Submissions Welcome. 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). 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. 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.
Catherine is new to long-form fiction. She sends first chapter of Hardgrown. The remainder is after the break. The story takes place in 1936.
Heavy brown boots in his left hand, the fifteen-year-old sockfooted down the dark stairs, his six two skin-n-bones pressed flat to the wall. The hem of his jeans flapped high above his ankles. His old leather belt bound up the too-wide waist. He’d learned to pick pants easy in the crotch. The way they fit elsewise, he paid no mind. He kept his feet pointed forward, snug against the wall. The steps creaked in the center. He had no trouble navigating the unlighted living room, there being only two wooden chairs and the tufted settee squareset in front of the fireplace. He snagged splinters in his socks from the pine floor. A complaint from the boards froze him. He waited until he was sure Gramps still slept
The house looked like someone quit in the middle of its building. A thin half-wall barely separated kitchen from living room. The narrow stairs, rail-less, went to the second floor along the west wall, becoming the hall to two bedrooms tucked under the eastside rafters. String loops, hung on nails, kept the knobless doors shut. The cuckoo clock called one a.m. He held his breath as he opened the front door, willing the aged brass hinges to be silent. He slipped out, plucking away splinters as he hopped to the porch steps. He shoved his feet into his boots and took off, like a mustang fleeing coyotes, down sleeping Maple.
The moon, days past first quarter, sported a fuzzy shroud. The sparse streetlights of Waco yellowed and dimmed at the street corners. He avoided them. The competing thwickthwick and (snip)
I enjoyed both the voice and the writing in this opening. There is a little tension in the boy’s act of sneaking out, but not a compelling dose for this reader. What are the stakes if he gets caught? What is his goal or desire? How is it frustrated? Notes:
Heavy brown boots in his left hand, the fifteen-year-old sockfooted down the dark stairs, his six two skin-n-bones pressed flat to the wall. The hem of his jeans flapped high above his ankles. His old leather belt bound up the too-wide waist. He’d learned to pick pants easy in the crotch. The way they fit elsewise, he paid no mind. He kept his feet pointed forward, snug against the wall. The steps creaked in the center. He had no trouble navigating the unlighted living room, there being only two wooden chairs and the tufted settee squareset in front of the fireplace. He snagged splinters in his socks from the pine floor. A complaint from the boards froze him. He waited until he was sure Gramps still slept.I think you should use his name. We connect much more quickly with a person, which is what a name creates, than with a description of someone. A miner POV thing—it’s a bit of a break to have him thinking of his age and height.
The house looked like someone quit in the middle of its building. A thin half-wall barely separated kitchen from living room. The narrow stairs, rail-less, went to the second floor along the west wall, becoming the hall to two bedrooms tucked under the eastside rafters. String loops, hung on nails, kept the knobless doors shut. The cuckoo clock called one a.m. He held his breath as he opened the front door, willing the aged brass hinges to be silent. He slipped out, plucking away splinters as he hopped to the porch steps. He shoved his feet into his boots and took off, like a mustang fleeing coyotes, down sleeping Maple. For my money, I wouldn’t spend all this time on description of a place he’s leaving. Use those valuable first-page lines for STORY.
The moon, days past first quarter, sported a fuzzy shroud. The sparse streetlights of Waco yellowed and dimmed at the street corners. He avoided them. The competing thwickthwick and (snip)
I’m finding BookBub to be a terrific resource for both reading matter and research. BookBub offers deals on ebooks with the cost ranging from free to $1.99, sometimes more. They offer ebooks in the Kindle (.mobi) and Nook/Kobo (.epub) formats.
When I get going, I’m a fast and voracious reader, faster and more voracious than my budget can afford if I’m buying print books. But with BookBub I’ve downloaded a bunch of books in the free and $.99 range. Sometimes I get an entire trilogy for free or $.99.
Research
The first reason I started with Book Bub was to see what was going on in various genres. I’m interested in Young Adult dystopian fiction, and they have a YA category as well as fantasy and science fiction. Those are the categories I’ve signed up for, and I get a daily email with offers. The choices range from bestselling authors to classics to lots of Indie authors, so I fell that I do get a good look at what’s happening in the categories I’m interested in. It's a great way to immerse yourself in the styles and requirements of a genre. And, at the low cost, if I don’t care for a book I don’t feel it’s a waste to delete it before finishing it.
Reading
You probably know that you don’t have to have a Kindle or a Nook or a Kobo ereader to read these books. You can download free applications for reading them on your computer and, I assume, tablet. Click the type you need:
Submissions Needed—none 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). 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. 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.
Juliette sends the prologue and first chapter of a novel, title unknown. The full narrative is after the break.
Prologue:
A bump in the road jarred Francisca awake. Apart from the soldier driving, she counted four mounted soldiers in front and two following them. Four women accompanied her in the rickety cart. Yesterday there had been five.
A week ago, when the French had chased them from the Battle of Renty, there were close to a thousand Spanish soldiers and dozens of carts of women who fled along with the Emperor’s forces. After a few days retreating with the troop, her group had fallen behind and turned toward the east. Soon it was apparent they would not be rejoining the others.
A rail from the cart stabbed into her side. She turned slightly and rubbed the ropes that bound her hands on the rusted iron rail. Afraid a light of hope might shine in her eyes and betray her, she lowered her head.
A small town came into view. Francisca overheard the soldiers discussing food. “I’m starved, we could—”
“We cannot attack the whole town. There will be a house or farm on the outskirts. You can wait.”
As the group plodded along, townspeople stepped into the street to watch them pass.
The writing is good and will get better with work, and the story questions raised here—why is Francisca bound and what will happen to her, will she escape—were good enough to get me to turn the page to see more. I do think it could be stronger if the reason for the light of hope were more clear--show us that the rope is fraying and that she's close to having her hands free.
Chapter 1:
Thirty years later
Le Petit-Courty
Vacquenoux, Salm
Catherine pushed the oil-soaked skin aside and peered out the window of the loft. The sun had not yet risen above the pines on the mountain, but promised a hot day.
“Hurry along now daughter, the birds are eating them all.”
“Coming, Mama.”
She hung her old chemise on the hook, carefully covering it with a heavy shawl, and climbed down the ladder.
“The pails are there,” her mother nodded toward the table.
“All right,” Catherine grumbled and grabbed the pails. When she turned, she stumbled over her half-naked baby sister who dashed past her with her older sister, Anne, in hot pursuit. Anne had just changed the baby’s wet clout when the child squirmed away and took off, giggling toothlessly.
“Watch where you are going!” Anne grumbled. “She is just a baby.”
“You should be minding her,” Catherine snapped.
Well, we left Francisca in a tense situation, and I was reluctant to leave her. Now she seems to be gone and we’re with another character altogether. As for what happens in the chapter opening, well, the character gets out of bed and is told to do chores. Not a lot of tension here, this is pretty much set-up (and four valuable lines of page 1 were taken up with time and location that could have been done more efficiently). No turn on this part for me, I’d rather know what happened to Francisca.
Open for submissions. 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). 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. 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.
Janet sends the first chapter for a creative non-fiction narrative, no title. The rest of the chapter after the break.
Dr. Patrick Talmadge looked at the dead body again and clenched his jaws tight in angry disgust. The three year old lay on the stainless steel table where she took her last breath, thanks to him. It should never have ended this way but he had not had a choice given the extensive internal injuries, flesh ripped beyond suturing and one mangled leg.
The owner of the once beautiful little Pit Bull was openly weeping. The man hugged her to his chest, not caring that more of her blood was getting smeared on his face, hands and shirt. “Oh, Jesus. Maggie, please forgive me. I’m so sorry, so sorry. I was so stupid, please forgive me. Oh, Jesus, my beautiful little girl.”
The words were becoming unintelligible assnot and tears ran down Eddie’s round face. The big man buried his face deeper into the brown neck where the evidence of a weighted chain had rubbed off hair and begun to work through the exposed skin. Ribs were showing where she had once been sleek, almost fat, and barely healed injuries of recent fights gleamed in pink contrast to the dark brindle stripes.
“What the hell were you thinking, Eddie? I know you loved this dog. You never missed so much as a vaccination date since you got her. Why on earth did you think she was a fighting dog? She was small for a Pit to begin with. I’ve driven by your house a dozen times and saw her out front playing with your kids, nice as could be. Good Christ, what a waste.”
Creative non-fiction calls for the same level of story tension and writing as fiction. While the writing is okay (could be crisper), for me no story question came from this page. I don’t know what the story is about, and don’t see a problem for the protagonist. It’s a sad scene with a dramatic opening (I didn’t mind the slight bit of misleading), but, other than regret for the dog’s death, there isn’t a trouble ahead for the doc. Notes:
Dr. Patrick Talmadge looked at the dead body again and clenched his jaws tight in angry disgust. The three-year-old lay on the stainless steel table where she took had taken her last breath, thanks to him. It should never have ended this way, but he had not had a choice given the extensive internal injuries, flesh ripped beyond suturing, and one mangled leg.
The owner of the once beautiful little pit bull Pit Bull was openly weeping. EddieThe man hugged her to his chest, not caring that more of her blood was getting smeared on his face, hands and shirt. “Oh, Jesus. Maggie, please forgive me. I’m so sorry, so sorry. I was so stupid, please forgive me. Oh, Jesus, my beautiful little girl.”
The words were becoming unintelligible assnot and tears ran down Eddie’s round face. The big man buried his face deeper into the brown neck where the evidence of a weighted chain had rubbed off hair and begun to work through the exposed skin. Ribs were showingshowed where she had once been sleek, almost fat, and barely healed injuries of recent fights gleamed in pink contrast to the dark brindle stripes.
“What the hell were you thinking, Eddie? I know you loved this dog. You never missed so much as a vaccination date since you got her. Why on earth did you think she was a fighting dog? She was small for a pitPit to begin with. I’ve driven by your house a dozen times and seensaw her out front playing with your kids, nice as could be. Good Christ, what a waste.”
The last part of this statement was almost to himself as Patrick saw the effect of his words create their own wounds, the grieving man hunching his shoulders and hugging the dog even harder. Patrick turned and stripped off the latex gloves, throwing them into the bio-hazard waste can with more force than was necessary. Without turning around, he yanked open the door leading to the back rooms of his small clinic in Pass Christian, Mississippi. “I’ll give you a few minutes.”
The door clicked and he heard the man’s wailing begin again, louder than before but still muffled as the sound deafening door and walls kept most of the ongoing daily noises from this area to a minimum in the reception area. Barking, howling, meows, hissing and occasional yelps were the elevator music in his busy practice during regular business hours. Behind yet another door on the opposite side of the room were the recovery cages, all empty on this weekend.
Patrick’s own two dogs, a Blue Tick and a Bloodhound, had settled down to wait patiently in a recess under the counter. The lab equipment and sundry instruments on top brightly reflected the fluorescent overhead lights. In furious frustration, he picked up a metal container and hurled it against the far wall. This resulted in a banging ricochet that echoed loudly in the brick room and made his dogs lift their heads, shrinking back into their hidey hole. This small area kept them out of human foot traffic and provided a napping place that kept them from getting stepped on or tripped over during the day but now became a sanctuary.
Patrick’s satisfaction at the tension release was fleeting and he quickly bent his tall frame over to reassure the animals. The tone of his voice instantly softened as guilt flushed his face.
“I’m not mad at you guys. I’m sorry to scare you. Here, here’s a treat, okay?” After ruffling their ears, the man straightened and reached into the always filled biscuit basket to give them each a reward for tolerating his momentary lapse in judgment. The female Blue was more sensitive to Patrick’s moods and eyed the green bone suspiciously, then left it lay where her companion could snatch it up. Patrick sighed at the silent rebuke, glanced at the clock and ran both hands through his blond hair and he realized that he needed to add a trim to his to-do list but it would be far down on the current list of priorities . Taking another deep breath, he put his professional mask in place and re-entered the exam room.
Eddie had picked Maggie up in his arms and was sitting on the floor, still crying but now crooning and rocking. He raised his head to look Patrick in the eye, not caring that this emotional breakdown was not in keeping with their history. They had known each other since high school, playing football together to a near state championship in their senior year. As the quarterback, Patrick had depended on the keg shaped defensive lineman to protect him and now Patrick had him on the defense again.
“Sorry for losing my cool. Now, what the hell happened to your dog? You didn’t do this, did you?” Patrick’s voice was gentle as he squatted to be on a level beside his former friend, placing a hand on the broad shoulder. Eddie had gotten a little broader in the past fifteen years but it was mature muscle from wrestling lumber, concrete and shingles in the construction business he owned with his two brothers and father.
“No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t. But..” Eddie’s voice caught and he had to relinquish his hold on Maggie momentarily to wipe a hairy arm across his face. The smeared fluids were cleaned up a little better with the application of a shirttail which then doubled as a handkerchief as he blew his nose. Patrick didn’t back off but waited patiently to hear the rest of the statement.
“I, I been gambling. Not much, but more than I should. Helen’s been getting on me lately and I started going down to the boats.” Eddie took a breath as he noticed Patrick shaking his head. “Yeah, I know but I did, no excuses. I didn’t want her or my brothers, or especially Pa, to find out I’d been losing. So anyway, I borrowed money from Little Morris. You know, that big fat guy who brags about being part of the Dixie Mafia? When I asked for an extension to pay it back, he says he likes my dog, Maggie here. I just looked at him but he says no, he doesn’t want to buy her but he would take a litter of pups off her. Said he wanted to use his own male and that I should let her stay with him at his place out on that swampland north of Texas Flat Road.” Eddie began shaking his head and turned his red eyes back on the limp dog in his lap.
“I never shoulda let her go. But it seemed like an easy way out. She is,….was, old enough. I’d seen the male in the back of Morris’ pickup when they’d drive through town. I never saw the dog close up but he didn’t look skinny or nothin’, so I thought, if he just wants the pups and not her, why not? I shoulda known better when he wouldn’t let me bring her out, insisted on picking her up himself. That was over a month ago. I can’t forget the way she looked at me when I tied her in the back of that truck and they drove off.”
This memory brought on new tears. Eddie cried silently this time and was more composed but he lifted the dog and lowered his face to her bloody head, eyes closed, like hers.
Patrick stood and walked across the room to lean against the wall, waiting patiently. Those Goddamn boats. That was the only way he ever referred to the floating casinos that had been a political football for years. Lauded by the governor as the solution to unemployment and lagging tourism issues that plagued the state, they had fulfilled the campaign promise to bring in needed cash revenues. They had also brought in a criminal element that spread like an Ebola virus, bleeding the locals dry of both hard earned wages and self-respect. The once aesthetic atmosphere of the Deep South eroded into a commercialized façade, a movie set replica of pre-Civil War prosperity.
All of the small towns that allegedly benefited from the casinos’ presence had to turn around and beg for state funds to support the increase in law enforcement demands, social services and treatment centers to handle the increase in drug and alcohol abuse, plus full-time gambling rehabilitation counselors. He had seen good families torn apart as the addiction stole not only money but time, something that couldn’t be won back with the next roll. Entire neighborhoods became trashed as houses were no longer maintained, the deeds pledged as collateral against mounting debts. Stately historic homes were converted to boarding houses, the manicured landscaping paved over to accommodate the influx of vehicles carrying transient prostitutes, their pimps and dealers of drugs and illegal weapon sales. Communities dotting the Gulf Coast and inland waters didn’t have the experience in the justice system, from the streets to the courtrooms, to handle the big city crime wave that the boats floated on.
“Not to put you through any more pain, but how did you find out? How’d you get her back?” Patrick couldn’t help himself. “When?”
Now Eddie looked at the vet and his light eyes turned to cold steel. “That fuckin’ coward. He calls me about midnight, says he had to ‘test’ her before he wasted time and money for pups. She failed the test. That’s all he said, ‘She failed, pick her up.’ Then he says he put her in your parking lot by the back door. I thought maybe she was tied to that little tree but when I pulled in all I saw has a black garbage bag. Garbage. When I found her she was still breathing so I called you and I waited.”
Patrick had seen the expression now etched on Eddie’s face before. It had stayed with him for over a decade. In the conference championship game of their senior year, a rival defensive cornerback clipped him after nearly taking Eddie’s head off with an illegal hit. Patrick’s knee was blown and so were their chances at state. When the coaches were loading him on the stretcher, Eddie had bent over him with that look.
“He got by me. He won’t do it again.” The next day when Patrick was recovering from surgery, his father said that the kid who clipped him had also been taken off the field on a stretcher. That kid wouldn’t be playing football again, either.
“Eddie, as much as I would like to get more details about how Maggie ended up having to be put down, us humans have to get the hell out of Dodge. Is your family ready to go? This hurricane will be here tomorrow night unless we get real lucky. I can take care of Maggie for you and in a few days, you can either pick her up or I will send her over to the Rainbow Bridge Crematorium.”
Eddie raised his stubbled chin in determination. “I let her go once and look what happened. I’ll take care of her myself. She can be buried on the farm with the rest of the family pets. Cemetery is gettin’ fair sized, going back through Grandpappy Timmerman. Thanks anyway.” Eddie managed to struggle to his feet without relinquishing his grip on the forty pound dog. He gently laid her on the table to dig in his back pocket for his wallet. “So how much I owe you?”
“Let’s not do this now. Not to be too pragmatic, but do you have freezer space? You can’t take her along to leave town, or let your family see her like this. The storm isn’t going to give you time for a proper burial. Why don’t you come back in on Wednesday or Thursday to pick her up? I’ll keep her safe, I promise. And I definitely want to talk to you about what Little Morris and his scumbags are doing out on that swamp with these dogs.”
“Trust me, Doc. It’s going to become my mission in life to make him pay for what he did to my dog.”
I haven't posted this for a while but, considering that it's 420 Day, you might be in the mood for a peaceful if poignant and brief video on what all writers deal with.
Of course, these days self-publication is a response to rejection. To that end, here's an aid for self-publishers:
One of the best 'how-to' books (from Amazon)
"I just read this book a week ago. I found the “experiential description of action” section to be very helpful. It refocused me on how to write action scenes with flavor and depth. I have some 20 books on the craft of writing on my shelf, and as I am revising my third novel this month, I’m already grabbing it down several times as my ‘go to’ book. If you are a writer at any level, this book is a worthy addition to your craft library."
Submissions Needed—just one 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). 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. 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.
Sydney sends a revision of the first chapter for The Starshade’s Legacy . The earlier submission is here--it is very different from this opening, and it will be interesting to see how the voting differs. The rest of the chapter after the break.
The bodies are cold when I find them.
Crouched in the snow, my cloak pulled tightly about my shoulders, I touch the frozen face of a child twisted in fear. Her stomach was been ripped open revealing stiff, blackened innards. I do not recoil. I barely even wince anymore at such finds. And as I look over the other corpses, I read the story of their deaths, their ties. Their lives.
The father was killed first. His twisted form lies farthest away, a black arrow in his back and his throat torn out. My mouth forms a grim line. The Shifters are merciless with their kills. No doubt the arrow would have been fatal on its own. The pack that had done this must have been a border patrol—and a bored one at that for such harsh measures. Probably caught the small family as they fled a now-desecrated village.
The mother was raped and killed last. This, I can tell from her splayed legs and the deep lacerations on certain points of her arms, shoulders, and hips. The way her head is turned just enough that she can look where her daughter had fallen.
I examine the tracks with narrowed eyes. Large, deep paw prints are mixed in with smaller, lighter human prints. The site where the father was slain holds the deepest grooves, so deep that even I pause. A powerful, heavy-set Shifter had charged him from the side to rip into his throat. Possibly a Guard in rank. That was unusual. Guards usually stay near the den, rather (snip)
A clear, confident voice is the first attraction for this opening. The description is clear and done in a matter-of-fact way that characterizes this character as calm and professional. I get a good sense of the world of the story, too. The grisly scene foreshadows trouble ahead for the character and, for me, raised good “what happens next” story questions. There are a couple of small things to note:
The bodies are cold when I find them.
Crouched in the snow, my cloak pulled tightly about my shoulders, I touch the frozen face of a child twisted in fear. Her stomach was been ripped open, revealing stiff, blackened innards. I do not recoil. I barely even wince anymore at such finds. And as I look over the other corpses, I read the story of their deaths, their ties. Their lives.
The father was killed first. His twisted form lies farthest away, a black arrow in his back and his throat torn out. My mouth forms a grim line. The Shifters are merciless with their kills. No doubt the arrow would have been fatal on its own. The pack that had donedid this must have been a border patrol—and a bored one at that, for such harsh measures. Probably caught the small family as they fled a now-desecrated village. The “My mouth” sentence is a couple of things: a “body part filter”and a shift in point of view. It gives an action to a body part which might more appropriately come from the character. By calling attention to what it is doing, it draws attention away from what the character is doing/feeling even though it is meant to show feeling. As for pov, she can’t see what her mouth looks like, grim feelings inside or not.
The mother was raped and killed last. This, I can tell from her splayed legs and the deep lacerations on certain points of her arms, shoulders, and hips. The way her head is turned just enough that she can look where her daughter had fallen.
I examine the tracks with narrowed eyes. Large, deep paw prints are mixed in with smaller, lighter human prints. The site where the father was slain holds the deepest grooves, so deep that even I pause. A powerful, heavy-set Shifter had charged him from the side to rip into his throat. Possibly a Guard in rank. That was unusual. Guards usually stay near the den, rather (snip) A clarity issue here: what are the grooves? They haven’t been mentioned, but paw prints and footprints have. Where did “grooves” come from? What caused them? What does their deepness mean?
Submissions Needed—none in the queue for next 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.
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. 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.
Jabob sends a revision of the first chapter for The Freerunners. The earlier submission is here. The rest of the chapter after the break.
Noah poked his head out of the garbage bin. A pair of muted footsteps approached his position, their shadows[r1] dancing under the faded streetlights. He withdrew in a flurry, his heart fluttering for a few seconds. For some strange reason, he’d lost all feeling in his legs, replaced by an unrelenting numbness all the way to his toes. Forcing a deep breath into his lungs, Noah pressed his ear up against the lifeless metal lid he sat beneath, his cheek greeted by an icy winter chill. His brother Cody sat hunched beside him, waiting for some kind of communication. The patter of snow falling along the alley made it difficult to hear much, but Noah could just make out a few wet treads only metres away from their hiding place. His heart’s pace continued to rise. Sweat began to drizzle down his forehead despite the freezing midnight temperatures that swallowed the city of Groveville.
Noah looked around at his brother; he only received a blank look in response. Why had they been followed for the past 4 blocks? The man must be insane! A crackle of snow interrupted their silent conversation. Noah’s head darted back to the noise. A delicate wind slithered through a small hole in the bin. They stayed that way for several minutes, with no more unusual sounds piercing the night’s rhythmic tune. It had been only seconds after they had left the party when the brothers had picked up on the man tailing them. Now, stuck in a garbage bin 3 miles out from home, Noah found himself regretting the choice to stay out late. “We have to get home now!” (snip)
For me, there were a number of narrative issues in this page—you’ll see some of them in the notes below: snow making sounds such as pattering and crackling; being able to see inside a pitch dark garbage bin, seeing shadows made by sounds . . . For this reader the story question of why they are being followed didn’t have a lot of energy because I knew nothing about the characters and why someone following them—or perhaps just walking in the same direction they were going, that’s an equal possibility—would be a source of danger to them, enough so to make them sit in garbage. There were no stakes to being discovered in the narrative. Notes:
Noah poked his head out of the garbage bin. A pair of muted footsteps approached his position, their shadows dancing under the faded streetlights. He withdrew in a flurry, his heart fluttering for a few seconds. For some strange reason, he’d lost all feeling in his legs, replaced by an unrelenting numbness all the way to his toes. Forcing a deep breath into his lungs, Noah pressed his ear up against the lifeless metal lid he sat beneath, his cheek greeted by an icy winter chill. His brother Cody sat hunched beside him, waiting for some kind of communication. The patter of snow falling along the alley made it difficult to hear much, but Noah could just make out a few wet treads only metres away from their hiding place. His heart’s pace continued to rise. Sweat began to drizzle down his forehead despite the freezing midnight temperatures that swallowed the city of Groveville. There is description and imagery that didn’t work well for me in this opening. What is a “pair” of footsteps? The sound of two people walking? Not sure. Secondly, footsteps are sounds, and they can’t possibly have shadows. Next, I’ve been in a lot of snow and never have I heard it make a sound, much less a patter—and especially if that snow is falling on the steel lid of a garbage bin, which I take to be the equivalent of a Dumpster in America. What are “wet treads?” More footsteps?
Noah looked around at his brother; he only received a blank look in response. Why had they been followed for the past 4 blocks? The man must be insane! A crackle of snow interrupted their silent conversation. Noah’s head darted back to the noise. A delicate wind slithered through a small hole in the bin. They stayed that way for several minutes, with no more unusual sounds piercing the night’s rhythmic tune. It had been only seconds after they had left the party when the brothers had picked up on the man tailing them. Now, stuck in a garbage bin 3 miles out from home, Noah found himself regretting the choice to stay out late. “We have to get home now!” (snip) If they’re in a garbage bin with the lid closed, it has to be pitch dark, so how can he see his brother? Why would he look at him in total darkness, and how could he see a blank look in response? Then snow crackles—I’ve never heard snow either patter or crackle. Do they have a much different kind of snow in Australia (the location)? And what is the night’s “rhythmic tune?” We’ve been shown no sounds other than footsteps and snow, so I don’t grasp the night’s tune. More things that confused me: why would Noah assume that the man following them for 4 whole blocks must be insane? What does it mean that Noah’s head darted back to the noise? How did it do that?
Just want to share an interview with me on Welcome to Literary Ashland, a blog by a writing professor at the university that lives here too, Southern Oregon University. Just go here.
In a recent edit for a very talented writer, there was this bit of description.
She thinned her lips. She’d never liked the man.
I liked that as a bit of description. I’ve done that, I’ve seen other people do that, I can visualize that, and it’s a grimace that goes along with an emotion, in this case one of irritation. Worked for me.
Six paragraphs later, here it came again in regard to talking to the same irritating character..
She thinned her lips again.
Well, okay, since “again” was used, this is on purpose, so maybe it’s not an unconscious echo.
A page and a half later, still in the same scene, the character thinned her lips once more. Now the phrase has popped into my awareness. And there’s the rub.
An insidious intrusion
When an echo rises to the level of conscious awareness, it makes you cognizant of the writing, which by definition takes you out of the story and thus distances you from being immersed in the character’s story experience.
The phrase surfaced again and again through the rest of the story. I did a search and counted. In this short novel (about 70,000 words), there was:
she thinned her lips – 8 uses
he thinned his lips – 3 uses
thinning his lips – 1 use
So this image of lips thinning, which was quite appropriate the first time it was used, came about 12 times. I have, of course, pointed this out to the author and she is perfectly capable of finding excellent alternatives.
Self-editing tip: read it aloud.
As noted, she is a talented writer, and she had self-edited the novel, and had beta readers comment. Yet no one noticed. I wonder, though, if she had read it aloud if the unseen repetition would have gone unheard. I suspect not.
In the first chapter it where it first made its appearance, “thinned her lips” was used three times. I’ll bet that the third instance would have stood out when read aloud. Then, even if it was left there, the fourth instance later would have jumped out at her, then the fifth more so, and on.
Echoes have a way of creeping in when a word is particularly handy or appropriate to the meaning. In this manuscript, there was a spot where the word “stowed” appeared three times in a paragraph and a half. That’s about two too many, and I’m sure she would have noticed if she’d read it aloud.
So, when it comes to self-editing, be sure to speak up and listen hard.
Submissions Needed—none 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). 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. 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.
Ted sends a revision of the first chapter for Sallying Forth. The earlier submission is here. The rest of the chapter after the break.
Kate Ingram shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. Retrieving the bow dock line, she made sure it was properly stowed, and then moved aft to where her little sister, Kayla, had just coiled a spring line. She whispered, “Here we go, Sallying Forth; I think we’re okay so far.”
Kayla had pulled her hair back into a ponytail and tied it with a blue ribbon, making her look even younger than fourteen. She looked up at Kate. “Kate, I’m so scared.”
Kate didn’t dare let Kayla know how scared she was herself. She needed to make this an adventure that Kayla would enjoy, because people would notice if she was unhappy. They didn’t need attention. She gave Kayla a quick hug. “I don’t know why, but Dad wanted us to go ‘Sallying Forth’ right away.”
“I know, Kate, but I’m worried about him and Mom too.”
* * * * *
A man with a gruff voice reported by cellphone; “We checked the Annapolis marinas and then the chopper checked the local creeks and across the bay. Spotted a pink sail cover near Queenstown. It was the girls’ boat. No sign of the girls.”
“Queenstown? Across the bay? I wonder why there.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m trying to find Ingram, but he’s sly. We need to get his attention. Once he knows we (snip)
This gets closer to a reason for turning the page—only one line away. If you can trim to get the rest of the last paragraph on the first page, you’ll have it.
Another thought: you might consider starting with the conversation between the two who are hunting them. While I don’t like unattributed dialogue (and why not go ahead and attribute it if these characters appear later in the story, and set the scene while you’re at it), this brief scene does imply some serious danger/stakes for the girls, and raises a good “what happens to them” story question. But making the suggested improvements in the first scene could do the job just as well, and it would be better to start with the protagonist.
Kate Ingram shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. She stowedRetrieving the bow dock line, she made sure it was properly stowed, and then moved aft to where her little sister, Kayla, had just coiled a spring line. She whispered, “Here we go, Sallying Forth;I think we’re okay so far.” I would trim this as shown—while expertise in sailing is good for establishing credibility, what is important here is not sailing acumen but getting out of the harbor. Since you use “Sallying Forth” later, I would eliminate the echo by cutting it here. A word of caution: using very similar names for characters—Kate and Kayla—can lead to confusion in a reader. It’s a good idea to have distinctive names for each character.
Kayla had pulled her hair back into a ponytail and tied it with a blue ribbon, making her look even younger than fourteen. She looked up at Kate. “Kate, I’m so scared.”I still don’t think the nature of Kayla’s hair is something to dwell upon if this is supposed to be a suspenseful opening. I realize you’re looking for a “natural” way to get her age in, but I wouldn't. On the Kate. "Kate" that happens, people engaged in dialogue with someone they know frequently do not use the other person's name. I don't think she would here.
Kate didn’t dare let Kayla know how scared she was herself. She needed to make this an adventure that Kayla would enjoy, because people would notice if she was unhappy. They didn’t need attention. She gave Kayla a quick hug. “I don’t know why, but Dad wanted us to go ‘Sallying Forth’ right away.” On name similarity, note how they “echo” in this paragraph with four mentions: Kate/Kayla/Kayla/Kayla. There must be some reason Kate is scared, so why not reveal it here? We’re in her close third person point of view, and she could think of what it was, perhaps something her dad said or did before sending them away. All this anxiety could use stronger motivation.
“I know, Kate, butI’m worried about him.”Her eyes wide, she looked even younger than fourteen.and “Mom too.” The first part of this is of the “as you know, Bob” kind of expositive dialogue. Just trim this to the essence, suggestion shown along with a notion of how to bring her age in.
* * * * *
A man with a gruff voice reported by cellphone; “We checked the Annapolis marinas and then the chopper checked the local creeks and across the bay. Spotted a pink sail cover near Queenstown. It was the girls’ boat. No sign of the girls.”
“Queenstown? Across the bay? I wonder why there.”
“I don’t know.”These two lines don’t contribute anything since they agree that they don’t know what the location of the boat means. Cut to the chase.
“I’m trying to find Ingram, but he’s sly.We need to get his Ingram’s attention. Once he knows we (snip)by trimming the above you’ll be able to get in the rest of this paragraph which contains a story question strong enough to earn a page turn: Once he knows we have one of them, he’ll keep quiet.”