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.
Sophie sends the first chapter of The Clinkers, a YA fantasy. The rest of the chapter follows the break.
Please vote and comment. It helps the writer.
The man ran across the street. His head was bent against the rain. His long coat flapped about his legs. As he reached the door of The Three Legged Mare, he lifted up his right hand to open the latch. Water streaming down the wooden planks of the door ran across his fingers. It curled around his knuckle bones. It trickled across the back of his hand. Then it dropped through the hole in the centre of his palm. The latch gave a soft clunk and the door opened.
The pub was quiet. Slung into the dead-end corner of one of the back lanes of Elkesworth, it was habitually quiet. It had a regular clientele, sure enough, but not the sort that wanted to be heard. Or seen. The man crossed the room. Wet footprints stained the blackened floorboards. He nodded curtly at the landlord and ducked beneath a curtain strung up on a beam at the back of the room. There was a brief glimpse of a grubby table and a large man leaning on his elbows. The folds of fabric fell back into place.
William Underwood sat down. Without thinking, he shoved his hand under his coat, surreptitiously rubbing it against his shirt. The hole always ached in the cold, as if the flesh were still there. Haunting him. The wound had never quite healed however, and even now he could still feel the sharp edge of severed bone barely concealed beneath the skin. Where the tissue didn’t quite meet, it weeped slowly. William dabbed at it, with a stained and ragged handkerchief. Then he pushed the cloth swiftly out of sight. He grimaced at the man opposite, (snip)
Even though there’s too much of the first paragraph, I did find the hole in the man’s hand interesting—but not enough to raise a compelling story question. For me, there were several clarity issues, something to really be concerned about when writing for a younger audience. And there was a fair amount of overwriting. The the signals sent out by this opening page is that the reader can expect to encounter more things they can’t understand and the long way around in description. Notes:
The man ran across the street. His head was bent against the rain. His long coat flapped about his legs. As he reached the door of The Three Legged Mare, he lifted up his right hand to open the latch. Water streaming down the wooden planks of the door ran across his fingers. It curled around his knuckle bones. It trickled across the back of his hand. Then it dropped through the hole in the centre of his palm. The latch gave a soft clunk and the door opened. First, why not give “the man” a name now? You do later, but it would be better now. Names create persons instead of giving us anonymous genders. I found it interesting that he has an open hole in his hand, but I also found the means of learning about it awfully long-winded. All the stuff about the water streaming and curling and trickling took so long to happen. It wasn’t credible for me, either. He’s reaching for the latch. For all that water action to happen he would have to hold his hand perfectly still for a long moment. Doesn’t seem like reasonable action. I just don’t see how the timing works for rain to drop through a hole in his hand. Also, how large is it? If it was made by a knife, for example, it wouldn’t be huge. I think you need a different way to introduce the hole.
The pub was habitually quiet. Slung into the dead-end corner of one of the back lanes of Elkesworth, it was habitually quiet. It had a regular clientele, sure enough, but not the sort that wanted to be heard. Or seen. The man crossed the room. Wet footprints stained the blackened floorboards. He nodded curtly at the landlord and ducked beneath a curtain strung up on a beam at the back of the room. There was a brief glimpse of a grubby table and a large man leaning on his elbows. The folds of fabric fell back into place. Since we don’t know where or what Elkesworth is, it didn’t seem worth the words to include it. The narrative tells us the place was quiet twice, so I cut it to once. The wet footprints are detail minutia that don’t affect or advance the story—overwriting. The “brief glimpse” confused me. It works if the man opened the curtain and then let it drop, but he goes through it into the place where the table and man are. Therefore it wouldn’t be a brief glimpse, seems to me. A clarity issue.
William Underwood sat down. Without thinking, he shoved his hand under his coat, surreptitiously rubbing it against his shirt. The hole always ached in the cold, as if the flesh were still there. Haunting him. The wound had never quite healed however, and even now he could still feel the sharp edge of severed bone barely concealed beneath the skin. Where the tissue didn’t quite meet, it weeped wept slowly. William dabbed at it, with a stained and ragged handkerchief. Then he pushed the cloth swiftly out of sight. He grimaced at the man opposite, (snip) About the “without thinking” cut—if something doesn’t happen in a story, then why include it? Just do the action. Another clarity issue: he slips his hand under his coat and rubs it on his shirt. Then you have him dabbing at it with a cloth and then putting the cloth out of sight. If he is dabbing at a hand that is underneath his coat, it would already be out of sight. You need to think this action through, visualize it thoroughly to make it credible and clear.
For what it's worth.
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 Sophie
Continued
Continued
. . . who immediately began to speak.
“You said it was urgent.”
“She’s going to leave.”
“How? No one gets to just leave this place. Except me.” The man leaned back, stretching his legs, a smug expression on his face.
“Someone must be helping them. They’ve got a plan. I don’t know when, I don’t know where, but she’s going to leave.”
“Hah! It’s impossible! Bet they’ve been dreaming of that since they got here. But it ain’t going to happen.”
“That’s as maybe, but I believe this time it is. So you can pass that onto your master. If he wants to stop her, he’ll have to come here himself.”
William sounded irritated. These meetings were all well and good, but the man in front of him was a bit too big for his boots. Just because he reported directly to him.
William demanded a bit more respect these days. Since that day at the Bar Moot, he’d learnt to stand up for himself. Maybe it had been the excruciating pain of pulling his hand away. Or the humiliation of his fellow citizens laying bets on his cowardice. Or maybe, it was the silver coins that now lined his pockets, due to him. But William was tougher these days, stronger, cleverer and he wasn’t going to put up with any attitude.
“You tell your master what I said, if you value your life. If she left and he didn’t know about it, he’d kill us both!”
The younger man shifted his feet uncomfortably. He moved as if to get up, but William stood up first, blocking his path. He held out his hand – his good hand. The man scowled and pulled out a purse. He dropped it into William’s palm. Without another word, he pushed past, yanked the curtain to one side and was gone.
William sat down. He thumped his good hand on the table. A moment later, the landlord appeared, clutching a beer mug in one hand.
“A pint of your usual, Mr Underwood?”
William grinned.
“No,” he said. “I’ll have a double whisky this time and a plate of your roast beef.”
He scattered a few coppers on the table, pushed out his feet and settled back against the chair.
Sam stood stock still. He was listening, his ears pressed up against the rock. He held a finger to his lips, waggling the fingers of his other hand at the same time. After a moment, he turned his head away from the rock face.
“I can hear one. Listen!” He cocked his head.
Silas was resting himself against a shovel. His eyes blinked, the only part of him visible in the half-light. They gleamed white against the black coal dust that coated his face, his hands, his clothes.
In the last year he’d lost weight. They all had. Silas noted how Sam looked more like one of the skinny black rats they were hunting, and as caked in coal dust. Silas heard it too – the faint scrabbling and a squeak.
Quick as a flash, Sam pulled on the string. The metal teeth of the trap burst into life. It clamped down on the body of the poor creature. The animal squealed, screamed even. So noisy for such a scrawny little thing, it’s wretched body thrashing from side to side.
“Well, don’t leave it to suffer, lad. Here, use this!”
Silas passed a hammer to Sam. Sam didn’t hesitate. He swung the weight of it down upon the rat’s head and that was it. Dead.
They both stared at the thing. It was barely bigger than a carrot. Its long tail had more fat on it than the body. But it was meat, of a kind. Sam released the catch on the trap, picking up the rat by its tail. Then he tied the tail to his belt. The rat hung down, mouth open, its two front incisors catching the dim light of the passage.
“Well done! A couple more of those and we’ll have a feast!” Silas slapped him on the back.
Sam grimaced. He knew Silas was right. By current standards it was a feast. But all he could think of was his mum’s cooking, old style. A steaming hot beef stew bubbling over the cottage fire, soft fragrant dumplings snug on the top. The teasing smell of freshly baked bread drifting down the streets of Scardale Covert. Home. Or what had once been home. His stomach gave a lurch as the rancid smell of the rat assailed his nostrils and the memory burst apart in his head, like a tiny firework.
That evening, three rats swung from Sam’s hips, as the sirens wailed above. And the mine lift lurched upwards, towards the fast fading daylight.