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.
Trin sends the first chapter of Oh Brother. The rest follows the break.
“Grab my force ball plunger,” my Dad said. “No, that’s the suction cup one. Damn, damn, damn.” Water began gushing from the toilet. Dad started plunging until he came to the cause of the clog. My brother Maxwell’s infamous red ball. He must have dropped it in there by mistake. Although Dad was a salesman in the plumbing department, he seemed to know very little about plumbing itself. He was beet red and looked mystified. The water spread across the floor like a small flood. “Amelia, you’re going to clean this up.”
“Me?” I said, while making a new companion with the ground, my stare impenetrable as if this would get me out of the predicament.
“Yeah you," he said. He could have added the word dummy and I wouldn’t have been surprised, just heavily weighed down by the sopping mess and the amount of rags my mother would have to wash. I took on the project though, and rolled up my overalls and began the job. My mother, Roseann, wouldn’t be home till later in the evening, she was a homemaker and enjoyed filling her time by running errands for my brother’s boy scout troop.
My Dad’s six foot, fifty-year old frame maneuvered around the toilet. While, I began taking rags and wiping up the mess. It smelled like rotten eggs in the bathroom, and I pushed back strands of brown wavy hair, doing my best not to shake off any barrettes.
“Where’s Maxwell-Amelia?” My Dad asked as an afterthought, fumbling with the float (snip)
For me, this narrative starts at the wrong place unless, that it, it’s really a story about unclogging toilets. All of this action, as it turns out, has no bearing on the rest of the story. While it serves to characterize, why not characterize while giving us what the story is actually about. What does the protagonist need or want? What is preventing her from getting it? What goes wrong in her life that forces her to take action? That’s where to begin the story, and I didn’t see that in this chapter. Look for the real start later--there was a hint of something interesting, perhaps paranormal, at the very end, but far too late to engage this reader--and it wasn't about the protagonist. Some craft notes:
“Grab my force ball plunger,” my Dad dad said. “No, that’s the suction cup one. Damn, damn, damn.” Water began gushing from the toilet. Dad started plunging until he came to the cause of the clog. My brother Maxwell’s infamous red ball. He must have dropped it in there by mistake. Although Dad was a salesman in the plumbing department, he seemed to know very little about plumbing itself. He was beet red and looked mystified. The water spread across the floor like a small flood. “Amelia, you’re going to clean this up.” I’ve plunged my share of toilets, and it doesn’t match my experience that he would “come to” the ball. Plunging forces clogs down and out of the toilet, so I don’t see how he could come to the ball.
“Me?” I said, while making a new companion with the ground, my stare impenetrable as if this would get me out of the predicament. “making a new companion with the ground” didn’t make much sense to me at first and pulled me out of the story. Also, it’s a floor, not ground. This tries a little too hard for me.
“Yeah, you," he said. He could have added the word dummy and I wouldn’t have been surprised, just heavily weighed down by the sopping mess and the amount of rags my mother would have to wash. I took on the project though, and rolled up my overalls and began the job. My mother, Roseann, wouldn’t be home till later in the evening, she was a homemaker and enjoyed filling her time by running errands for my brother’s boy scout troop.
My Dad’s six foot, fifty-year old frame maneuvered around the toilet. While, while I began taking rags and wiping up the mess. It smelled like rotten eggs in the bathroom, and I pushed back strands of brown wavy hair, doing my best not to shake off any barrettes. Mentioning her hair color is a small break in point of view—she would not ordinarily think of that. Unless his size and age are important here, they are excess detail.
“Where’s Maxwell-Amelia?” My Dad asked as an afterthought, fumbling with the float (snip)
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 Patricial
Continued:
. . . ball and trip lever.
Fortunately, Maxwell was with the other eight-year-olds in a game of cops and robbers on his bike.
“He’s outside, Dad.”
“And your brother Zion?” Dad asked, while wiping sweat off his half-bald head and tossing used tools in a large white bucket.
Before I could answer, there was insistent knocking at the door and my father shouted, “Someone get the damn door. We’re expecting a new foster kid.”
Another foster kid? I thought to myself. Three foster kids had already came and left this year alone-all of which were bad behaved. When no one in the house responded to my father, I took it as a sign to depart, leaving him to his own devices- glad to be relieved of the tension in the bathroom.
When I opened the door, a teenage boy stood there, while a woman in a station wagon was waving from the street, shouting, “This is the new foster kid. There’s an emergency at the office, your parents have already met him. I’ve got to go.” She waved one last time before driving off in mad-hurry.
The teenager had grayish black shaggy dog-like hair. He looked to be around fifteen and and wore jeans that said in bold letters: Marithe Francois Girbaud. They fit tightly on his husky, plump body.
I thought I would joke with him a bit. “Are you Husky?” I asked, because my parents didn't like the term fat and insisted that we call-kids over a hundred pounds Husky.
“No I’m not Husky, my name is Sam Burns.” He had with him a huge black chest fastened down with a big Masterson lock.
Looking back on it, his name alone suggested his ruthless risk taking abilities like an arsonist who plans to burn down a house but doesn't plan on burning those who live in it. I told myself from that day forward I’d call him “Burns” for short.
“Dad, there’s a kid here!” I shouted.
“Oh, that must be the new foster kid. Show him upstairs, would ya? And close the damn door before you let the cold air out.”
The air conditioner blasted frigid air in the living room. Blue sheets were used as separators on four doorways of the main floor, blocking air from going room-to-room, and upstairs into the attic bedrooms. I decided to give Burns a tour of the house and inform him of important rules.
“This is the living room,” I said pointing to a couch and Dad’s lazy-boy. A tall entertainment center was propped against the left wall with family photos scattered across it. I couldn't tell if Burns was listening because his head barely nodded or seem to acknowledge what I said.
“So where’s the kitchen?” He asked. I pointed to a hallway that led into a room from the main door.
We walked into the kitchen while I explained, “Everything needs to be eaten at the table, unless you’ve been given permission to do otherwise. Mealtimes are at nine, twelve and six. “You don’t get snacks without asking for them.”
We walked out of the kitchen, through the living room, and I pointed to the door to the left “Mom’s room, and to the right is Dad’s. Don't ever step foot in our parents’ bedrooms without being invited. And if you’re invited, you’ll know because it's probably for something bad you’ve done. There are rules here, okay?”
As we made our way upstairs to the attic, Burns paused to hang his jacket on a brass hook held on a wall on the stairway. “You don't use what's not yours in this household.” I removed his coat from one hook and placed it on another. When we reached upstairs, he began messing with the functions of a radio that sat on a cedar chest. “This radio is not yours,” I pushed a dial to shut it off.
“That's fine,” he said, taking out a walkman from inside a hoody, “I've got my own radio.” He turned the radio on high blast-Led Zeppelin, from the sounds of it. I couldn't make out the words. I was twelve, I enjoyed music from groups like Backstreet Boys and Destiny’s Child but I thought Led Zeppelin sounded like non-stop head banging music. I also couldn’t get the hang of the beat.
Walking into the room, Zion was standing at a tall drafting table putting together what looked like a space station with his Legos. Without introducing himself, Burns claimed an unoccupied bed by shoving his god-awful trunk at the end of it.
I bit my lip before explaining, “Zion-this is a new foster kid.” Zion looked up from his Legos with an eye roll.
Burns tossed his backpack on the bed revealing his bad habits by going over to where Zion stood and tousling his hair. Zion didn't like it one bit. Zion had heavy sandy hair and the looks of Steve Urkel: big heavy glasses he constantly pushed up his nose and pants he wore above the navel.
“Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Would ya?” Zion exclaimed.
Burns looked away from Zion, he seemed caught up in what he saw on the wall, a big poster of baseball star, Kirby Puckett.
“Did he really sign this?” He stared at the poster's signature.
Zion took this opportunity to gain some leverage over Burns. “Ah yeah, he signed it. And if you touch it, you die, because Mom said only adoptive kids can touch these posters. Our brother got it signed by Puckett himself after seeing him at the airport.”
The truth was, the signature was one of those copied ones they slap on every poster. But hell, Burns didn't know the difference and besides it gave us leverage over him and let him know his place in the foster home. He was the foster kid and we were the ones to stay. The chosen ones.
“Oh, they didn't tell you?” Burns exclaimed., “After a few months of staying here, I plan on getting adopted too.”
Good luck, I thought sarcastically.
“Oh, no you don’t!” exclaimed Zion.
“Yes, I do. All, I have to do is tie your parents around my finger and they’ll adopt me faster than a rabbit in a hat. And my first line of business is to call your mother and father, my Mom and Dad. And if you had any sense at all, you'd respect your newest and handsomest brother.” Burns placed his hand over Zion's face as Zion struggled to hit him.
“How dare you!” I said, my eyes squinting up at him. Zion and I were twelve years old. It took us ten years to accept the rules of the house and our parents as our own after coming to live with the Radtke’s when we were both only two years old And Burns planned on calling our parents-his own- on the first day? Who’s to say, my parents would even like him, and who knows what sort of mischief this kid would cause my parents.
“First of all,” I said. “You aren’t the oldest, Rich is. When he gets a wiff of you, you’ll be begging on your hands and knees to get the hell outta here. Second of all, you aren’t handsome. I’ve seen dogs that look better than you.”
Burns ignored me and continued teasing Zion, before deciding to get himself settled in.
***
If independence had a smell, it was campfire s'mores and cinder blocks, anything and everything barbecued and planted grass. I really enjoyed Independence Day unlike most holidays where you sat around all day waiting to eat. The little freedom the Radtke’s got we cherished- like lighting off firecrackers and standing in front of sprinklers with our play clothes on.
Independence Day was a tribute to the summer, like a big birthday candle lit once a year.So it came as no surprise that two days after Burns arrived, my parents took the liberty of driving all the way to Wisconsin to buy firecrackers. It was still illegal to buy fireworks in Minnesota in 1997- whether big or small. Therefore, Mom hid all the firecrackers in the back of her closet when we came home. Zion kept dipping his head in there all day making dibs on which ones thought he'd light.
By nightfall, we took turns lighting them off. It was humid as the night was black. We weren’t the only ones who had the idea of setting off firecrackers. Our next door neighbors were shooting them off, although we could barely see them because of the huge Lilac bushes that separated our yard from theirs. We heard countless booms and bangs-and screams of delights.
Zion was up next to light a firecracker that resembled an Army tank. He said he wanted to keep the tank for himself after it went off. Zion seemed to be on cloud nine seeing how the tank was similar to a toy in his toy chest. He examined it thoroughly before planting it evenly on the sidewalk and took an electronic lighter to its wick. Its wick was on top of its periscope. The tank seemed to be a dud, standing still as a stump of a tree.
Burns went over to the tank and stomped on it, shouting out, "Stomp the dud, stomp the dud."
Zion's excitement seemed to turn to complete sadness as he rounded his shoulder blades and stared at the trampled tank. I ran to where Zion sat. I tried to shake him out of his stupor.
“Zion, Zion, it's okay, there will be more firecrackers.”
“Not any more this year.” He said, staring at the tank as if it was his most prized possession.
We looked at the almost empty paper bag that held the firecrackers. Mom said there were a few more but what was left was sparklers and glow worms, baby stuff in comparison to the ones we lit. The sparklers were still pretty to me though; I could light a pink sparkler and dance all night to the flashes of light.
Burns said he was going for a walk. Zion stared at the tank before moving.The tank was similar to the one our brother, Rich, drove in Iraq. I pictured my brother driving the tank through sandy and rocky terrain, covered with the help of the sahara. Zion said he was on a mission to find Burns. He began marching out of the backyard as if he was going into combat.
After he left, I spent the better part of an hour picking up the leftover firecrackers and putting them in a pile and then ripping them to shreds.
Butch, our next door neighbor came by. From far away, he could easily be mistaken for a ten year-old. At 5’1” he was as thin as a rail and wore a flannel shirt tucked into a brown, leather belt. Butch was in fact forty-years old and balding but that didn’t stop him from acting like a kid. Butch had a large rope swing that propelled from a thirty foot tree limb. Every kid in the neighborhood spent time jumping off his deck railing, swinging themselves to an adjacent garage roof calling out any amount of rants and cheers of good will; proclamations like “watch-out below!” His backyard could be compared to a Swiss Family Robinson movie.
Butch was also friends with my father and the two of them would spend hours in the basement drinking and talking politics in manic loud voices that we kids didn’t concern ourselves with. We had enough day-to-day lectures from our father to know better than go down there.
Butch fumbled for a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He took out a match from his matchbook and lit the cigarette, letting it sit loosely on his lips.
“What’s up Amelia” he says finally.
“Nothing much.” I respond.
“Where’s Zion,I want to talk to him about throwing trash in my yard.”
Zion turned the corner into the yard, just then-huffing and puffing real loud. He began pacing in circles. I wondered where he just came from. Did he find Burns? And if so, did Zion and Burns have a fight over the ruined tank?
“Hey turbo slow down,” said Butch watching Zion pace and not making any motion to stop him. “What happened?”
“Wait till that bastard shows up.” Zion kicked out his left leg to show what he would do to when Burns got home. “Do you know what he did to me? He put his hands around my esophagus.” Zion squeezed his own throat by demonstration.
Burns strangled Zion, I thought to myself. That’s the worst thing you could do to my brother. Sure- I’ve gotten into plenty of fights with Zion, but I would never try to strangle my own brother.
In his rage, Zion kicked Butch’s fence.
“Hey-slow down” Butch exclaimed, “We got enough holes in this-here wooden fence,” motioning to the fence while trying to hold it up straight.
Zion kicked a loose rock around instead. He had his chest puffed out as if he was going to fight someone- massaging his neck as well.
“Hey, why don’t you just sit down and take a break?” Butch offered him a lawn chair but Zion pushed it away.
“Hey, what hurts the worst?” Butch asked, pleading with him to express himself thoroughly.
“My esophagus hurts.” He showed Butch a place on his throat where red marks showed signs of Burns squeezing his throat.
“He’s doing illegal things to me.” Zion insisted, his eyes huge and bloodshot.
“Are you going to fight Burns when he gets home?” Butch asked.
Maxwell cut the banter short by saying “Hey-you shouldn't taunt Zion, “He's got powers.”
“Powers huh?” said Butch. “Are you going to turn into a Power Ranger little man? You got some moves?”
Butch didn’t get to see the powers Zion was said to have that night. But Zion and every kid that knew him believed in his powers. His powers, it seemed, extended to whenever he was mad or someone else provoked him. Dad's hand would slap a wall instead of someone’s face. A play toy hit the bed instead of breaking into a million pieces.