Submissions Invited. 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.
E.G. sends the prologue and first chapter for The Tchaikovsky. The rest of the submission follows the break.
Prologue:
Mary Ferguson was upset. She did not like driving at night alone. Perhaps that’s why she did something uncharacteristic, and picked up the stranded stranger. She was on Hwy 195 headed for Tallahassee and her family home. She should have spent the evening at her sister’s in Campbell but they got into an all too familiar brouhaha over the raising of children in a modern society and Mary stormed out into the night. Mary is a middle school teacher and considers herself a progressive thinker while she regards her sister as a foaming-at-the-mouth conservative when it came to the education of the young. The argument centered on something to do with ‘Common Core’, though Mary could not recall any of the specifics.
Now Mary was in her late model car, miles from home, and it was pitch black ahead. She was grateful for the nearly full moon low now on the horizon shining through the trees. Driving at night always made Mary nervous but the moon’s silver light somehow added a sense of warmth to the blackness. She turned on the player on her dash and forwarded the CD to Cohen’s song, ‘The Future’. Cohn whispered the song with a voice filled with gravel. But the quiet rhythm made the drive easier – ‘love’s the only engine of survival’.
The lyrics are weird and shocking; wonder what they really mean, Mary thought with a smile. She beat the steering wheel in time to the chorus and tried to relax.
‘Thank God the weather is mild,’ she said out loud as she stared down the dark road (snip)
Chapter 1:
Susan Wei was a very sound sleeper. Her husband John constantly teased her about it. ‘If a huge quake struck Dover, Mass. you would roll over and sleep right through it’, he would say to her with a laugh. That’s why it was so unusual that something very faint and far away, barely audible, had awakened her.
Suddenly Susan blinked several times in the dark and opened her eyes wide. She lay still in her super King bed and tried to identify what had disturbed her sleep. She lay in the dark and listened to the sounds of her large dark house. There was nothing. Except for some moonlight slipping through her heavy curtains leaving streaks of pale light on the floor, the master suite was black and silent.
Perhaps it was just a dream or a sound from outside. Not likely, she thought. She could not recall any dreams that disturbed her and the house was very well insulated. Even the gardeners with their blowers only sounded like a distant hum in the late morning when they did their work. Although she was still groggy, she was certain the weird sound had originated inside the house. Susan sat up in the bed and strained to hear any noises. There was nothing.
The house was an elegant fourteen room mansion with several adjacent buildings on a large estate. It was a matter of pride for the Wei family, a visible sight of John’s success in America. The estate was well protected with motion sensors along the perimeter brick wall, and (snip)
The writing is sound, though it does need a little editorial help on punctuation. And there are little hints of overwriting ahead in phrases such as “her late model car.” But it’s good enough to generate page turns if viable story questions are raised.
But are they? The prologue tries to draw us in with a woman alone picking up a stranger at night—but it doesn’t show us that, it just tells us that and then the narrative wanders off into backstory and setup. Ultimately, what happens in the prologue’s first page is that a woman is driving and listens to music.
In the first chapter, the only hint of something unusual is that a woman is wakened by a faint noise even though she’s a sound sleeper. That’s it. What happens is that a woman wakes up. Then we learn all about the mansion she lives in. Much later, at the end of the chapter, is something that would get me to turn the page—the woman finds her pre-teen daughter, naked in the solarium, playing a violin and dancing. But will a reader ever get there? I’m thinking that’s the place to start this story.
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 Kevan
Continued:
. . . ahead. The air was not typically heavy as was expected in Florida, even in early spring, and there was a chill in the night air tonight - but the sky was clear.
Mary had put on her high beams in case a deer or some other animal came onto the road. There was no sign of approaching traffic for miles. It was the long shaft of light from her headlights that allowed her to see the man walking on the lonely country road well ahead.
2
He was slowly walking just to the right of center on the asphalt as if he were out for an evening stroll without a care. As she slowed to a crawl and passed him, she glanced over to see if he was a hitchhiker but he gave no signal of acknowledgement.
He was tall, well dressed, clean and fit. He was not at all an unkempt homeless, or a drifter, not like some lost collegiate looking for a ride, or even a stranded motorist with a gas can looking for service. She considered just going on. After all, he had a nice warm trench coat and did not appear in any distress. But Mary knew this part of the road well; she had driven it many times, and there was nothing for miles in both directions.
“What is he doing out here so late at night?” she whispered to herself.
Mary never picked up hitchhikers and rarely stopped for stranded motorists. It simply was too dangerous for a woman alone, especially late at night. But for reasons not clear, Mary slowed her car and pulled over. She watched in her side mirror as the tall man approach in no particular hurry.
‘He certainly seems sure that I won’t just take off, the way he’s walking,’ she thought as she studied him in her rear view mirror.
Finally he approached the passenger window, “You seem to be stranded out here. Do you want a ride to the next town? Did your car break down?” Mary prattled on a bit nervous as he leaned forward at her open window.
“I would like to ride with you, thank you,” answered the tall man. Only a pleasant smile showed through the darkness.
He spoke softly and made no move to enter without invitation; it quieted Mary. The smile was disarming and he waited as she pushed the button to unlock the door. He saw the large overnight bag and purse on her front seat. Mary had originally planned to stay with her sister but hadn’t bothered to bring her things in from the car. It provided her a fast exit after the latest argument. The tall man pushed the front seat forward without disturbing the bag and climbed into the back behind the passenger seat.
Mary considered this for a moment and then somehow rationalized that she was safe since he was in full view in the rear view mirror.
“You’re fortunate. I don’t usually pick up strangers, especially at night. What are you doing out here so late?
“Quite right, I am fortunate you came by. We are both far from home. As for me, I received a message that I will meet with someone soon and that meeting will lead me to difficulties. Walking in the night air clears my mind on what I must do.”
“If it leads to difficulties, why not just avoid the meeting,” asked Mary with a frown?
“Some dangers are unavoidable. In any event, I must have lost track of time and found myself out too far. I had turned back when you came by. I would have had an all-night journey if you hadn’t stopped.”
The man was pleasant and made small talk easily. But Mary sensed he really did not need to chat, so there were moments of uncomfortable silence. He sat in the shadows in the back seat and studied the moonlit landscape during the silence. Then there would be a flurry of comments and questions and a few entertaining anecdotes laced with humor and pop culture. Mary found the man amiable and pleasant.
She remembered the music CD and asked, “What type of music do you like? I prefer country myself but I have a lot of different discs here. Do you like the modern singers?”
“I enjoy various modern age poets – Stewart, Charles, Andrews, Collins and Cohen, though too much of what we hear today is variations on rhythmic chants.”
Mary was about to mention that she had Cohen - but he spoke up.
“The moderns are lyrists reciting words to a beat, not like the classical singers. Mindful of when we sang around fires thousands of years ago. That’s why my favorites are full orchestral instrumentals written by dead composers. I believe that music should be mathematical, exact and visceral. The old masters were much more in tune with our higher spirit – more challenging than a simple beat.”
Mary was not sure what he meant so she fell to silence again.
Nearly an hour passed quickly and Mary had learned little more about the man. He was obviously well educated and comfortable talking about many subjects. Mary guessed he was a professional man but she never got an opportunity to press him about his background; he deflected all such talk back to the driver. Mary on the other hand found herself talking at length about herself, her irritating sister and her views of current events; the tall man was a good listener. As they were approaching a major intersection on the country road, Mary offered to turn. Then something strange happened. The tall man asked Mary a personal question.
3
“Tell me Mary, do you believe in a second coming?”
The question was so unexpected, so casual and inappropriate with the conversation to this point that Mary was not sure she had heard it correctly.
When he repeated the question, she cleared her throat and answered while watching him in the shadows behind her, “Well, if we’re talking religion here, I must confess, I am not a very religious person. I really don’t think about such things.”
Mary came to a stop at the intersection and turned her head to the back seat to ask if he wanted her to turn. The tall man had vanished.
It took quite some time for Mary to recover. She screamed and cried out, sat with the doors locked, and continuously looked inside the car. Finally, she calmed herself and gathered her courage and exited. There was a chill in the air and Mary shivered as she walked around the car and looked up and down the roads in all directions. She even called out and checked under the car. Certain that she was all alone, she finally resumed her drive to Tallahassee. She glanced at the CD player on the dash but Cohen’s guttural whispers and apocalyptic rants would only heightened her anxiety; she decided to drive in silence, constantly checking the rear mirror.
The incident had so affected the woman, she repeated accounts of her road adventure to her friends and relatives - anyone really who would listen and possibly give her some answers. A few days later, a reporter from a local newspaper called to interview Mary for a human interest piece to appear in a local paper. It wasn’t clear how the reporter got wind of the story; the local pastor who had listened to her story may have called the reporter, or maybe a friend. But the reporter was very nice and did not question Mary’s veracity. She wrote a reasonably concise and accurate article about Mary. This prompted more people to contact Mary. Some people even claimed similar encounters and wanted to share their own experiences. Mary was surprised how many times strange occurrences happened to random people. Within a month, a young neighbor helped her connect to social media and Mary was suddenly a ‘friend’ of people all around the country. Mary regarded almost everything that had happened as a result of the incident on the road as very positive. But it wasn’t all good. Some people wrote nasty notes, accused her of being a drunk, or tried to contact her with complaints about why she had an experience for which she was clearly not worthy.
There were some unexpected changes that came to Mary as a result of the incident. First, she began to attend the local church regularly. She was uncomfortable to participate in the singing and ceremony. But sitting in the church and reading passages from the Bible gave her some undefined solace. She also enjoyed the pastor’s sermons.
Then there was that psychologist from Boston with the strange name. He called her after reading about her and introduced himself as a researcher of strange phenomena; trying to apply science to unexplained occurrences. He asked her if she would be willing to take some tests. After a long telephone conversation, Mary agreed to take the tests.
Chapter 1 – Susan Wei, March 3
Susan Wei was a very sound sleeper. Her husband John constantly teased her about it. ‘If a huge quake struck Dover, Mass. you would roll over and sleep right through it’, he would say to her with a laugh. That’s why it was so unusual that something very faint and far away, barely audible, had awakened her.
Suddenly Susan blinked several times in the dark and opened her eyes wide. She lay still in her super King bed and tried to identify what had disturbed her sleep. She lay in the dark and listened to the sounds of her large dark house. There was nothing. Except for some moonlight slipping through her heavy curtains leaving streaks of pale light on the floor, the master suite was black and silent.
Perhaps it was just a dream or a sound from outside. Not likely, she thought. She could not recall any dreams that disturbed her and the house was very well insulated. Even the gardeners with their blowers only sounded like a distant hum in the late morning when they did their work. Although she was still groggy, she was certain the weird sound had originated inside the house. Susan sat up in the bed and strained to hear any noises. There was nothing.
The house was an elegant fourteen room mansion with several adjacent buildings on a large estate. It was a matter of pride for the Wei family, a visible sight of John’s success in America. The estate was well protected with motion sensors along the perimeter brick wall, and a state-of-the-art security system designed to prevent unexpected entry. One of the security panels had been installed in the master bedroom on the opposite wall near the door. Susan was fully awake now and could see a faint red dot that indicated the security system was on with no alarm.
She quickly reviewed who was in the house possibly wandering around in the dark downstairs. John, her husband was away on a trip to Asia. He was due to return late in the week. She was alone in the master bedroom suite.
Grandfather was at the other end of the hall. He never left his room during the night. There was no need. He had everything he might need in his own suite of rooms: a sitting area with a desk, his wall shelves filled with books; there was even a small refrigerator in the corner for late night snacks and drinks, and his own toilet and bath. He would not hobble about the house in the dark banging his cane on all the furniture. She was sure it was not grandfather that she heard.
Camille and Fernando, the elderly couple who had been the family housekeepers for years lived in their own small cottage behind the main house. They served as cook, housekeeper, chauffeur and major domo. Both knew the security codes to enter the house after dark in case of an emergency. But why would they come in and not rouse her immediately? Neither one would wander about in the dark.
This was early March in Massachusetts; no house guests were visiting at this time of the year. Her extended family and John’s friends only came in the summer.
The only other person in the big house was her daughter, Jin, down the hall. But Jin suffered from narcolepsy and would not waken without a lot of effort. In the past few months the sleep disorder had gotten so bad, the family hired a child psychiatrist to help the girl. Each morning Susan often would shake Jin violently to get her out of bed to go to school. Susan couldn’t remember the last time her eleven year old got up in the middle of the night on her own.
Susan slipped on her embroidered Chinese silken robe and checked the nightstand clock. It was 2:17 AM. She opened her bedroom door to the hallway with apprehension. Susan decided not to turn on the lights since this would dazzle her vision. With her night vision and the moonlight, she could easily see her way. She looked along the banister down the hall.
The house was a classic Georgian with all sleeping quarters on the second floor wrapped around the outer wall and all living and utilitarian areas were on the first floor. She tiptoed down the hall clinging to the oversized banister trying to control her breathing. She glanced over the railing to the large entry area below. There was nothing moving. At the end of the hall, even in the dark she could see that grandfather’s door was closed but her daughter’s door was open. Susan pushed the girl’s door open and put on the light. When her eyes adjusted, she could see that her daughter was not in bed.
A terrible fear gripped Susan Wei. Her daughter had been so erratic lately; it was almost as if she was undergoing a transformation. The narcolepsy was the latest medical problem in a series of bizarre episodes. Now Susan feared that the daughter was wandering the house in the dark, perhaps sleepwalking.
She forced herself to wait until her night vision returned and Susan now worked her way down the curved broad staircase to the spacious entrance hall of the house. From here one could go in all compass directions. She checked the huge front double doors to the entry. They were locked. The woman listened and now could hear something ephemeral but melodic coming from the back of the house. It was music – someone was softly playing music in the middle of the night.
Susan proceeded through the salon and then on to the large solarium which took up the opposite corner of the house. The music was obvious now, still not very loud, and still not clear. Someone was playing a violin at the far corner of the house. The stringed instrument made a faint, solemn and fearfully melancholy sound in the darkness. A bright moon was out and all the shadows seemed to move with the woman as she carefully made her way. This section of the house was completely isolated from the rest once the heavy French doors were close. The solarium was where the family entertained summer guests. It opened onto the gardens in the back for barbeque parties and cocktails at sunset. Paneled windows along two walls faced the gardens and the skylight took up half the sloped roof that intersected with one wall. When one stood in the solarium, ornate glass and large windows surrounded guests on all sides.
Susan was filled with trepidation but still did not turn on any lights. She continued in the dark, extending her hands to avoid furniture. When she came to the cut glass doors leading to the solarium, she could see a moving figure spackled in the glass and moving rhythmically around the center of the room. The violin music was soft and mellow now. The music was coming clearly from within, the melody now easy to identify. It was something Jin played often. She was a prodigy on most string instruments and had talent well beyond her years.
Susan carefully turned the knob and slowly opened the door. It was the Tchaikovsky, the second movement of Tchaikovsky’s only violin concerto. It was the movement always labeled the quiet movement; the soft and nostalgic melody that was the so-called melancholy theme of the famous concerto. Susan had heard her daughter practice it a thousand times.
There in the middle of the solarium she could make out in the moonlight that was streaming in from above, a slender pale lanky figure twirling with a violin at her chin, drawing across the strings with a bow and playing the melody, softly, precisely. It was Jin, her daughter, naked, twirling, bending, straightening and playing - her pale skin glowing in the light of the three-quarter moon that was sending daggers of light through the oversized skylight. The uncomfortable pale light that illuminated the huge room, the wall to floor glass windows and the music added to the eeriness of the scene.
The young girl would intermittently twirl, stop, bend, and straightened as she played the melody. There was no orchestral background, no recording as accompaniment, only the violin. But she played the violin with such skill and control; it seemed more than just a single instrument. She was playing the movement flawlessly, beautifully, as she spun in the soft light on small bare feet. She looked like some exotic, gossamer covered fairy brought out of hiding by a magic musical spell, dancing in the pale moon light. Her slender underdeveloped young body was marble white. It was a scene from some ancient bizarre fantasy tale with Susan’s daughter cast as the principal.
Susan stepped forward, wide eyed and terrified. Her daughter, eyes shut tight, had a bizarre twisted smile fixed on her face disturbed only when she would grimace as she stroked the violin. It was as if she was performing for an unseen critic and the possibility of any flaws would bring pain and suffering.
Susan glanced back and forth fully expecting another presence. Despite the fact that there was no one else in the solarium other than mother and daughter, Susan could not shake a sudden feeling of malevolence, a free-flowing hostility there, moving along the glass room. She dared not speak aloud her worst fear but the fear was real, ‘The ghost is stronger now and my Jin has become a willing partner.’