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.
Bill sends first chapter of All About the Money. The remainder is after the break.
Please vote. It helps the writer.
Ah, freedom.
Reid Middleton lifted his face. Sleet collided with his hair, a stinging frozen shower. His skin tingled, the pelting rain anything but torture. The guards in the Monroe exercise yard would never have let him stand by himself during a hard rain without being suspicious. Five minutes outside and back to work.
He squinted. Ice pellets rode the gale through bubbles of light haloing the tri-lamp poles across the street. His smile widened. Edges of ice scoured the skin on his face, the burn cleansing, invigorating.
“You stupid, young man?”
Reid shielded his eyes with a hand and glanced back at the sidewalk fronting the South Puget Sound’s largest homeless shelter. The hoarse voice belonged to one of their regulars. “Lot of people think I am, Ma'am.”
“Worse night we had.” The old woman tested the water with the rubber tip of her cane before putting her foot forward. “We still got room?”
“Yes, we do.” Reid pivoted. He strode toward the entrance door and cupped her elbow.
Glancing at his fingers on her stained coat, she paused.
“Been a little slippery out here,” he said, waiting until she settled her weight against him. (snip)
A likeable voice and good writing here, but it’s devoted to set-up, pretty much. What happens here? A man muses about the past, likes the rain, and greets a woman. Not much in the way of story questions raised here for me, thus little in the way of tension. The voice and world just didn’t add up to compelling for me. Notes:
Ah, freedom.
Reid Middleton lifted his face. Sleet collided with his hair, a stinging frozen shower. His skin tingled, the pelting rain anything but torture. The guards in the Monroe exercise yard would never have let him stand by himself during a hard rain without being suspicious. Five minutes outside and back to work. The reference to the guards ended up confusing me. In an opening, set the current scene quickly and try to get to story as soon as possible.
He squinted. Ice pellets rode the gale through bubbles of light haloing the tri-lamp poles across the street. His smile widened. Edges of ice scoured the skin on his face, the burn cleansing, invigorating. I think a little too much time is spent on this. It has already been shown that he, for some reason, likes this.
“You stupid, young man?”
Reid shielded his eyes with a hand and glanced back at the sidewalk fronting the South Puget Sound’s largest homeless shelter. The hoarse voice belonged to one of their regulars. “Lot of people think I am, Ma'am.”
“Worse night we had.” The old woman tested the water with the rubber tip of her cane before putting her foot forward. “We still got room?”
“Yes, we do.” Reid pivoted. He strode toward the entrance door and cupped her elbow.
Glancing at his fingers on her stained coat, she paused.
“Been a little slippery out here,” he said, waiting until she settled her weight against him. (snip)
Book clubs are terrific in many ways, most especially in that they buy and read books. I've sat in on a book club meeting that discussed one of my novels, and they were all intelligent and insightful--I had a good time, perhaps mostly because they liked the novel.
And that none of them were the women portrayed in a post I came across titled "The 7 People in Every Book Club." It's tongue-in-cheek, but I suspect there's a lot of truth in this.
I also think that some of these same people appear in writers' critique groups. What do you think?
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.
Juliette sends first chapter of what looks like historical fiction, no title available. The remainder is after the break.
CHAPTER 1
1585
Strasbourg, Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation
Guillaume crossed the street and shuffled forward. Just a little bit farther, around the next bend.
The chanteur touched his scar, the edge damp with seepage. He wiped his eye with his handkerchief and shuddered. The sensation still filled him with revulsion. He considered donning his patch. No— papa might be more sympathetic if he sees my disfigurement.
The image of his childhood home filled his thoughts. His step became livelier as he turned the corner and passed the neighboring gable and timbered houses. He scowled when he noticed the flower boxes overflowing with weeds and the roses beside the front door overgrown and unkempt. He tried the door, but found it locked. He heard talking around back and circled the house. “Mama? Papa?”
In the courtyard behind the house, where his mother kept a small vegetable patch, several children whom he did not recognize played in an untended garden. The biggest boy ran toward him and abruptly stopped, screaming, “Mama, come quickly!”
A woman appeared at the back door, her dress shabby, her hair, stringy and (snip)
There’s good writing here, and the time and place have inherent interest. There was just enough in the way of story questions for me to turn the page, but there had be something immediately after that raises the tension and creates stronger story questions. And I think the narrative could use some polishing. Notes:
Guillaume crossed the street and shuffled forward. Just a little bit farther, around the next bend.
The chanteur touched his scar, the edge damp with seepage. He wiped his eye with his handkerchief and shuddered. The sensation still filled him with revulsion. He considered donning his patch. No— papa might be more sympathetic if he sees my disfigurement.This description needs work—it should be clear to the reader that it refers to his eye. As it is, the reader has to figure that out, and she should not have to.
The image of his childhood home filled his thoughts. His step became livelier as he turned the corner and passed the neighboring gable and timbered houses. He scowled atwhen he noticed the flower boxes overflowing with weeds and the roses beside the front door overgrown and unkempt. He tried the door, but found it locked. He heard talking around back and circled the house. “Mama? Papa?” Not sure what is meant by “gable and timbered houses.” Is it “gabeled?” “When he noticed” is a filter that can distance the reader from the character’s experience.
In the courtyard behind the house, where his mother kept a small vegetable patch, several children whom he did not recognize played in an untended garden. The biggest boy ran toward him and abruptly stopped, screaming, “Mama, come quickly!”
A woman appeared at the back door, her dress shabby, her hair, stringy and (snip)
. . . matted. The boy shouted something inaudible and rushed to his mother, hid behind her skirts, and pointed toward Guillaume. The woman wiped the child’s face on her apron and pushed him toward the house. “Gather the children and go inside, hurry!”
She picked up a broom and advanced toward Guillaume. “Get out of here!” she shouted.
Shocked, Guillaume shouted back, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“What do you mean what am I doing here?” the woman replied, raising the broom as a weapon. “This is my house, and you are scaring my children. Now go away!”
“Your house?” Guillaume laughed. “This is my parents’ house.”
“We bought this house four years ago.” The woman slowed her step but continued to hold the broom in front of her. When she neared Guillaume, she flinched and then stared indignantly at his face.
Guillaume’s laugh transformed into a grimace. “What do you mean, you bought this house? My parents would never have sold their house!”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “If this wasyour parents’ house, they sold it to me a long time ago. Now, should I have my son fetch my husband, or are you going to leave on your own?”
“But…” Guillaume scanned the courtyard, which looked very different than it did when he left. His mother would never allow such disarray. He muttered, “I have been gone a while…” His heart began pounding in his chest, and he glared at the woman. Suddenly conscious of her stare, he asked, “Why would they sell?”
“I have no idea,” she replied. Her back stiffened, and she raised her chin defiantly. “But I would appreciate it if you would leave.”
Guillaume exhaled. He glanced around his childhood home reminiscing about the big tree in the corner, and playing hide-and-seek with his sister in this courtyard. He peered in the window and saw the children gawking at him. They turned to each other, all talking at the same time, and pointing at him with terrified looks on their faces. “I am… sorry.” He lowered his head and slowly backed away.
He breathed deeply to calm himself, the way he had before each performance. When he reached the street corner, he stopped and absently dabbed his eye again. What should I do now? He scanned the street, which appeared out of focus. Where could my parents have gone? They would not have sold their home unless…
He leaned against the fence until his dizziness passed. He thought of Monsieur Cuny, who lived just up the street on the main thoroughfare. Surely, he would know where they had gone.
He turned to take one last look at the house and shook his head. That woman had some nerve, staring at him so rudely. He had once stood in the presence of nobility!
He touched his eye socket and felt the indentation. Not donning the patch had not been such a good idea after all, but it itched and gave him a headache.
He pulled the leather patch from his bag, slipped it over his head, and made his way up the street. After his last meeting, he was almost afraid to knock on his mentor’s door. “Monsieur Cuny?” he called.
A frail old man answered. His face bore the wisdom of his age. A black coif covered the man’s thin gray hair and his full beard, peppered with white. His doublet, though new and of good quality, appeared ill fitting on his stooped shoulders.
Immediately upon recognizing Guillaume, the man’s face brightened with a smile and widening eyes. “Guillaume? Is that you? Come in, come in!” Monsieur Cuny grabbed Guillaume’s sleeve and pulled him into his embrace. “Are you all right? Your eye!”
“Monsieur Cuny, I went by my parents’ house and —”
“What happened to you, son?” the older man interrupted. “I hired a deputy to find you, but he found you no longer traveled with your troupe. He searched everywhere, but no one knew where to find you.”
“Monsieur Cuny. Did my parents sell our house? Where are they?”
A look of sadness crossed his friend’s face, and Guillaume inhaled sharply and held his breath, waiting.
The old man hesitated and replied, “Terrible things happened while you were away. Terrible things…” he added quietly, shaking his head.
Guillaume could not breathe. His head began to pound. “What sort of terrible things?”
“Come in and sit down, Guillaume.” He gestured to the young man and reached behind him to close the door.
Instead of obeying, Guillaume grabbed the old man’s arms and shook him. “What has happened to my parents and my sister?”
“Guillaume, you had a betrothal contract. You should not have left that way. There were consequences. There are always consequences…”
“Monsieur Cuny, please! Where are my parents?”
Monsieur Cuny’s face became stern. He exhaled and said, “Quirienne’s papa demanded the dowry back, but you know your parents used the money for your sister’s dowry. I offered to cover the expense, and Monsieur Feldtrauer offered to give your sister’s dowry back, but your papa refused our offer. He was a proud man.”
Guillaume paled. His chest hurt as if someone punched him. “Was?” He grabbed the wall to keep from falling. Monsieur Cuny helped him to a chair and sat beside him, put a hand on his shoulder, and spoke softly.
“Son, your papa is dead. He died about two weeks after you left.”
A sob broke from Guillaume. “No! He cannot be dead. It is not true!” He buried his face in his hands, his fingers catching in the strap of his patch. He ripped it off and threw it against the wall.
Monsieur Cuny patted Guillaume’s back until he began to calm. “Let me get you a drink of ale.”
After a long while, Guillaume raised his head and searched his mentor’s face with a pleading expression. “My mama?”
“I saw her several weeks ago, and she was fine, as beautiful as ever.”
Guillaume sighed in relief. “Where is she? I have to see her!”
“She lives with your sister —”
Before he could finish, Guillaume started to stand. “Thank you, Monsieur Cuny. I will speak with you later.”
“Guillaume, wait! You cannot go now. By the time you get there —”
“But —”
The older man grabbed his arm. “Son, you cannot go running through the streets. It will be getting dark soon.”
“Mama will not care!”
Monsieur Cuny shook his head. “But Monsieur Feldtrauer might care. He is a very important man. You cannot just pound on his door in the middle of the night.” He hesitated a moment and continued, “And you need a bath, son. You are a mess.”
“But…” Guillaume absent-mindedly touched his eye.
The older man softened his voice. “Stay here tonight, mon gars. Get a bath and have dinner with me. You can visit your mama and sister in the brightness of the morning.”
Guillaume breathed loudly, hesitating, “But I —”
“Come, son. I think Edmond left some clothes in his trunk that should fit you. You have been gone for four years. One more night will not matter.”
Guillaume studied his threadbare doublet. All of a sudden, he ached for a bath and agreed to stay the night.
As he lay in the sheet lined wooden tub, his thoughts drifted back to the day he left Strasbourg. He had been betrothed to a sweet girl, Quirienne and had a good job in Monsieur Cuny’s music shop repairing instruments and giving lessons on the lute. He loved to sing and often sang to himself while he worked around the house. One day, a musician hired to play at a wedding celebration happened by and heard him singing. He convinced Guillaume to come to the celebration and sing, and perhaps join the troupe. Sweet Quirienne helped him select the perfect clothes to wear, kissed his cheek, and offered him good luck.
All those people staring at him made him nervous, but to his surprise, everyone loved him, especially the women. They could not take their eyes off him. His tenor voice had flowed so smoothly. After a while, he became emboldened and began walking around the room, singing to the women individually. He noticed the lust in their eyes. After the performance, several women introduced themselves. Several others offered more than just an introduction. All the attention went to his head, so when the musicians asked him to join their troupe, he eagerly accepted. He never even went back to tell his parents or Quirienne goodbye. He sighed and dunked his head under the water.
After his bath, he raked through Edmond’s trunk. He pulled out a simple white linen shirt with a starched collar, a red doublet with long sleeves, matching slops, and hose, and a black leather jerkin with a v-shaped front. The clothes were plain with no added adornments. Typical, plain, boring Edmond.
Monsieur Cuny’s son, Edmond, had grown up with Guillaume and had been his best friend. After Edmond’s mother died, Guillaume’s mama took the job as his governess, and Monsieur Cuny came to love her as his daughter. The boys spent many days happily, playing with wooden swords, pretending to be knights, or playing with clay marbles in this old house. About the same time that Guillaume had asked Quirienne to marry him, Edmond began courting a lovely girl named Barbe. They must be married by now.
Lying on the table in Edmond’s room, Guillaume found a small looking glass and gazed at his reflection. He gasped. He touched his eye socket with the towel, his fingers lingering on the indentation.
From the time he was a child, people commented on his beautiful olive green eyes and the way they stood out against his “golden skin,” as his papa used to say. He resembled his mama – used to resemble her. Now, people look at him with disgust. For a moment, he felt a twinge of guilt. This was his fault, hanging around with those drunken, no-good friends of his. However, when he glanced a second time, he saw Catherine’s face and relived the day she stabbed him with the thorn. Hate filled his heart.
This happened because that fat old greedy barkeep, Bastien, kicked him out of the auberge. He could have been happy there, singing and playing the lute. He did not make enough money to pay the rent simply by passing around a hat to those cheap peasants of Vacquenoux, but he entertained the customers from the coach. They enjoyed his songs and drank more ale, and that pig should have been paying him for his services.
The familiarity of the house where he had spent so much time as a child lifted his spirits a little. Other than the older man losing even more of his hair, everything appeared the same. Everyone in town knew the jolly music man, Monsieur Cuny but more than that, he knew everyone by name. When someone bought an instrument from his shop, Monsieur Cuny offered free lessons. His calm, supportive character encouraged even the least musical to enjoy the pleasure of melody. All of his children learned to play, and so did Guillaume and his sister, Eve. The lute was Guillaume’s favorite. He remembered many happy hours playing and singing together.
When he arrived in the dining room, the table where he had eaten with the extended family was set for just the two of them. Monsieur Cuny met him with a compassionate smile and handed him his patch. “What happened to your eye, son?”
Guillaume pouted. “Someone stabbed me with a thorn. I had never felt such pain.”
“I believe it. I cannot imagine,” the old man said, shaking his head.
The servant brought steaming bowls of soup, and Monsieur Cuny motioned for Guillaume to sit while she served them.
Guillaume continued. “My eye constantly watered. Once I finally got the thorn out, I thought it would heal so I started home. After a couple of days, it started to hurt worse. I could not stand the pain and stopped at a farm for help. The old woman allowed me to spend the night. She put a drop of something in my eye that she said would help. I believed her! The next day, it had swollen to twice its size, and she made me a drink for the pain. The next thing I knew, I woke up tied to the table, and that witch had removed my eye! She said it would have popped, or it would have killed me!” Guillaume’s lips quivered. He lowered his head and dabbed his eye with his napkin.
The old man’s face grew troubled. “Oh, Guillaume!” He took the young man’s hand and they sat in silence for several moments. “Who stabbed you?”
“I would prefer not talk about it, Monsieur Cuny.”
After a moment of silence, the old man continued. “When the deputy I had hired said he found you had joined the troop, we were relieved. Although we were shocked when you ran off, I have to admit, I secretly felt proud of your success as a chanteur. I heard you sang for the Duke of Lorraine!”
“Yes, Monsieur. We lived in the castle for a couple of months.” He glanced toward his soup, but his expression was far away. A smile crept over his face, and slowly his focus returned. “It was wonderful, almost like a dream. Everyone wanted to be near me, merely to be seen near me. They bought me dinner, drinks. They treated me so well.”
Monsieur Cuny dipped his bread into the bowl, sopped up the broth, and took a bite. “What happened? Why did you leave them? We thought you were murdered!”
Guillaume sighed and stared absently at the old man. “I seduced the Duke’s daughter. When he found out, he would have killed me, but she begged him to spare my life. He warned me never to return to Nancy, and forced her to join a Benedictine Abbey in Remiremont. I was so ashamed I could not come home. I have just been traveling and performing in fairs or celebrations for money. Occasionally, I sang in an auberge or bistro and passed my hat around the crowd, but when I… injured… my eye, I had to come home. Nobody will want to watch me sing now.”
After a moment of hesitation, Monsieur Cuny said, “You are talented, Guillaume. Give yourself a chance. If you are still the same person as you were when you left, everyone will welcome you back, and listen to you sing.”
“Do you think my mama and sister will forgive me?”
“Your mama loves you, son. Everyone thought you were dead. She will be happy to see you.”
“What about Quirienne?”
The old man shook his head, and his face grew critical. “You broke her heart, as I am sure you can imagine. She did not deserve to be treated so badly.”
“I did not mean to hurt her.”
Monsieur Cuny raised his voice and smacked his hand on the table. “You never considered her feelings.”
Guillaume flinched and lowered his head, dabbing his eye again. “No. I just —”
“You just what?”
Guillaume exhaled and stared at the table. Neither spoke for several moments. The old man calmed and took another bite of soup. “Well, she married and I believe she has a child. I am sorry that I shouted. Eat your dinner.”
Guillaume took a bite of soup. The knots in his stomach loosened and he realized how hungry he was, famished in fact, and he ate hungrily. He expected this type of reception, but he thought his father would be the one chastising him. He could not believe that he would never see his father again. His heart ached. “What happened to papa?”
“He slipped and fell off the roof. It happened so suddenly.” The older man’s voice cracked as he recalled the incident.
Guillaume shook his head and fought to hold back the tears. He put down his spoon.
“Your mama heard him fall. He did not suffer.” After another long pause, he continued. “Guillaume, I have to tell you something before you visit your mother. Your sister will be there and …” He hesitated as if deciding whether to continue. “Rita, uh, your mother confided in me that Eve thinks your father jumped because of the shame you caused him, but I cannot believe —”
Guillaume jerked his head up and stiffened. He inhaled and stammered, “My fault? Oh God, it was my fault!” He stood and rushed out the back door, unable to breathe. The image of his father’s smiling face transformed into the image of his mangled body on the ground, his mama running to him, embracing him as he breathed his last.
“No, son! Your sister was wrong. It was an accident,” the old man said, following him. “Your papa never would have.” He exhaled sharply. “He loved her too much.”
Guillaume gazed vacantly into the darkness as a million stars twinkled above them. He took a deep breath. “Yes, it had to be an accident.”
“Your mama knows it was an accident, Guillaume. Maybe I should not have told you, but I wanted you to be prepared.”
Still staring into the distance, Guillaume replied, “How is mama getting along?”
“When I saw her last week, she said she felt happier than she had in a long, long time, though she refused to tell me the reason for her happiness. She is all right, Guillaume.” Monsieur Cuny laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder, and stood with him in silence. After a while, he continued, “Have you considered what you will do?”
“No, I had not thought that far ahead.”
“Would you like your old job at the shop? I have never found anyone as talented to take your place. The shop is getting to be too much for this old man. I could use your help.”
“Thank you, Monsieur,” he replied. “I would like that very much.”
“Go to bed now, son. Get some sleep. Tomorrow you will see your mother.”