Sorry I wasn't here yesterday, I got wrapped up in doing my taxes and it slipped my mind. This is an interesting one, but could be stronger, I think.
Submissions Welcome. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.
The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.
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.
Rebecca sends the first chapter of a paranormal fantasy, Snake Safety 101. The rest follows the break.
The dreaded polygraph test. My last obstacle to becoming a police officer. I sat in the waiting room, plain tile on the floor, posters meant to educate participants displayed on the plain walls. The air conditioning blasted at me but couldn’t cool my nerves. I’d barely passed the background check. A drug dealer’s kid had a hard time joining the police force, but that’s all I’d wanted since I was sixteen and freshly rescued from my own stupidity.
I’d disclosed my drug use on the pretest. If only I hadn’t been an idiot as a teenager. I’d tried to fit in with my friends. It didn’t work. They got high. I didn’t, but not for lack of trying. I’d stagger, or laugh at the stupidest things along with my friends, but it was all an act on my part. A great big lie. Yup, and here I was lined up for a polygraph test.
“Sarah?” A middle aged man with laugh lines at the corners of his eyes called my name.
I jumped up. “Here, sir.”
He tugged at his collar as if his tie was too tight and waved me through a door, down a hall, and into a small room. The officer who monitored the proceedings sat behind a window in an adjacent room.
“Sit there.” He pointed to a chair that looked similar to one used by clinics to draw blood.
“Okay,” I said. “This is my first polygraph…”
“Then you’ll be happy to know it only bites first timers.” He winked. “Next time you’ll (snip)
There’s a lot to like about this opening page. Good writing, clear and likable voice, and a definitely interesting character. There is a story question—will she pass—and consequences—if she doesn’t, she won’t be a cop. But is that enough to make it compelling. I’ll confess to being ambivalent about it. Interested? Yes. Compelled?
What follows in the chapter uses the questions in the interview to give us some good backstory . . . but still, I wonder if the first page couldn’t be stronger. I’m going to cobble together narrative from later in the story to see if you think it’s stronger, but first a brief note—I wouldn’t include the man tugging at his collar. It seems to be a touch of overwriting, detail that just doesn’t matter to the story.
So here’s an alternative opening. As you’ll see, I think it should start with the polygraph test already in progress. A second poll follows.
The dreaded polygraph test. My last obstacle to becoming a police officer. A drug dealer’s kid had a hard time joining the police force, but that’s all I’d wanted since I was sixteen.
Just tell the truth. That’s what the officers I’d talked to said. Lots of them had done drugs as teenagers and passed. And I’d disclosed my drug use on the pretest. Now here I was, wired to a machine, an officer watching through a window to a room next door.
The technician finally popped the big question. “Have you ever used drugs?”
My pulse shot up. “Yes.”
“When was the last time you used anything?”
“I quit when I was sixteen. But a year ago, I was at a party and someone spiked the punch with synthetic THC. If I’d known, I would have dumped the stuff out.”
He looked at me. “The party where a dozen people were hospitalized and several died?”
“Yes.” I prayed they wouldn’t count that time against me.
He frowned at his screen. “Did you become ill?”
“No.”
His eyebrows rose. “How much punch did you drink?”
“A Solo cup.”
He shook his head. “No way. Three others drank that much and they’re dead.” He fiddled (snip)
For me, this opening raises stronger questions and clearly puts her in jeopardy of failing the test. I had to wonder why she didn’t die. Instead of telling the reader about not being affected by drugs up front as the original opening does, let us discover it through the grilling she’s going through.
Your thoughts?
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 © 2016 Ray Rhamey, prologue and chapter © 2016 by Rebecca
Continued:
. . . be safe.”
I smiled to let him know his attempt at making me relax was appreciated.
He handed me a set of wires. “Connect these around your chest.”
I did, the pressure reminding me of Gerald and his snake. I held my breath, freezing in place like I used to. Like he’d demanded me to. They’re dead. They’re both dead. It’s only wires. I breathed deep and forced the memories from my mind, but not before a trickle of sweat dripped between my breasts.
The technician didn’t seemed to notice my almost panic. I’d been working for years to abolish them, and when one did creep up on me, I was better at hiding them.
He wrapped sensors to my fingers, and put a blood pressure cuff on my arm. I rubbed my free clammy palm on my dress slacks.
He looked at his screen and must have been satisfied. “Here we go. What is your name?”
“Sarah Anne Tierney.”
“What is your address?”
“614 Mountain View, Denver, Colorado, 80216.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
He watched his screen. “Very good. We’re all set for the important questions. Remember, answer as fully and truthfully as possible.
I nodded.
“Have you ever stolen from an employer?” All business, he looked at me through the bottom of his bifocals. The list of questions I’d answered on the pre-test lay beside him.
“No.” Employees had stolen from Mom’s restaurant. It always left me steaming mad and sometimes cost us a lot of money.
After a dozen questions relating to workplace honesty, he asked about sexual abuse and pornography. No, I’d never raped anyone. I was lucky Gerald had had a ‘favorite’, so I hadn’t been raped. Some of the older gang members had sold dirty pictures, but I didn’t. And I’d never traded sex for drugs. The pretest had given me a heads-up about the questions. So far I’d been able to keep steady.
He asked, “Have you ever used drugs?”
My pulse shot up. “Yes.” Just tell the truth. That’s what the officers I’d talked to said. Lots of them had done drugs as teenagers and passed.
“Which drugs have you taken?”
“I used marijuana lots. Cocaine, once. LSD, once. Mushrooms, once. Heroin five times.”
“When was the last time you used anything?”
“The last time I deliberately used a drug was when I was sixteen. But then, a year ago, I was at a party and someone secretly spiked the punch with synthetic THC. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have had any. If I’d known, I would have dumped the stuff out.”
The technician looked at me for the first time since he sat down. “The party where a dozen people were taken to the hospital and several died?”
“Yes.” I prayed they wouldn’t count that time against me.
“You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Yes.” I fidgeted, aware of the mild untruth of that particular answer. It wasn’t even a question. Why did I say anything.
He peered at his screen with a puzzled frown.
I should have kept my mouth shut. Damn, it must have registered as a lie, since I wasn’t in danger when I drank the punch.
“Did you become ill?”
“No.”
“How much punch did you drink?” he asked.
I shrugged. “A cup.”
“An eight ounce cup?”
“A Solo cup.”
He coughed. “No way. Three others drank that much and they’re dead.” His eyes widened. He fiddled with a setting, and exchanged a glance with the frowning officer behind the glass.
“I know,” I said. “It was terrible. I’d love to find the person who did it and send them to jail for a long time.”
He shifted sideways, pulled a green bandana from his pocket, and dabbed it on his forehead. “How did you survive?”
My stomach roiled. If I told the truth, he wouldn’t believe me no matter what his machine says. If I lied, he’d know that too. “Uhh…” I swallowed hard. “Drugs don’t affect me. Neither does alcohol. I don’t know why.”
“Hmmm.” He checked the wires connecting me to the machine. After re-sticking one with more gel, he said, “Please remove your shoes and socks”
“My… why?”
“Sometimes people wear tacks in their shoes to create pain and give abnormal readings.”
Not good. I slipped off my sandals and knee-length hose.
He patted the soles of my feet then sat again. “Keep both hands where I can see them.”
My right had been tied to his wires, my left on my lap—in plain sight.
“How did you use heroin?”
“Injected it.” I rubbed my forehead. Why was I so stupid back then?
“Are you completely recovered from your addiction?”
“I…I wasn’t addicted.”
His lips flattened. “Did you attend a rehabilitation facility?”
“No. I took heroin five times and it never affected me once. I know it sounds strange, but…”
“No one only takes it five times.”
His tone scraped my nerves. I wanted to slap him, but kept my hands folded nicely in my lap.
“How did you recover from the use of heroin?” He looked at me down his nose with a scowl on his face.
“I just stopped. I tried to get my friends to stop too. It was horrible how it took their minds so that all they wanted was more. It’s scary stuff.” Memories of Gerald’s gang that I was forced to become a member of flooded back and I clenched my fist to keep it from shaking. Stay in control. He’s dead.
The technician frowned. “You quit heroin without help?”
“Yes.”
“So neither heroin nor synthetic THC affect you?”
“That’s correct. But all that was before I was sixteen. I’ve straightened out since then.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you’ve never taken a polygraph test before?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
He asked a variation of the same questions dozens of times.
My hopes cascaded to the bottom of a pit. “Is it saying I’m telling the truth?”
“Yes.” He shrugged with a jerk. He didn’t look at me and his face seemed tight and pinched.
A knock sounded at the door. The officer from the window poked his head in. “That’s enough. We have what we need.”
The technician nodded.
The officer retreated and the door slammed closed.
“Disconnect yourself, Miss Tierney,” the technician said.
I took the wires off, and pulled on my nylon socks and sandals. “Did I pass?”
He glanced at his screen, then at me. “I don’t appreciate being played with. And this…” He waved at the screen. “Was a farce.”
“You’re failing me?”
“Yes.” He stared at me. His eyebrows almost met in the middle.
“Why? Everything I told you was the truth.” I’d spent too much time working toward this goal. Besides, I’d promised. And the person I’d promised to was also dead. There wasn’t any other option. “If it’s about my nonexistant reactions to drugs or alcohol, I can prove it.”
“Impossible. No one has a complete immunity to drugs.” He wiped his forehead again. “You’re a pathological liar. It’s the only explanation.”
No way I’d show him my tears. I spun and marched to the door with my chin held high. We’d see about this.