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 engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character 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.
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.
Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.
Dan sends the first chapter of a novella, The Red Hand. The remainder is after the break.
Please vote and comment. It helps the writer.
John Wren heard his neighbor's door click shut, as her door did three times a week, right around six AM. He stirred sugar into his tea. He knew what he'd hear next, and heard it: Kate's bare feet bounding down the stairway, one tread at a time. Taking his cup, he stepped onto the balcony -- really an open air hallway -- of the threadbare seaside motel that had been his home for the past two months. He watched her cross the sandy parking lot at a trot, to the break in the falling-down split-rail fence, then diagonally toward the beach through the overgrown lot next door. He liked Kate. She was about the only thing in this crazy world that made any real sense to him.
He looked over at Windsong in her slip, and squinted at the top of her mast, gauging the wind. Less than five knots, he decided. West north west.
There are small dunes along this stretch of the Hamptons, some with meager beach grasses holding them together. As Kate turned along the beach, she started to open up her stride, but a figure stepped out from behind one of those grassy dunes. He appeared to be pointing a gun at her. She stopped dead, then went down, writhing. Dropping his tea, John raced down the stairs. He'd heard no shot; he had no idea what a Taser was. As he streaked across the parking area, he saw the sedan racing across the side lot, barreling over the uneven ground toward Kate and the stranger. It stopped a short way from her and a second fellow jumped out and helped the first drag her into the back seat. Her wrists seemed to be tied together.
Most definitely a strong story question raised on this first page, and the writing is pretty clean, grammatically speaking. However, the narrative needs work on the storytelling side. As it is, the promise is for what could be an interesting story but not a well-written one—for example, after the action ends John is standing by the car, which has crashed, and turns to see Kate opening her motel door even though a second before she had been standing next to him . . . which has to be some distance from there. Dan, take your time and think through how to move the story seamlessly forward. Notes:
John Wren heard his neighbor's door click shut, as ither door did three times a week, right around six AM. He stirred sugar into his tea. He knew what he'd hear next, and heard it: Kate's bare feet bounding down the stairway, one tread at a time. Taking his cup, he stepped onto the balcony -- really an open air hallway -- of the threadbare seaside motel that had been his home for the past two months. He watched her cross the sandy parking lot at a trot, to the break in the falling-down split-rail fence,and then diagonally toward the beach through the overgrown lot next door. He liked Kate. She was about the only thing in this crazy world that made any real sense to him.
He looked over at WindsongWindsongin her slip, and squinted at the top of her mast, gauging the wind. Less than five knots, he decided. West north west. Boat names are italicized.
There areKate crossed the small dunes alongof this stretch of the Hamptons, some with meager beach grasses holding them together. As Kateshe turned along the beach, she started to open up her stride, but a figure stepped out from behind a dune one of those grassy dunes. He appeared to be pointing a gun at her. She stopped dead, then went down, writhing. Dropping his tea, John raced down the stairs. He'd heard no shot; he had no idea what a Taser was. As he streaked across the parking area, he saw the a sedan racedracing across the side lot, barreling over the uneven ground toward Kate and the stranger. It stopped a short way from her and a second fellow jumped out and helped the first drag her into the back seat. Her wrists seemed to be tied together. The “There are” at the opening of this is the author intruding to inject information. Keep it within the character’s pont of view and turn it into action as experienced by the protagonist. The bit about her stride isn’t needed and borders on overwriting. If he has no idea what a Taser is or does, then he can’t be thinking about it—a break in point of view. And who these days doesn’t know what a Taser is and does? I would change this to him concluding that she’d been tasered. The “he saw” I changed is using a filter instead of showing the action the character experiences.
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 engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character 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.
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.
Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.
Joseph sends the first chapter of a novella, The Meter Reader . The remainder is after the break
Please vote and comment. It helps the writer.
The dashboard radio interceptor crackles in and out, and the voices are barely audible, so Orville adjusts the squelch button, which helps a little.
“Did you get it?” he asks, his knobby fingers twirling the button.
“Don’t sweat on it boss. It sounded like two tags. Got the coordinates, too.” I turn on the flashlight, point it on the mapbook, and flip to the right page.
The coordinates place this next job on the far end of the reservation, a few miles away. I ask, “Do you know where that is?”
“It’s been a while, but we’ll find it. Strap on the seatbelt. Pot’s right.” Orville jams the Chevy in drive and floors the accelerator. Bits of desert gravel shoot out and seconds later, we are rolling down the state highway under the cover of the desert sky. I hope we have enough time to save those two folks.
Two tags on two meters of two souls, soon to be removed by the termination unit, unless we get there in time. Whether or not these two folks on the ground were victims of foul play or mere accident (hand of man vs the hand of God) is a matter for Orville and me – one ornery ancient wildcat meter reader and his comely and humble apprentice, creeping in and out of space-time, changing folks’ fate, saving lives, making miracles. God, I love this job! Until the old fart opens his mouth.
Good voice, mostly good writing, and a goodly number of story questions worked for me in this opening. The writing could be a little crisper and there’s potential for confusion in one spot, but those things are easily fixed. The opening introduces a different kind of world without belaboring it and blends it into the action. Good work. Notes:
The dashboard radio interceptor crackles in and out, and the voices are barely audible, so Orville adjusts the squelch button, which helps a little. For me, the micro detail of adjusting the squelch button is just not needed. Use the words for story. You could combine this paragraph with the next one for greater clarity.
“Did you get it?” he asks, his knobby fingers twirling the button.I thought he had already adjusted the button in the first paragraph, so why is he still twirling the button? Don’t think you need that.
“Don’t sweat on it, Bossboss. It sounded like two tags. Got the coordinates, too.” I turn on the flashlight, point it on the map bookmapbook, and flip to the right page.
The coordinates place this next job on the far end of the reservation, a few miles away. I ask, “Do you know where that is?”
“It’s been a while, but we’ll find it. Strap on the seat beltseatbelt. Pot’s right.” Orville jams the Chevy in drive and floors the accelerator. Bits of desert gravel shoot out and seconds later, we are rolling down the state highway under the cover of the desert sky. I hope we have enough time to save those two folks. They shouldn't be in a moving car without the seat belt fastened. I would just delete this and get on with the story. As a long-time poker player, I recognize the phrase “Pot’s right,” but I wonder, since “pot” also stands for marijuana, of non-players will. I know he uses the phrase later but, unless it’s vital for the story, there’s potential for confusion here. Good story question raised about saving two folks.
Two tags on two meters of two souls, soon to be removed by the termination unit, unless we get there in time. Whether or not these two folks on the ground were victims of foul play or mere accident (hand of man vs the hand of God) is a matter for Orville and me – one ornery ancient wildcat meter reader and his comely and humble apprentice, creeping in and out of space-time, changing folks’ fate, saving lives, making miracles. God, I love this job! Until the old fart opens his mouth. Plenty of story questions raised here.
“Let’s go over this again,” Orville says. “What’s step one?” With one hand on the wheel and both eyes on the road, he casually reaches to his left side where the .38 special waits in its holster. He’s checking the ordinance again. Orville might be humorless and stiff, but he sure is thorough.
“I know step one and I know step two,” I say. “And three and four and all the rest. This is getting old. Like you. Except you’re already past ‘getting’.”
“Do it, rookie. Step one.”
“All right,” I answer. “Step One is a little number that goes like this; I stand guard and count while you check the tags on the life meters. The end. Sorry that I said you’re getting old. You can’t help it. Better check your firearm again because I think it may have escaped. From too much fondling.”
“Never mind. What’s step two?”
“You play detective, check for clues of foul play, then intervene as needed.”
“Elaborate. What do you mean by ‘intervene’?”
“Intervene, verb, to alter the course of events, to change one’s fate, to perform a minor miracle. For example, the grouchy old man intervened and saved a soul from being ripped out of the poor folk on the ground, hallelujah. All while the handsome apprentice stood guard and counted. In other words, I do all the heavy lifting while you play with dolls.”
Orville barely grins at the wisecrack, which means that I’ll have to try harder. Or maybe that’s my problem – I’m trying too hard. He turns left off the highway to take a dirt road, tires grumbling underneath. “After that?”
“After that, we get the hell out of there, as fast as a married man in a cathouse. You like that one?”
Orville grunts. He’s been doing that a lot lately. He looks like this job has been drilling a hole in his spirit. His yellow moustache seems droopier, his wit replaced with slow shakes of his head. Either that or my jokes are getting bad. Nah.
Silhouettes of cacti and mesquite roll by, suddenly illuminated by a pair of headlights coming our way. Orville slows down a bit and turns off the high beams. The vehicle does not reply in kind. It closes in, practically blinding us until the vehicle is close enough to run us off the road. Orville swerves just in time. “Numbnuts!” he barks and I watch menacing red light zip past us.
“Was it them?” I ask.
“I’m sure it was,” he answers.
Meter readers, I think to myself. The most heartless, mindless drones of all the employees who work for C&F Utilities. Good thing they’re all idiots because if it wasn’t for their incompetence, we would probably be slinging hash somewhere off the grid, working odd jobs here and there, then coming home to our trailers, hitting the bottles, waking up with hangovers, stumbling to new jobs because we just got fired for being late too many times. God save me from that nightmare. This wildcat job is the best thing going for me, and as soon as Orville cuts me loose, I’ll be performing miracles my way.
A few minutes later, we’re parked two hundred yards from the site, hidden from the road. Orville hands me his clipboard and reminds me to not accidentally press the buttons, especially the SLIP button. I sing that old song with him in mock fashion. All three buttons shine like gems, each with their own color – SLIP, COUNT, and RESUME, which sends us back to Earth time.
The engine is left running and we creep up to a spot outside of dirt clearing in front of a small shack of mud and two beat-up cars. We hide behind the desert shrub because it looks like someone is sitting inside one of the cars.
“There’s the instigator,” I say. “See? I can spot him, just like you trained me to. Bet your ass that he’s the one.”
“Maybe,” Orville says. “Get ready to press SLIP, on my mark.”
The dark figure emerges from one of the beat up cars, flicks away a cigarette butt, and heads towards the hut. It looks like he’s carrying a pole or big-ass stick with him. I point to the instigator and almost reveal our hiding spot when I whisper, too loudly, “The murder weapon! What the hell is it? Can you see?”
Orville covers my mouth and breathes hot fire from his old nostrils. His stare burns and I feel like a rookie all over again. He shakes his head and points to the clipboard, which means get ready to press SLIP. I don’t know why he trusts me, but he does. His hand goes again to check the revolver in his holster. He’s caressing the handle. He really needs a girlfriend.
Now at the front door, the figure raises the stick over his head and I see that it’s a hatchet with a long handle, for chopping wood. Not the best murder weapon in an enclosed space, and that’s when I realize that the figure at the door is either an enraged ex-boyfriend or the dumbassiest assassin in the universe. Someone inside is about to be hacked to death in a God-awful way, which is why Orville and I are here in the first place.
Orville points at me and I press the SLIP button.
Everything stops.
The crickets stop fiddling their tune, the stars stop rolling in the sky, not that I could tell, and the coyotes stop yipping. Even the breeze stops blowing. A bat hangs in the air as if suspended from fishing line. The dark figure still stands at the front door, his hands frozen on the handle of the hatchet and the blade waiting to come crashing down.
Orville and I don’t stop. There’s work to be done here and if we’re lucky, two lives to be saved. He hurries to the house and enters while I stand by the truck and look out for the termination unit and their van. Orville calls them the ‘numbuts in coveralls.’ They have their own power to SLIP in and out of time because they, too, have a clipboard just like the one belonging to Orville. Clipboards and huge tongs, which they use to remove the souls from the folks and send them to central cold storage at C&F Headquarters, then on the reprocessing center where they wait for their next assignment.
According to the COUNT, we have about 600 heartbeats to get in and out of here without being caught. It may not seem like a long time, but it’s damn dull watching the COUNT on the clipboard and watching the road while Orville has all the fun. I hate SLIP time. Nothing on Earth seems alive and there’s little to do.
200 heartbeats to do something important.
I grab a handful of rocks and hang them in the air to make a lifelike portrait of eyes and a nose and a mouth. Then I grab a handful of desert sand and a few mesquite branches to make a head of wiry hair and a bushy moustache. Voila. The exact likeness of Orville. Another hurried masterpiece.
Orville calls to me from the inside of the hut. He tells me, “You gotta see this.”
Finally, some action! I destroy the evidence to leave the rocks, sand, and mesquite a mid-air mess, then I hurry to the scene to find him in the bedroom, standing next to a double bed.
“It’s time for your first big test,” Orville says. “What do you see?”
I better ace this. I take a deep breathe, crack my knuckles a few times, shake off the cobwebs. Here goes. “There’s a pregnant woman sleeping on the bed, next to the father of her baby. Or maybe Paul Bunyan outside is the baby-daddy. Baby-mommy has two tags, one for her and one for the baby. Wow. Folks on the ground are a cruel lot.”
The meter of life is shaped like any old analog meter, an arc with a field of green on the left, a narrower field of yellow in the middle and the smallest field of red on the right. You don’t want that needle to ever go in the yellow, let alone red. Once it’s there, you get tagged by a meter reader. Then it’s lights out and your time on the ground is over because the termination unit shows up, reads the red tags, fills out the requisite paperwork, and takes your soul away where it waits in hyper-cold storage. For this reason, I prefer to call it a death meter.
Folks on the ground can’t see that meter, but it’s there -- below the hairline on the back of your neck. And that needle usually stays in the green, but once someone on the ground does something stupid or dangerous, like climb a mountain or fall asleep at the wheel, or even something harmless like take a shower, that needle moves to the right, sometimes a little and sometimes a lot.
“That’s obvious rook,” Orville says. “I trained you better than that. Try again.”
I look again, deeper now, observing the faces of the couple and the way their bodies flow across the bed. The pregnant woman faces out and so does the man, but in the other direction. They lie apart from each other about as far on the bed as they can be without falling off. More evidence beyond my grasp.
“What’s her name?” Orville asks.
I read both tags again. “Jackie Begay. Her daughter’s name is Aubrey.”
“Detective time. Tell me what’s gonna happen.”
“Four hundred heartbeats left. Do we have time?”
“Make it fast.”
I hurry through a fairly obvious prediction: Axe man at the front door bursts into the house and hacks Jackie Begay to death. The current boyfriend luckily escapes.
Orville grunts and shakes his head. “Follow me.” He heads out the bedroom and through the hallway. He walks with determination and I hurry to follow him to the door of the one-bedroom shack.
Orville stands on one side of the closed door and I stand on the other. He nods for me to open the door, and I do.
I stand right in front of the killer and if I were to accidentally press the SLIP button, that axe blade would cleave right into my skull. I feel my arms crawling with goosebumps.
“What do you see?” he asks.
The look in his eyes is heavy and red, not wild and frightened. Odd.
“I see…a killer…a…something ain’t right. This guy doesn’t look pissed, he looks stoned. Too stoned to give a damn. Why is he even here?”
“You’re the one being tested. You tell me.”
I go into my best explanation and I don’t believe a word of it. “Stoner here is desperate for cash, so he breaks into the home to steal something, but all he sees is a used microwave oven and a nearly-empty refrigerator. He stumbles into the bedroom, wakes the couple. Fight breaks out and next thing you know, Jackie Begay and unborn daughter are killed while the guy in the bed survives, maybe there’s a scuffle and he scares the stoner off, which wouldn’t be too hard. None of this makes sense. Oh, and 350 heartbeats to go.”
Orville just shakes his head. He’s too tired to teach me the truth and frankly, I’ve been training too long not to know it. I wish I had his knowledge and experience but not his wrinkles. He can keep them.
At this time, I begins the intervention, which I expect to go something like this; he steps behind the stoned killer, straighten the stiff fingers to release the grip on the handle, and hand me the murder weapon, which I’ve been trained to quickly hide. I’ll probably throw it in the desert for future use.
But I should know that Orville never does the expected. Instead of removing the murder weapon from the killer’s grip, something we’ve done countless times before, he does nothing about it. Now I’m the one who’s shaking his head because I have no idea what the old fart is up to.
“Now,” Orville says, his eyes lighting up a bit and his mouth merging to a smirk. He always enjoyed this part of the job. He stands close to the axe-man and whispers into his ear. “I ain’t no cold-blooded murderer. I don’t kill helpless mothers and unborn babies. No way.” Orville eyes me to see if I get it. I wish I did.
He continues his whispery serenade. “I’m taking over this operation. I’m the one in charge, not him.” Now he’s looking right at me again as he closes in even closer on the axe-man’s ear. “I’m too smart for him. I’m too smart for all of this. The plan is about to be changed.”
Orville tells me to go check the meters of Jackie and the kid. On my way to the bedroom, I hear more whispering but I have no idea what Orville is saying
Back in the bedroom, I check her meter and the baby’s. I tell Orville that both are lower, but still in the red.
Orville returns to the bedroom. He says we need to make more drastic steps and hands me his gun as though I know exactly what to do with it, which I don’t. It rests in my hands like a hungry baby bird. I’m about to place the gun next to the boyfriend when Orville says, “What the hell are you doing?”
“I thought…I thought you said…no clue.”
“Don’t look. See. Who kills Begay? Who kills her unborn baby?”
“Paul Bunyan.”
Orville is about to say something, but I stop him. “The boyfriend slash husband? He hires the thug to kill her? Why?”
“Does it matter? Insurance money…furious that it’s not his baby… do the folks on the ground really need a reason to kill each other?”
I said I guess not. I think I’m getting it.
“What are you gonna do about it?” Orville asks, his bony finger jabbing a hole in my chest.
“I’m gonna change fate. Ow.”
“And how are you gonna do that?!”
“I’m gonna save two lives tonight! Ow.”
Orville nods and says, “Now hand me my clipboard. I’ll count and you
work. You got 250 heartbeats. Pot’s light and ante up. Go.”
After the gun is placed next to the nightstand of the mother, I check her
meter. The needle has dropped a little, but it’s still in the red.
“You need to do more,” Orville says.
“I need to do more? What more are you doing?”
“Teaching. Two twenty and counting. Remember that trick about divine
inspiration? Do that and see what happens.”
I lean over and whisper to Jackie, “You have a gun. Someone close to you
gave it to you for a Christmas—”
Orville clears his throat.
“—Easter—”
Orville shakes his head. His meter officially reads Pain In My Ass.
“—birthday gift. You will use it to shoot the stranger who’s coming into your room.” I check her meter. The needle has dropped to the yellow zone, which means her fate is still in jeopardy. She could die tonight or the next day or the month after that. Who knows. What’s worse is that Baby Begay’s meter still reads red. Then I realize the point of the intruder in the first place and it becomes clear, like a slap across my face, that Orville “inspired” Paul Bunyan to hack apart the real murderer – the fellow in the bed.
I tell the sleeping mother the most important part, the one that saves her life and the life of her unborn child; “Wait until the intruder kills the man in bed. Then point the gun at the intruder and keep firing until he drops.” Orville is giving me the keep-it-going sign, so I say, “Keep firing until the revolver is empty.” Orville gives a thumbs up and I check her meter. The needle has finally dropped to the green zone. Good for her, but bad for me. I feel a bit wheezy.
“Hallelujah, rook,” Orville says as he slaps me on the back. “Your first miracle. Breakfast is on me. Check your work and meet me outside.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Just enough. Hurry it up.”
Jackie is safe. Baby Begay is safe. Momma and baby live happily ever after. I rip off both of their tags, tear them four times, and throw them in the air like confetti, all the time singing my new favorite song and busting out a dance move somewhere between the robot and the mashed potato.
I believe in miracles.
We’re you from?
You sexy thing!
I check the meters of the boyfriend and the invader and they’re both in the red. For a little extra hot sauce, I punch sleeping ugly in his nutsack. He won’t feel a thing now, but once Orville presses RESUME and Earth time starts again, his junk will be roaring in righteous agony right as he gets hacked up. I am a sexy thing!
“What the hell are you doing!?” Orville asks. Has he been watching me the whole time?
“Making a difference?” I say.
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Telling you?”
Orville tells me to quit wasting time, which makes me laugh because we have the power to SLIP time, even if it doesn’t last. He doesn’t laugh. He just shakes his head and tells me to fill out two tags. After doing that, I slap a big, bright, red tag on the boyfriend and another on the axe-man to ensure that the termination unit drives out of here with two souls. Rule number two of Orville’s Wildcat Handbook– Balance the Tags. Never give the suits Upstairs a chance to doubt anything. Two folks for two folks. Cosmic balance sheet looks good and scoreboard reads good guys over bad guys by two souls.
“You know somethin’ Orville?”
“What’s that?”
“I’m gonna like this job.”
Orville chuckled and said, “Let’s get the hell outta here before the termination unit gets here.” That was rule Number One – Don’t Get Caught, by the numbnut meter readers, by the TU, the auditors from the suits Upstairs, but most of all, do not get blindsided by the thugs of the Intervention Division. The tales of their splatter guns are horror stories.
Orville hands me the clipboard and we hurry to the truck. He sets the gear in drive and I press the RESUME button. The night desert returns to life as we speed away. The crickets continue their sweet song, the stars continue their sky-wide journey and that lonely bat flaps away into the darkness. Then we hear the finale – no screams, no shouts, just the repeated pop of a pistol followed by silence. Orville grins that old grin, the old, younger grin I used to see so much.
On the road back, we spot a pair of headlights coming our way. Orville turns off the high beams and the headlights get closer and finally pass. We got out of there with heartbeats to spare.
“Ciao,” Orville says to the TU, his moustache creeping up on both sides of his face. When both sides of his lip whiskers wriggle like that, I know it’s a sign that he’s pleased. “Good job, Gil.”
“Thanks,” I respond.
“Did you clean up?”
“Sure did.”
“What did you do with the tags?”
I shook my head and told him that both tags are in my pocket. Later that morning, at breakfast, I told him that I tossed the tags in the trash.
I came across an article at ALLi, a blog for independent authors, about three services that might enable you to place your book in libraries. Two of the services provide payment for authors, one does not.
Why would you want to be in a library where your book can be read by many for the price of just one sale? For unknown, independent authors, discovery is the reason that makes sense to me. I’ll be checking these out for my novels and, perhaps, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling.
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 engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
The character desires something.
The character 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.
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.
Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.
Ellis sends a prologue and first chapter of Goblins at the Gates. The remainder is after the break.
About prologue openings: Literary agents such as Janet Reid have said that they and others tend to skip prologues. Why? Because the “real” story begins with chapter 1. It’s something to keep in mind.
Please vote and comment. It helps the writer.
Prologue: A Hill in Dacia
Serapion eased his horse away from the ridge top into a little grove of scrub oak, trying to calm her.
"Easy, my great heart," he said as he slipped to the ground. He stroked her neck and held his head close to hers, feeling her muscles quiver with nervousness. She was dangerously close to bolting.
He tried to calm himself, too. Even the brief glimpse of what was in the valley had chilled him. He reminded himself he was a scout for a Roman legion. His job was to see and report, not to panic like some palace serving girl.
He tied the mare to a sturdy branch, then crept back to the edge of the hill and peered over.
At the bottom of the valley snaked a wide, shallow river, its waters white with minerals and sediment washing down from distant mountains. Stunted trees ran along both sides, barely visible now, for the valley was covered by a flood of living creatures.
Everywhere in the surging, dark mass, individual shapes leaped suddenly into the air, up and forward, then fell back again. The bounding shapes reminded him of a herd of antelope on the run. Or, he thought with a shudder, like locusts.
The creatures were far too big for locusts, but their hopping motion evoked those terrible insects. A childhood memory swept over him, of his village covered by clouds of whirring wings. (snip)
Chapter 1: The New General
A cold rain drove in from the southeast, making the dark afternoon even darker. Two guards stood at the western gate, cloaks pulled tight against the wind. Only their eyes showed between folds of brown cloth.
"Who do you figure that is?" said one.
"Don't know," said the other as he peered through the gloom. A man was riding on a donkey that plodded down the track that passed for a road in this part of Dacia. "He don't look barbarian. Nor local neither."
"No," agreed the first, "he don't."
"Nope."
The man drew closer and began to wave.
"What's he want?"
"Couldn't say. Might be trouble, though. Swords ready." The one pulled his sword from its scabbard, but the other merely rested his hand on the hilt.
The figure was closer now. He was urging his donkey with threats and imprecations, but the animal ignored him and kept its own pace.
They could hear him now, in fragments broken by the wind. "Is this the ... legion?"
One guard looked at the other and shrugged. Is this the legion? No, this is the imperial baths and (snip)
Good, strong writing and voice in this narrative clears a lot of hurdles right at the start. I feel like I’m in the hands of a skilled storyteller. So far, so good.
For me, the prologue had a strong-enough story question to get me to turn the page, though I think it could be stronger. For example, how about foreshadowing the jeopardy ahead with an addition like this: . . . for the valley was covered by an invading horde, a flood of living creatures.
As for the first chapter, well, I hope readers don’t skip the prologue because there was little to create tension in this reader, and not enough to turn the page. It turns out that there’s a lot of backstory and character setting-up in the first chapter. For me, there’s just too much of that. Why not weave in some of the protagonist’s negative qualities, an anti-hero of sorts, as the story has something happening that continues the tension built up in the prologue. For me, that momentum died a laborious death with the struggles to wake up a lazy, hungover man.
You hooked me with strong stuff in the prologue, now is the time to capture my interest entirely with what happens here, especially since you killed of a character that I had come to like in the prologue. Perhaps you wanted to contrast the heroism of the scout with the lethargy of the general, and I get that, but do it in context of something happening that creates trouble and danger equivalent to the invading horde of alien creatures.
Suggestion: why not just call the prologue the first chapter so the reader has to start there? And, since the story is continuous from the action in the “prologue” to the chapter, I’m not sure it really is a prologue.
Terrific writing, fascinating world, for sure—but dive into the real story, please!
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 engaging the reader with the character
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 character desires something.
The character 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.
Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.
Susan sends a first chapter of Sophie's Sophistication. The remainder is after the break.
Please vote and comment. It helps the writer.
It’s never good news when the phone rings in the wee hours of the morning - it usually wakes you to your worst nightmare. But sleep often eludes Sophie and she is still awake, sick with worry, when it suddenly rings.
“Is this Sophie Theron?” The authoritative voice sends a frisson of fear through her.
“Y-es, who’s this?”
“I am State Trooper John Donnelly, Ma’am. I am at the scene of a single vehicle crash on Ballard Road near NY211. Is your husband driving a 2006 silver Volvo station wagon?”
“No, I’m not... No, it’s Daddy’s...it’s my father’s car. What’s happened? Is my Dad okay?”
I knew something was wrong! He’s never gone this long, even when his meetings run late. He must be angry with me. I should have listened to him. I should have tried to call him. Oh why didn’t I call him?
Sophie’s ongoing conflict with her Dad sporadically erupts into hurtful words as it did this morning when she excitedly announced that she had quit the telemarketing job and found a position as an ‘associate’ in a local arts and crafts store. This time she hoped he might be happy for her because art was all she ever cared about. But he never supported her passion for it. He deemed it a dilatory hobby at best.
This opening does begin to raise a good story question—is her father hurt or dead? But then it veers off into backstory and the momentum dies. At this moment we just don’t need to know about her ongoing conflict or what happened in the past. We want the now. For me, if the father’s accident impacts the story, I suggest starting at the point where Sophie arrives at the hospital and sees her father going into the operating room. Notes:
It’s never good news when the phone rings in the wee hours of the morning - it usually wakes you to your worst nightmare. But sleep often eludes Sophie and she is still awake, sick with worry, when it suddenly rings. The second-person opening offers an opinion about early-morning calls, but does it contribute to the story? It’s not what’s happening to the protagonist. Get to the story. Another point: this tells us that Sophie is sick with worry, but worry about what? This is another one of those dratted “information questions” that leave the reader not knowing what the heck is going on in the character’s experience.
“Is this Sophie Theron?” The authoritative voice sends a frisson of fear through her.
“Y-es, who’s this?”
“I am State Trooper John Donnelly, Ma’am. I am at the scene of a single vehicle crash on Ballard Road near NY211. Is your husband driving a 2006 silver Volvo station wagon?”
“No, I’m not... No, it’s Daddy’s...it’s my father’s car. What’s happened? Is my Dad okay?”
I knew something was wrong! He’s never gone this long, even when his meetings run late. He must be angry with me. I should have listened to him. I should have tried to call him. Oh why didn’t I call him?
Sophie’s ongoing conflict with her Dad sporadically erupts into hurtful words as it did this morning when she excitedly announced that she had quit the telemarketing job and found a position as an ‘associate’ in a local arts and crafts store. This time she hoped he might be happy for her because art was all she ever cared about. But he never supported her passion for it. He deemed it a dilatory hobby at best.And here we stop everything for backstory. It doesn’t matter now. Only the story of the moment does, at least in this narrative.
Ebooks have become ubiquitous to readers, and many of us utilize one or both of the dominant formats, .mobi (Kindle) and .epub (Nook, iBook, Kobo, etc.). As a part of my book design business, I create ebooks in both formats. To do so I happily stand on the shoulders of developers who designed abilities in the InDesign software I use to export those formats. Oh, there are things I need to do to the narrative to make it play nicely on ebook readers, but I think I’ve got that down.
But what, really, is an ebook? There are answers in What IS an ebook? David Kudler, an ebook designer who understands what’s under the hood. I thought it might be useful to you.
In the last flogging I indicated a few "information questions" that, for me, were not good storytelling technique. My goal with readers is to raise "story questions."
Story questions are created and raised by what is happening in the NOW of the story and need to be strong enough to force a reader to read on. They are “what happens next” questions.
Will he get out of the trap?
Will she be shot by the killer?
Will the giant spider eat them?
An example:
When he grabbed Sheila’s throat, she bared her teeth, grabbed his shirt with one hand, and drew back her fist.
The story questions are: Will she hit him? Will he free himself? Will he hit her? What happens next? This is the kind of story question that keeps a reader reading. There's another valid story question that isn't what happens next but "why did that happen?"
Information questions are about something the reader can’t know. I have seen opening pages that had statements like this one:
Only Simone could have done what she did.
That would be okay if the narrative had let the reader know who Simone was and what she had done. Unfortunately, it hadn’t.
Here’s another example, an opening paragraph:
When they learn what has happened, the truth of it will own them. They will be completely overtaken by the raw reality of it. In that moment, everything else in the universe will become invisible to them.
In this case, the reader did not know who “they” was, nor what happened, nor the truth of it. The entire paragraph is fundamentally meaningless. Other examples:
Reference to an unknown creature that hasn’t been mentioned: Raising his weapon, he blasted the articulated bandersnatch.
Reference to an organization that hasn‘t been mentioned: The president vowed to stop the attack by S.N.A.R.P.
Reference to an action that hasn’t been mentioned by a person who hasn’t been mentioned: Norman basked in the glow of his victory.
Withholding information from the reader to create a question does not increase tension, it can actually decrease tension and take a reader out of the story.
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 engaging the reader with the character
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 character desires something.
The character 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.
Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.
Jacob sends a first chapter of The Freerunners, a YA story. The remainder is after the break.
Please vote and comment. It helps the writer.
“I think you can take him.”
Those were the words that stuck with Toby as the bell rang to signal the final round. Balls of sweat were flowing unhindered from his opponent’s forehead, a scathing remark coming from behind the greasy grin, “You’re a dead man, skinny.” Toby didn’t smile back. He had no time for friends in the ring.
He launched a quick set of jabs the moment the referee came clear. A few connected, but did nothing more then annoy the beast that stood before him. Suddenly Toby was on the defensive, ducking on instinct as a vicious right hand hook nearly swept him off his feet. He glanced across at his brother watching from behind the ropes, lines of tension chiselled across his forehead. Toby knew what his brother was thinking, but it couldn’t possibly happen again. Yeah, maybe he was being a bit selfish, putting a lot at risk for a few bouts in the ring. But the treatment surely had work this time; the doctor was getting paid enough for it! He couldn’t help but feel like his father as he turned back to the match, his opponent baring oily gums in a weak attempt at a full smile.
They exchanged a few more shots at each other, with Toby darting around in circles and dishing out no more then two or three hits at a time. His opponent soon noticed the ploy, recognizing that the run and gun tactics would soon wear down his defences. He started closing (snip)
We begin with definite conflict in a real scene, a good thing. We can assume that Toby is in a boxing ring, but the opening could use just a little more setup. Where is the ring? A gym? An arena? Is there a crowd? Are there crowd noises, cheers, boos? The smell of sweat and blood?
While there is a risk of losing the fight, we don’t know what the stakes are, so the level of jeopardy is uncertain. Speaking of not knowing things, the third paragraph is packed with “information questions”—references to things we don’t know that are needed to understand what the references mean. More notes on that below. And then there’s the use of “then” where it should be “than,” and spelling errors. Bottom line, while the conflict is good, the storytelling and writing need work. I have no doubt that Jacob can get there, just keep in mind what readers need to get what’s happening. Notes:
“I think you can take him.”
Those were the words that stuck with Toby as theThe bell rang to signal the final round. Balls of sweat were flowingflowedunhinderedfrom his Toby’s opponent’s forehead, a scathing remark coming from behind the greasy grin,. “You’re a dead man, skinny.” Toby didn’t smile back. He had no time for friends in the ring.The last line about friends in the ring didn’t make a lot of sense to me. The opponent is clearly not a friend. Did this refer to whoever said the first line? I cut the first line because it doesn’t contribute a lot to the opening since we don’t know who says it or what it refers to. Just not needed. And “greasy” grin? What makes it greasy?
He launched a quick set of jabs the moment the referee came clear. A few connected, but did nothing more then than annoy the beast that stood before him. Suddenly Toby was on the defensive, ducking on instinct as a vicious right hand hook nearly swept him off his feet. He glanced across at his brother watching from behind the ropes, lines of tension chiselled across his forehead. Toby knew what his brother was thinking, but it couldn’t possibly happen again. Yeah, maybe he was being a bit selfish, putting a lot at risk for a few bouts in the ring. But the treatment surely had workworked this time; the doctor was getting paid enough for it! He couldn’t help but feel like his father as he turned back to the match, his opponent baring oily gums in a weak attempt at a full smile.PLEASE don’t use “then” instead of “than!” I hate that goof, and I see it all the time. This paragraph has a few troubles: What is the “it” that couldn’t possibly happen again? If the reader doesn’t know what “it” refers to, then this line is meaningless. Same goes for the mysterious “treatment” referred to—what is it? What is it supposed to do? Does it have anything to do with the fight? What is he putting at risk? We don’t have a clue, so that means nothing.
These raise what I call “information questions.” Writers sometimes think withholding information needed to understand what’s going on creates tension, but they are not story questions, and only cause confusion. Lastly, what does he mean by feeling like his father? What did his father feel like? If we don’t know that, then this line doesn’t mean anything to the reader as well. It raises a third information question. For me, that’s three strikes: I don’t know what “it” refers to, I don’t have a clue as to what “the treatment” is or does, and I don’t know how his father felt about anything, much less about boxing.
And “oily” gums? Doesn’t he have a mouthpiece? How can we see gums? Why are they oily? How can he see “oil” versus “spit?” I know you’re trying to cast the opponent in a negative light, but this didn’t work for me.
They exchanged a few more shots at each other, with Toby darting around in circles and dishing out no more then than two or three hits at a time. His opponent soon noticed the ploy, recognizing that the run-and-gun tactics would soon wear down his defences . He started closing (snip) Argh! Another “then” for “than.” Check your dictionary. The line about his opponent noticing the tactics is a break in point of view—Toby has no way of knowing what he has realized. Toby can think that has happened by noting the change in tactics, but he can’t know.
. . . in on Toby, forcing him to back up. Toby frowned. The plan he’d discussed at the timeout wasn’t going to work. He looked over at his brother again, who now stood beside their coach Ted. Toby was only greeted with stony silence and a pair of ‘I don’t know’ shoulder shrugs.
Toby heart quickened its pace, as his options were cut off and panic settled in. So far he’d managed to avoid being boxed in, an approach that masked his own lack of size and power. His opponent had 6 inches on him, with short but muscled arms. They rocketed about swift as a pair of daggers, but with enough strength to break down doors. Toby knew the fight could come to a close if he didn’t act quickly. He considered launching an all out desperation attack, but even as he pondered it he knew it would only delay the inevitable. He’d been on the back foot most of the fight, and due to his opponent’s speed and bulk he also hadn’t managed to land many worthy blows. “There must be something to work with here!” he muttered with clenched teeth. As his back eased into the ropes, he paused, calm sweeping over his limbs as his mind began to whir on another level. His sky-high boxing IQ and natural fighter instincts started to take a hold, coming to the realisation that at this point in the match, fatigue was starting to play on both of them. One good hit could end the show.
And then he saw it. He leant on the ropes behind him, testing their spring before pushing back with all his might. His opponent rushed forward, like a drunken bear on a terrifying rampage. Toby released, shooting outwards with his fist leading the way. An almighty thud quietened the arena. People in the background turned away from their conversations. Someone dropped a glass of wine. Toby opened his eyes, not realising he’d closed them.
Sprawled out on the floor was his defeated foe. Toby smiled. Sweet connection! A well-deserved cheer erupted from the small but hearty crowd, with Ted snatching the bell from a disgruntled referee and ringing it liberally. Toby sought out his brother though, and found him half hiding in the shadows. He smirked knowingly at him, and was returned with Noah’s own sly grin. This made Toby laugh.
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 engaging the reader with the character
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 character desires something.
The character 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.
Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.
Jill sends a first chapter of Get Up Eight, a YA story. The remainder is after the break.
Please vote and comment. It helps the writer.
Rhino, never play with a bomb in the middle of the night on a muddy slope where you could tumble into a two-hundred-foot waterfall.
That’s what my mom would say. She’s an ER nurse and she loves to bring home tips: Rhino, never use a blowtorch to kill mosquitos. Rhino, never eat poison ivy.
Thanks, mom. But I’m a sixteen-year-old pariah who needs all the social capital he can get. So tonight I’m taking a risk. I already know the four possible outcomes:
One, it will turn out to be a tree stump and I’ll thank God no one was watching.
Two, it will be active and will blow something up—probably me.
Three, I’ll lose my balance and plunge to my death in Upper Crystal Falls.
Four, I’ll present it to the class and get the reward that will give me my life back.
Hold on—gotta get my boots. I’ve been trying to lower myself off the top bunk and grab my uniform in the dark without waking Tracker, who just flopped over for the third time in a minute. Tracker is my bunkmate and best friend and he thrashes around all night due to godawful dreams that make me want to jiggle his shoulder now and wake him up and tell him he’s okay. But then he’d want to come with me. I hunch by his bed, torn, then grab a blanket he kicked off and stretch and fuss to drape it back over him. Sleep well, Track. No potential dismemberment for you tonight.
I like the voice and the writing, all good, clear, strong. In thinking about the checklist, there’s a nice part of this that contributes to character engagement—where Rhino puts the blanket back over his sleeping friend. Makes him a caring human being. A simple touch, but effective. On the other hand, for me the paragraph about Tracker went on a little too long and started to slow the pace. I’d look for ways to trim it and keep the effective parts, which include the last line about potential dismemberment. No editorial notes, the writing is clean. Enjoy the rest of the chapter. Nice work, Jill, I wanted to read on.
Time to tiptoe toward the door, type the passcode and step between the two giant Sitka spruce trunks into the Glass Tower.
We’re at the Crystal Creek School of Benevolent Leadership, by the way, and I am now standing on the walkway outside the Boys Dorm. The Girls Dorm is straight across the atrium, there on the other side of the tower, behind the cedar trunks that mirror our spruces. Somewhere inside it is Sesh, the most famous, beautiful, depressed girl in the country, who probably hates me with the utmost hatred and would love to shatter my ribs with her awesome roundhouse kick—after she finishes ignoring me.
The Glass Tower is five stories tall and brochures say it “hovers like a glass rocketship” over the three hundred feet of rapids connecting Upper and Lower Crystal Falls, but given the school’s experimental nature, I see it more as a giant test tube.
Upper Crystal is shimmering dimly to my left, through the test tube’s curving back wall. Down to my right, I know Lower Crystal is tossing up mist where it pours from beneath the front deck, although it’s too dark to see that right now. Ahead and behind me, I can barely make out the cliffs hulking to the Glass Tower’s sides, anchoring it in midair with help from the dorms and the other cabins that jut from glass to rock.
The dorms are on the fourth floor so the tiny watchman at the front desk grows bigger as I hurry down flight after flight of shadowy, switchbacking, torch-lit stairs, my boots clicking lonesomely. He’s human sized by the time I stride through the lobby.
Two giant Douglas fir trunks rise on either side of the front doors, seventy feet from floor to ceiling, brown veins in the tower’s glass skin—except here in the lobby, where the skin is all pine. It’s the only non-glass part of the wall, a ten-foot high ring of warm golden wood. Maybe it’s supposed to remind people we’re in a national forest or maybe it’s better for hanging the old maps and photos and taxidermied skunks and stuff.
“I have to dig up a Mind Changer,” I say, stopping at the desk. “On the Scramble Wall.”
The watchman has a Frisbee face, poor guy, same as mine used to be until two years ago, when my chin finally grasped the concept of angles and I got a wide but legitimate V for the bottom of my Frisbee.
“It’s 4:37 a.m.,” he says.
“I’ll be digging very gently. It could take a while.”
The doors slide open and I hurry out, glancing at the weather map above the entrance as I go. There’s a sun. Whoa. A sun?
Then I’m crashing into a bulky gray uniform and a jackhammer-sized gun.
“Can you accompany this student on the westside trail?” the watchman calls to the guard who’s not supposed to be there—at least not according to the Keepers, who told us the regular guards at the front gate near the Columbia River and all along the park perimeter were all we needed to supplement the tower’s protective shield.
The guard answers him in a polite voice with no snickering about our crash, as if I’d said “Excuse me” instead of jumping a foot and screeching like a spooked chicken. Too bad Tracker wasn’t here to see that. He’s always joking about how jumpy I am. I know exactly what he’d say: “No dude, no. You're supposed to scream when you see the other side’s soldiers, not ours. C’mon back and let’s try it again.”
There’s actually two soldiers and they confer while I flex my shoulders and pound my chest and otherwise try to recover my manliness and my normal heart rate. Why are they here anyway? Maybe they got called in for Secession Week.
The first guard finally nods to me and I lead him across the deck to a narrow path carved into the cliff. It’s just wide enough for one-and-a-half normal people. Or one Keeper Sam.
“Are you guys here every night?” I ask as we single-file onto the trail.
“No sir. Just starting today.”
The “sir” feels weird. It reminds me of the outside world, where believers of all faiths send up prayers for us students, and even nonbelievers send up hopeful thoughts, and where the Glass Tower adorns T-shirts, screen locks, hats, even Ruler Morales’ tea mug.
They all have such high hopes for the school and its thirty Benevolent Trainees—all of us striving to become wise and honest and brave and dedicated enough to move up the training ladder and, eventually, into the Benevolent Ruler spotlight.
All except me, that is, because I came here for refuge, not a spotlight.
We pass beneath the Hall of Learning—one of the other cabin attachments—and waterfall mist starts closing around us like dust on a gravel road after a car drives past. I bend down and grab a rock flake from the path.
Now that I’m close to the Mind Changer, my stomach’s starting to flutter, like I’m a Real America refugee fleeing to Cascadia and hoping nothing goes wrong at the last minute.
Mind Changers only count when you’re right about what everyone else is thinking. You have to catch people thinking one way—then get them to think another.
Anything could be a Mind Changer — a picture, a personal story, even (cross our fingers) a tree stump. Really, they’re more like heart changers or lung changers because that’s where you first feel it: that little blank moment of shock when you realize you’ve seen something the wrong way. Used salt instead of sugar for the cookies. Shot the victim instead of the attacker.
The best Mind Changers win rewards, especially if they change a strongly held belief…or at least complicate it. Because letting go of a cherished assumption is one of the toughest things in life. Also one of the most important. So we have to practice being wrong.
The first reward went to Chelan, who got a weekend pass to visit her family after she told about Hoopla saving her uncle’s life during the North Korean war.
In case you’re reading this a thousand years from now on another planet, Brady Hoopla was the last president of the United States of America and current president of what’s left, aka Real America. Everyone in Cascadia hates him because of all the lies he told about Ruler Morales, who was actually President Morales before he lost the final U.S. election to Hoopla.
So Chelan’s story forced us to think something good about Hoopla. It was hard. Nobody liked it. But in Cascadia, truth beats bias. Most of the time.
Anyway, Mind Changers don’t have to shatter some big life philosophy. Michael always shows those pictures that look like one thing at first glance but like another thing if you look long enough and squint. They’re Mind Changers but low-level, so no reward.
At the Scramble Wall, the soldier stations himself at the bottom while I grab tough little trees and rocks and pull myself up to a small stump near the top. It’s all very wet. Real Doug firs look down from the edge above. Millions more stretch behind them into the Mt. Hood National Forest, a trim green beard covering the cheeks and chins of a million-acre face. At least that’s how it looked through the cold little window on my flight out from Colorado.
I can see the top of the giant hollow tree where Sesh and I were standing in my dream an hour ago. Her hair was blond like before Macy Falk. And she handed me a golden bullet as long as her finger and I touched her hand when I took it and that was like HOLY ULTRA TOUCH OF HEAVEN and then the bullet turned into a mirror and I looked in it and saw the brain.
It was huge, grub-colored and glistening, except for the black crust covering the lower left lobe like ants swarming a honey spill. Macy Falk’s brain. I’d know it anywhere.
The mirror exploded into a million pieces and I burst into the darkness gasping, like a drowning person yanked to safety, wild fears streaming from me like water.
It took me a while to realize it was just a nightmare and that I was actually in the Boys Dorm and that Tracker was down below having his own nightmares and that we desperately needed to move to a bunk that hadn’t been cursed by the Evil Dream Fairy of Blood and Death.
It took longer to realize I had dreamed up a Mind Changer: a bullet that turns into something else.
So here I am at the stump, the perfect handhold for students scrambling up to the forest. So well-used people no longer see it when they grab it—or notice how symmetrical, how bullet-shaped, its tip has become as their clawing wears away the crust disguising it.
The long horsetail of Upper Crystal hisses aggressively to my left and its icy mist gives me goosebumps on top of my goosebumps, plus a runny nose and that slightly distracting question of how many sniffs before I give up and wipe it with my sleeve. Today’s answer: two.
Planting my feet against an unstable clump of ferns, I use the rock flake to pierce the dirt. It’s probably only thirty seconds before I stick my freezing fingers under my armpits, shivering and blowing smoky, pep-talk breaths. I fall into a dig-dig-dig-armpits rhythm, gradually carving a hole around the stump as the sky lightens until I finally spot it — a black square on the wood.
I crane my neck and carefully clear the dirt above the tag and there it is: EC3.
Now I’m in our warmly lit kitchen back in Brookfield and my dad has just returned from the One Month War. Where he was a war hero, by the way. Yeah, the kind who gets a public ceremony and a hug from the mayor. Can you believe it? A cheering crowd just weeks before becoming the second most hated person in Cascadia.
Anyway, he’s unloading his duffel bag in the kitchen and out comes this mini-bomb with a black tag that says “EC3.” “Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s just a souvenir. Cascadia cracked the code and deprogrammed all the EC3s before the war even started.”
Deprogrammed. Meaning ‘turned off.’ Meaning safe to touch, right?
I start digging again, still cautious, wondering why this is even here. Did a spy smuggle it in to destroy Ruler Morales during his war council here? That would be one way to get around the protective shield.
A distant beep announces breakfast. No watery seaweed souflee for you today, I tell my grumbling stomach. Mixed feelings on that loss.
As minutes pass with no Kaboom, I move faster. By now, I must look like the Mud Monster from Dream Killer 6. It’ll all be worth it though, assuming I can get Ruler Morales to come here and explain how my dad is actually a maximal guy with enough integrity and guts to take a crucial but lose-lose job he knew might destroy him.
I watch the speech as I dig, picturing every word, gesture, loud and soft spot, facial expression. I see my classmates all apologetic to me after Morales convinces them.
He even convinces me. It’s an all-around masterpiece of Mind Changing.
As usual, I ignore the voice that says ‘Gila brain! Keeper Sam will never approve it,’ although I do have a Plan B reward just in case: a month of special-order meals so I can grant everyone’s wish for their favorite food.
By the way, for my interplanetary listeners who are wondering what a Gila brain is, Gila virus (as in Gila monster, where it started) is this direly fatal disease that liquifies your brain and has killed millions, which is of course why we all now use it for casual name-calling.
The stump shifts beneath my fingers and I start waggling it out of the dirt.
If you have a Mind Changer, you have to go to the front of the Hall of Learning and present it first thing, before Meditation or Announcements or even the Pledge.
Mind changing is that important. Everyone knows the U.S. fell apart because Real Americans couldn’t admit when they were wrong. If a belief went bad, they just fought harder to believe it. They didn’t understand that fighting belief is like fighting air.
I pull the metal cylinder free and I’m scraping off some crust—not too much because I want everybody to recognize it as the stump—when I hear sticks snapping above and a massive, upright bear steps out of the trees until I realize it’s actually our headmaster, Keeper Sam.
Whoa. Unexpected. The guard below is just as surprised. He was all tensed for action, but now he lowers his gun barrel and snaps to attention.
Keeper Sam casually returns the salute and says, “At ease. Dismissed.”
“Yes sir,” says the soldier and heads back to the front deck.
The Keeper is not wearing the giant black martial arts uniform I’m so used to seeing on him. Instead he’s got an old camo jacket and pants and even a camo cap covering his bald head. When he aims his brown, square face at me, there’s just enough room beneath the cap brim to see his eyebrows raise. Then he smiles, like he’s known this was here all along, and booms out, “Nice work. How’d you find it?”
“Umm. I—” had a dream where Sesh and I were alone in a hollow tree and I “—just woke up and thought of it. Figured it might make a good Mind Changer.”
Up close, the Keeper’s face is so flat it’s like his thick, index-finger nose sucked up all the normal padding, leaving just a wide, thin mouth and big dark eyes. “You got a good reward in mind?” he says, then turns and plunges down the slope.
Yes! A reward! I stumble and slither down after the Keeper’s bobbing cap, clutching the EC3. By the time I’m back on the path, he’s way ahead, bounding up the back stairway to the Hall of Learning and disappearing through a door to the honk of a security beep.
I’ll have to get there through the front door, of course, so I turn back to the empty path. No, not empty. A person is rounding the curve up ahead.
Sesh. It’s Sesh. Coming towards me. The two of us alone together. This never happens. Well, okay, in my head it happens. Hundreds of times, actually. But this is real.
What should I do? A clever remark? An apology? A deep, meaningful look?
Gila brain. She hates you, remember? Just be casual. A simple “Hey.”
But Sesh is moving quickly, looking down until she’s almost on top of me. So my “Hey” is a frantic, last-second warning as I scrunch against the cliff.
She glances up and I see the sleek face; the dark, sleepless smudges beneath haunted blue eyes; the dried-blood-colored hair.
Then she brushes past, bumping me lightly—just enough to knock the Mind Changer from my grasp. She’s gone before my wildly grabbing hand accidentally knocks it further and sends it flying over the edge. It bounces once against a rocky outcrop and arcs high, high into the air, then turns sadly downward and plunges into the roiling water beneath the tower.
The Mind Changer rushes over Lower Crystal Falls, taking my vital organs with it, leaving my dropped jaw and unbelieving eyes on the cliff edge, staring at the empty water.
Did you know that Amazon denies reviewers the ability to post a book review? Has it happened to you? I had no idea that this happens, but apparently one of their famous logarithms will do just that. I learned this because someone tried repeatedly to post a 5-star review of Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling and couldn’t because Amazon decided it was a bogus review.
It's not like I need fake reviews for my book. To the left is the graphic from Amazon on the status of the reviews for Mastering the Craft, and they're all quite legitimate, not a friend among them. They are averaging 4.8 stars.
The first time her review was blocked, she called Amazon and talked to a representative who couldn’t understand why but seemed to get it posted. Then it disappeared.
The reader tried again, and was again denied although she has since been able to post a review for different book on Amazon. So it's not her.
I know all this because this reader is a design client of mine, Cristina White. Independently of our working relationship, she bought my book and thought it was pretty good. Her review is below. Ours is by no means anything other than a professional relationship. Yet her wish to express her professional thoughts about my book were denied.
She told me about all this and has now shared with me the review she tried to post. It’s below, and then I’ll tell you what I think caused this kerfuffle.
WRITE. READ THIS BOOK. REWRITE.
Ray Rhamey delivers a wealth of writing know-how and editing experience in this smart, funny book about crafting a compelling story. Ray’s style is direct, entertaining, and pragmatic. His chapters on wordcraft, including “Adverbs: Good? Bad? Yes.” And “Don’t get me started” are in themselves worth the price of the book. Ray shines a flashlight on all the verbiage you don’t need, and he covers the essentials you do need to write a novel or memoir that hooks your readers on page one and keeps them turning pages to the end. Whether you’re writing your first or your tenth book, you need Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling.
Thank you, Cristina, for the kind words. And I believe that it was my words in appreciation of the writing talent that she shows in her memoir, Sex and Soul, that banned her from posting a review. Yes, I think it was me posting this shout-out for her book on FtQ when she published it.
Keep in mind that my only involvement with Cristina was for book design, not editing. There was no quid pro quo for a positive review at either end. My views on her writing were my personal take. Is that illegitimate? I don’t think so.
If you know anyone at Amazon, please pass this along. I understand that they are trying to keep bogus reviews off their site, but they should know that legitimate reviews are also being denied.
Try a review?
If you have read Mastering the Craft and would care to try posting a review, let me know what happens.