled around me and a scream choked in my throat. All I could think was that I had to get Céleste out of there. Cautiously, I made my way to Céleste and spread my arms in an attempt to shield her. Slowly I edged her towards the door.
“Get out of here!” I begged Céleste. “Just get out of here.”
“….But maman…” Céleste cried.
“DO as I say…get out N-O-W!”
I turned back to look at her father. As if possessed, his face had a melded look of hate and conquest. I could see a fire in his eyes as they pierced mine. Slowly, he raised his hands, wrapped his fingers around the trigger of the gun and took aim at me. “If I can’t have you, no one will.” The gun went off.
In his drunken state he missed and shattered a framed handprint picture Céleste and I made in her preschool class. I finally realized it. He won; I was never going to get out of this nightmare. This whole marriage was a slow death with painful interruptions. My courage left me. One would think I would have bolted out of the room, but I didn’t. I could never escape. Resignation took over. I watched with submission as he steadied himself again, took aim and shot. This time he did not miss his target - me.
A stillness surrounded me as a few last thoughts made their final escape. If only I had made better choices. If only I had the strength sooner. If only I could rewrite my past…
As my heart started to gasp, I think I heard another gun shot. I could feel a shallowness in my breath and knew it was fading in a slow steady sequence. Please God, tell me Céleste got out in time. Breath… then pause…breath… then pause… then just pause…