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.
Russell returns with a revised first chapter of Take a Lemon. The first submission is here. The remainder of the chapter follows the break.
Please vote and comment. It helps the writer.
“Thank you,” I forced myself to say to the conductor, as he set my suitcase on the ground next to the tracks. I shook my head, cursing my stupid weak arm muscles. Why the Hell had Marsha taken such a heavy suitcase home?
Then I caught myself. Marsha didn’t say “Hell.” Tina had been most insistent on that point. I had to be Marsha, even in my thoughts, as much as possible. I took a breath and tried again. Why in the world had she taken such a heavy suitcase home? At least the stupid thing had wheels.
Her… my… dorm, Laramie Hall, was up-campus somewhere. I was pretty sure I’d walked there after a party with someone once or twice, but never from this direction. I used my left hand to shade my eyes against the setting sun. As the wind blew the leaves at the top of the trees, I could see the crenellations that marked the top of Farnes Tower in the distance. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the campus map, and exactly where Laramie was, relative to Farnes. Was it three or four buildings further up? And maybe a bit more to the left? I probably should have asked one of the students who’d come in on the shuttle with me. I had maybe half a mile to lug this thing. If Marsha could do it, so could I.
Of course, she’d had practice. Dragging this monstrosity was a new experience. It keep twisting in my hand since the paths weren’t straight, and they weren’t always level, and (snip)
Good clean writing and a good voice, but I think this opening is missing the bet. As it reads, it appears to be a young woman in the process of arriving at a campus as she poses as another young woman whose name is Marsha. The story question seems to be why is she posing as Marsha. For me, not totally compelling. There’s no implied trouble ahead, and I don’t know this person well enough to care a whole lot. Much of the page is devoted to campus layout, not character or story. As you’ll see, I’ll be deleting that.
More than that, though, Russell has held back the real reason to read this story, and what the story is actually about, until the very last sentence of the chapter. SPOILER ALERT: This character is, it appears, a young man in a young woman’s body. We don’t know why, but that, at least, is a good story question. The ending of the chapter suggests that there’s a danger of the deceit being discovered, but no actual consequences. In essence, this first chapter is set-up.
If it were me, I’d look for a way to clue the reader in as to the true nature of the character up front so I could be intrigued by the why of it and wonder what will happen to him/her. Notes:
“Thank you,” I forced myself to say to the conductor, as he set my suitcase on the ground next to the tracks. I shook my head, cursing my stupid weak arm muscles. Why the Hell had Marsha taken such a heavy suitcase home?
Then I caught myself. Marsha didn’t say “Hell.” Tina had been most insistent on that point. I had to be Marsha, even in my thoughts, as much as possible. I took a breath and tried again. Why in the world had she taken such a heavy suitcase home? At least the stupid thing had wheels. If I were Russell I’d look for a way to introduce the primary conceit somewhere in here. For example, after the sentence about having to be Marsha, maybe something: It was turning out a lot harder to not be a guy named Marshall than I’d thought. By the way, I think having such similar names (Marsha/Marshall) could be confusing for the reader.
Her… my… dorm, Laramie Hall, was up-campus somewhere. I was pretty sure I’d walked there after a party with someone once or twice, but never from this direction. I used my left hand to shade my eyes against the setting sun. As the wind blew the leaves at the top of the trees, I could see the crenellations that marked the top of Farnes Tower in the distance. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the campus map, and exactly where Laramie was, relative to Farnes. Was it three or four buildings further up? And maybe a bit more to the left? I probably should have asked one of the students who’d come in on the shuttle with me. I had maybe half a mile to lug this thing. If Marsha could do it, so could I. Continuity issue here: it seems like the first paragraph takes place at a train station, but this third paragraph seems to be taking place on the campus. You need a transition. Or, perhaps, leave out the conductor part and go directly to struggling with a huge suitcase on the campus.
Of course, she’d had practice. Dragging this monstrosity was a new experience. It keep twisting in my hand since the paths weren’t straight, and they weren’t always level, and (snip) I could do less with the suitcase struggles, too. I get it. No need for me to carry on so much about it as the paragraph continues. I think your delete key could use some exercise.
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 Russell
Continued:
. . . sometimes they didn’t go where I wanted to. Trying to drag the silly thing up a grassy incline turned out to be a bad mistake, as the ground was way too soft for the tiny wheels, and my heels kept digging into the ground. Being on ‘my’ period didn’t help. I was getting so frustrated that I felt myself on the verge of tears, and that would be one humiliation too many.
“Need some help?” a male voice a dozen or so below me asked. Startled, I turned and gasped, “Ge–” before I could stop myself. Geoff? Of all the people to run into! I guessed that Marsha wouldn’t know him, and I corrected myself to “J- just a little.”
“Where’re you headed?” he asked, bounding up the hill and slinging my suitcase over his shoulder as though it was weightless.
I hesitated. I didn’t really want his help; I knew way too much about his experiences with girls.
But I had to act as Marsha would, so what mattered was what she would have done. With a sigh, I held up my hands in surrender. “I– I just need to change my shoes.” Annoyingly, Tina had been right again. Wearing heels had been a mistake.
I tried to ignore him watching me as I dug into the suitcase for a pair of flats, shook the mud off my heels and stowed them inside. “Laramie Hall,” I told him, hiding my humiliation as best I could.
He gave me an odd look. “There’s a much easier way, you know. C’mon.” He gestured, and held out his hand to help me back down the hill. Telling myself to stop fighting this, I took it, thinking nastily that of course he’d know where the dorm was. It was a women’s dorm, after all.
He was dressed as usual for this time of year, in jeans and a Phillies T-shirt under an open plaid long-sleeve shirt. Given the choice, I’d probably have worn something similar, only it seemed that Marsha didn’t actually own any jeans – or any other kinds of trousers, and so here I was in a mid-calf length dress. I had to keep reminding myself to think of it as a costume.
I was so preoccupied with such un-Marsha thoughts that I didn’t realize until we’d walked about a hundred yards that he hadn’t let go of my hand. Flushing, I snatched it back.
He just grinned. “It’s getting dark, and I didn’t want to lose you. You’re such a little thing.”
It wasn’t something I could deny. Even in heels, I now stood only 5’4”, which was why I’d insisted on wearing them today. I refused to think of the number that indicated my new height without them.
“You’re quiet, too. I don’t intimidate you, do I?”
I started to deny it, and got flustered, as I caught myself looking way up at him. Before I could say a word, he continued. “You’re in my Orgo class, aren’t you? I think you usually sit a couple of rows ahead of me.”
I took a breath. You’re on stage, Marsh, I told myself. Mr. Condrin always says that if you get flustered, pause and force yourself to breathe. It will seem perfectly natural. Break the internal tension. “Yes,” I said finally, feeling a bit more confident. “I’m in Organic Chemistry. First thing in the morning.”
He switched my suitcase to his left hand and held out his right. “I’m Geoff Pearson.”
“Marsha Steen.”
“Nice to meet you, Marsha. Pre-med?”
“Aren’t we all?” I answered wryly.
He laughed. I guess a lot of girls liked that laugh. What was so funny, anyway? I wondered what he’d think if he knew who I really was.
“So what do you when you’re not studying like a madwoman, Marsha?”
I preened. “I’m an actor.”
“Nice! Would I have seen in you in something?”
“Well, I’m playing Mollie in the winter production of The Mousetrap…”
He looked blank, which totally annoyed me. “The Mousetrap? You know, the Agatha Christie play? Longest continually running play in the history of the world?”
He grinned. “Never heard of it, but that sounds great. You have a good part?”
I rolled my eyes. Mollie was the lead. I’d have killed for a chance to work with Alvin Tomlinson, who was directing, but he’d never cast me. This was his senior year, and I’d only have one more chance, but he’d cast Marsha and I was going to take advantage of that. It was the one good thing to come out of this mess.
But nobody was supposed to know about that besides Tina, Chad and me. So I just said, nonchalantly, “Pretty good. You should come see it. It’s the week before House Parties.”
He grinned again. “I’ll make it a point.”
I had to stop myself from asking him to bring his roommates. Marsha doesn’t know them, I reminded myself. Don’t lose focus.
“Which entrance?”
“Hmm?” I asked, startled.
He pointed up ahead of us. “Which entrance?”
I looked, and saw that we were coming up on Laramie Hall, and again I hadn’t thought this part through. Which side of the building was 221? “The closer one is fine,” I told him, and reached into my purse for my key card.
On the outside, Laramie looked very old and collegiate. It was a stone building with fancy ornamentation around the doors and windows. Gothic? I wasn’t really sure how to tell. My old dorm had had a more industrial look to it. When I unlocked the ornate wooden door with my card, Geoff reached past me to push it open, revealing an inside that gleamed.
I’d heard that a wealthy alum had donated a lot of money to have the building massively refurbished so that his daughter would have a nice dorm to live in when she came here. The stories hadn’t been specific about if and when she had actually matriculated, but the place definitely felt new. The walls were clean and well painted in pale yellow, with a built-in cork announcement board just inside the door. Geoff followed me to the left bend at the end of the entryway, past an unlabeled metal door, and to a set of steps leading up. Just past the steps were an elevator and a doorway. I could see a hallway through the window in that doorway, with the first floor dorm rooms.
As he followed me up the steps, I suddenly remembered something that Tina had told me, that Marsha had told her – “If you walk properly in heels, it gives you ‘a womanly stride that the guys like to watch.’” With Geoff behind me, I was suddenly very glad to be wearing flats. I tried to ignore the fact that he was almost certainly watching my rear, but I suspect it showed in my face.
I turned when I got to the second floor. “Thanks… Geoff,” I told him, holding out my hand and intentionally hesitating over his name. “I really appreciate it.”
He raised his eyebrows. Had he expected to walk me to my door? Then he grinned and put my suitcase on the landing next to me. “No problem. See you in class!” He turned to leave and then turned back and winked. “By the way, some of us are actually chemical engineers.” I compressed my lips at the rebuke, and watched him go back down the steps and out the entryway before turning to the hallway door.
This was going to be interesting. Geoff obviously hadn’t known Marsha, but her roommates certainly did, and the only thing Tina had been able to tell me about them was their first names, Lee Ann and Terry. I had a bad feeling about who Lee Ann might be. It would just be the topper to this whole mess. I took a breath, used my card on the lock and opened the door.
There were just a few girls near the opposite end of the hallway, all dressed in jeans and T-shirts. The two facing me waved as I approached. Then the third girl turned, called, “Hi, Marsh!” and opened the door for me. Yup, Lee Ann Taylor herself.
Telling the others, “Catch up with you later,” she followed me into the room and closed the door. We’d come into a common area with an IKEA-style couch and a couple of chairs. Four doors led off from this room: one to the left, one to the right, and two more on the far wall.
It was the right-hand door on the far wall that drew my attention, as it displayed a faded and wrinkled poster for Perry and the Winkles, the band that Grandpa had once toured with as guitarist. I recognized that poster, down to the two tears on the right side that it had acquired when he took it down as a souvenir and had missed a piece of tape. The last time I’d seen it, it was on my cousin Joey’s door. Apparently Marsha had ended it with up somehow. At least figuring out which room was hers wasn’t going to be a problem.
I didn’t have time to dwell on that, as Lee Ann was staring at me with an expectant look on her face. “Well…?” she asked, and when I didn’t answer quickly, gestured impatience with her hands. That quickly, I was getting into matters on which Tina hadn’t briefed me.
Lee Ann was staring at me as though I was being deliberately stupid. “Did. He. Call?” she demanded.
With no idea who “he” might be, I answered honestly, “no…?”
“Did you call him?”
I shook my head, figuring that stupid was the safest position to take just now. Then I noticed something – even she was now taller than I was. I snuck a glance at her feet, but she was just wearing sneakers. Wow. I’d always seen her as petite; that just showed how much smaller I’d gotten.
Playing stupid seemed to work. She rolled her eyes at me, and gave me a look that I interpreted as what are you waiting for? Her theatrical sigh just punctuated her disgust with whatever she thought Marsha had failed to do. Looking up at her, I quickly asked, “How was your break?” before she could pursue the subject.
She tossed her head and smirked. “You remember how I told you I was starting to feel neglected, with Stephen so far away?” I nodded. Actually, her friend Chandra had told me, but I was well aware of the situation.
“Well, you know what he did?” All ears, I shook my head. “Saturday morning, bright and early, he rang my bell. The sweetheart had driven overnight all the way from St. Louis to see me. He was exhausted, of course, so I kissed him and sent him off to bed, but we got to spend a day and a half together before he had to drive back to school.” And she gave me a look that was probably fraught with meaning, if I had known her better.
“That’s… that’s great, Lee Ann,” I managed. So Chandra was wrong. Interesting. Then, without thinking, I hugged her. “I’m really happy for you!”
“Hey, me too!” said a voice behind me. I spun and found myself staring at a pair of large boobs. Automatically, I jerked my gaze up to see a very friendly looking redhead, obviously Marsha’s other roommate, Terry. I hadn’t heard her come in.
She playfully slapped my shoulder. “Oh, you!” Then, looking past me, she added, “Great news, Lee Ann. I told you he’d come through.”
Without missing a beat, Terry closed the hallway door and grabbed her own suitcase from the floor next to it. “I know you’re really busy, Marsh, but after dinner you could check out my new dress? I got in on the bargain rack and I want your professional opinion. It’s going to need some work.”
“Oh sure,” I answered, automatically. “I’ll be happy to… um, take a look.” I faltered as her words registered. Professional opinion? Wait a minute…
“Great! Catch you in a few!” And she made a beeline for the door on the right.
“Yeah, let’s wash up,” Lee Ann added, heading for another door.
Professional opinion? I had a horrible feeling about what that meant. I wheeled my suitcase to my own door and opened it, suspecting the worst. It was a pretty good size for a dorm room, with the bed in its own little nook. I could see the standard student desk and wardrobe from the doorway. It was what was on the other side of the nook, next to the desk, that horrified me.
There stood Mom’s old sewing machine, and a garment rack, much like the one she used for her work as a seamstress… and on the rack were about two dozen garments, waiting for Marsha to repair or modify them.
Half paralyzed, I forced myself to step inside and close the door. I stood there, mouth open, unable to move, partly from the shock and partly from trying to express how I felt in Marsha-speak. Somehow, “Dear me,” just doesn’t cut it when what you really need to say is “Holy fucking shit!”
I fumbled my phone from my purse and thumbed the button. “Call my sister,” I ordered it. “Calling Tina Steen,” it replied.
Tina answered on the second ring. “Hey, Marsh! Everything work out?”
“I think… you might have forgotten to tell me something,” I managed.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“How does Marsha pay her share of expenses and earn spending money?”
“You’re a seamstress, like Mom, of cou – oh my goodness, you don’t know how to sew, do you?”
“No, of course I don’t! Wasn’t that obvious?”
“I… I guess…”
“You guess?!”
“I can’t think of everything! I… You keep forgetting, I never knew you as a boy, Marshall!”