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.
Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.
What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.
A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.
Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.
Download a free PDF copy here.
Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.
A First-page Checklist
- It begins 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 it 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, 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 Windsong Windsong in 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 are Kate crossed the small dunes along of this stretch of the Hamptons, some with meager beach grasses holding them together. As Kate she 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 raced 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. 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.
Comments, please?
For what it’s worth.
Ray
Submitting to the Flogometer:
Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):
- your title
- your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
- Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ. Note: I’m adding a copyright notice for the writer at the end of the post. I’ll use just the first name unless I’m told I can use the full name.
- Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
- And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
- If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
- If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.
Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.
Flogging the Quill © 2015 Ray Rhamey, story © 2015 Dan
Continued:
John dashed through the gap in the fence and headed for the car at a flat-out run. The first man shoved Kate headfirst and followed her in. He was definitely now holding a gun to her head. At the same time, the driver jumped in his open door, saw John coming, and hit the gas. The door slammed closed.
John lunged at him through the open window, getting a hold of his neck in a headlock. Unable to keep his feet under him, his body dragged behind. Kate extracted a curved knife from the sewn-in sheath in her cut-off jeans.
The gunman turned the pistol to John. In a single move, Kate scooted her butt down and shot her left foot up, pinning the gun and the man's extended hand to the headliner. The gun went off. Kate kicked the hand with her other foot, then stabbed the man on his far side with the custom-made knife with its half-inch radius hook near the tip of the blade. Pulling the knife toward her, she sliced her captor open horizontally, just below the diaphragm. Then she plunged in, both hands inside of him, slashing upward into the lungs and heart, her eyes hard and in his face. The gunman had struggled with her while being disemboweled, but when the blade reached its mark, he had nothing left but a pitiful cough and a plunge into unconsciousness. Foamy bright red blood sputtered onto his chin and he passed into oblivion, eyes and mouth open.
The car bounced over a hole, the driver choking and blinded, and the car hit a smallish pine tree which stopped it dead, throwing John's body forward. His headlock on the driver was secure; the driver's neck snapped on impact. John's back screamed with pain. His arm felt broken. Dust filled the air.
Kate took the man's gun off the seat, jumped out of the car, and ran around to where John was getting up off the ground. She set the gun on the hood and cut her hands free of the plastic shackles with a single annoyed swipe of her bloody knife. "Are you all right?"
"I've been better," he said.
She looked at the driver. His head was at an impossible angle to his body. "We've got to get outta here." She stuck the gun in her pocket and sheathed her knife, turned and trotted back to the hotel.
"Wh....?" John said. Checking the back seat, he saw the shooter, chin on chest, his bowels trailing into his lap. John looked back towards Kate. She was fumbling with her door lock. By the time he got back to her, she had already thrown her laptop and the gun into a large carry-all, a beach bag. He didn't know that she was still steeling herself against the nerve-scrambling effects of the Taser shot; he only saw her clenching and unclenching her fists as she went about tossing her cell phone and a few other items into the bag. She retrieved a holstered gun out of her night stand, and shoved that in the front pocket of her shorts. John stared at her bloody legs, arms, and lap. "Are you injured? Are you bleeding?"
"No," she said immediately, and looked down at herself. "Shit! I need clothes." She went to the dresser, took a few things out, then a pair of sneakers from the closet, adding them to the now overstuffed bag. "Come on." Checking across the way before she fully opened her door, she crossed to John's open door, with John following, into the same one-bedroom efficiency as her own. Reversed floorplan. Kate knew John's place well; she'd been there quite a few times, helping him with things that baffled him and sometimes terrified him, at least in the beginning. "Pick up that broken teacup, please. Then hand me your laptop." She opened his center desk drawer, removing a large format checkbook, putting it in a backpack that had been leaning against the wall. She dumped in his (dead) cell phone and chargers. Kate held the bag open so John could put the laptop in. "Your wallet," she said.
"Kate. What are we doing? We're safe. Those guys are dead!" She was shaking her head. But he went on. "We have to call the authori..."
"Those ARE the authorities, Galen!" she cut him off, pointing in the direction of the car. "Now please. Where is your wallet? You may need it." He retrieved it from a side drawer of the desk. She spun around and headed for the kitchen, saying, "I'll explain it all once we're out of here." She grabbed his ring of keys from a bowl on the counter. Then she crossed over to the front window and parted the curtains a little. She slipped one arm of the backpack onto his shoulder. "And you need shoes. Go grab a pair of shoes."
She looked out the window again, then opened the door, peeked her head out, scanning the hall both ways. "Did nobody hear the shot?" she asked, quietly, to herself. John was back. "Come on." she said quietly. "We're taking your car," she said as they approached the bottom of the stairs, and moved to the Jeep Cherokee. Unlocking the doors with the clicker, she said under her breath as she slung the big bag across onto the passenger side floor, "This thing better start."
John followed her down the steps, saying, "Kate. Kate. Wait." As she went to get in the driver's side, he took her by the arm. "Stop." She could hear the would-be abductors' car engine, still running, seventy-five feet behind her. It had begun to knock, because the radiator was damaged in the crash, and the engine was beginning to overheat.
She turned to him, and broke his grasp with a flick of her wrist. Her expression was deadly serious. She controlled her volume, but her intensity knew no bounds. She screamed, quietly, through clenched teeth, "Galen, GET in the FUCKING CAR!" She turned again to the open door. John went around to the other side and got in. The car fired right up. Kate made an unhurried exit from the parking lot, turned right, and right again when she hit Montauk Highway, heading east.
###
The old man was truly old -- over a hundred years old -- but he didn't look a day over seventy, and a healthy, youthful seventy at that. He eased down comfortably to the park bench, and looked out over Long Island Sound, hands on his knees. It was one of those days when the sky and sea were an azure monochrome backdrop of the big picture, and yet the star of it; the water speckled with shimmering late-morning diamonds. To the initiated, the sky spoke by cloud symbols of the science of water, air, wind, and light, radiant and spectral. And of things to come.
To his left and somewhat behind him, under a great oak, sat a shiny red pickup -- one of those muscular-looking, too-tall ones -- parked in shade. Behind it by about fifty feet, not under the tree, Sean's 1960 Ford half-ton. Built like a truck. No plastic. Maybe a little -- the radio knobs. The distributor cap. Original green paint, in pretty good shape. There was a spot worn through the paint where he'd rested his arm all these years, when the window was down. He'd owned it fifty-five years, since it was a baby. The bed's patina spoke of fifty-plus years of minor bumps and bruises from gravel, fishing gear, tools, and dog paws, plus one sizable dent reminding the owner of a panic stop and an outboard motor.
Sean didn't do flashy; he was quiet in all his ways. Didn't like to draw attention to himself. So he wasn't going to buy one of those current models. There wasn't one of any make or model that he cared for. Trouble was that his old truck, which ran perfectly, and which he liked just fine, was such a classic by now that it did draw attention to him. Just yesterday, he had a young fellow offer to buy it at a gas station. Maybe he could find a gently used '91 or something.
An acorn dropped from the tree onto the roof of the shiny red truck with a surprisingly loud thump. Sean Donnelly turned a little on the bench to see it, and watched it roll off to the street, over on the passenger side. Before long, another acorn dropped into the bed, and another followed immediately onto the hood, with a sharp thud.
A Lincoln pulled up behind Sean's bench, and a rear door opened. The old man didn't turn, as he normally did. He heard muffled words exchanged between the boy and his mom (who was Sean's daughter) and there was probably a kiss in there somewhere. The boy got out and closed the door, and the driver pulled away.
Theodore (they called him Ted) picked up right away on his grandfather's unusual stillness, and came around the bench, and sat beside him. "Whatcha doin', grandpa?"
"Shhh," the old man said. Without moving his eyes from the tree canopy, he said, "I'm concentrating. I'm willing that acorn to fall on that red truck."
Ted didn't know what to make of that, so he just sat quietly. "Which acorn?" he finally said.
"That one right there. You see that triangular spot where the sky shines through?"
"Yes."
"Right there. Near the top of that, at two o'clock. Now let me concentrate."
Ted waited.
Thump! An acorn fell and hit the hood. Ted's eyes grew wide as Sean turned to look at him, with a grin. Ted's mouth opened.
After a moment, Ted's eyes narrowed again. "Let me try," he said, and leaned forward, scrunching his hands between his knees.
The old man said, "Now, you have to pick just one. Are you looking at just one?"
"Yes," the boy said. "Let me concentrate." A moment later, an acorn fell into the bed of the pickup, and Ted looked up at his grandfather triumphantly. Beaming.
Sean tousled the boy's red hair. "You're pretty smart for eleven years old."
The boy simply stood and faced his grandfather, and put his hand on his shoulder.
"Ready to go fishing?" Sean asked. Ted nodded, but kept his hand on the old man's shoulder.
"When confronted with a superior enemy," the boy said, "consider projecting a power you do not have."
Sean listened until the boy finished, then laughed -- a quiet laugh, but it came from deep within him. He tousled Ted's hair again.
"You quote me back to myself!" he said, with delight. "I think I wrote that more than fifty years ago!" He looked beyond the boy to the Sound. "Much more. Hmm." He wondered when the last time was that he was confronted by a superior enemy. "Okay," he said softly. "The snappers are waiting!"
Sean stood up and started walking with the boy to his truck. "Actually," Sean muttered, "I think Liam wrote that one."
"It's in the Wisdom," the boy said, sauntering alongside.
"We wrote that for your uncles, Teddy-boy. And for you."