Submissions sought.Get fresh eyes on your opening page. Submission directions below.
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.
A First-page Checklist
- It begins to engage the reader with the character
- Something is wrong/goes wrong or challenges the character
- The character desires something.
- The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.
- 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.
- The one thing it must do: raise a story question.
Caveat: a first page can succeed without including all of these possibilities. They are simply tools you can use. In particular, a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and a create page turn without doing all of the above. On the other hand, testing pages with the checklist no matter where they are in a story can help identify where a narrative lags and why it does.
Judi sends the first chapter of Chasing Blue Sky. The rest of the submission follows the break.
Jimmy Tayhoe sat in his battered recliner with a pistol pressed to his head. A light breeze fluttered through his hair while his gaze remained constant out the open window where mesas and pinnacles hid under a thousand stars and the cool air smelled sweet as melon.
Alcohol had never been a part of his life, but six years in a prison cell had broken him, and tonight he needed courage. He closed his eyes, downed more whiskey and slid a finger around the trigger. He was only a few feet from the edge and stared down into the unknown.
A deep growl came from the big dog in the kitchen. Tayhoe squeezed his eyes shut. He pressed the cold metal hard into his flesh, he tried to meditate, to summon his Ancestors, his courage, but a voice shouted hello.
He laid down the gun as he made his way toward the door. The Ancient Ones hadn’t answered him, and it occurred to him now they simply didn’t give a damn.
He jerked open the door. A young woman stood outside. They stared at each other, both surprised and silent until she finally spoke.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, but I've missed the turn to Matos and I’m nearly out of gas. Do you think I could buy some from you?"
Tayhoe mumbled something, opened the door wider and shoved back his growling dog.
The cabin was dark, and the woman stayed just inside the doorway. There appeared to be (snip)
The writing is solid and the voice good. An interesting and troubled character is introduced, and there is jeopardy ahead until he is interrupted by a visitor. That interruption could serve as a tension-builder, but only if it serves to add to his story. For me, it doesn’t, and the opportunity is missed. There’s a missed chance to crank up the stakes or tension when he mumbles something if he mumbles something that gives us more, but it doesn’t. There is a POV shift here and there are more in the chapter that follows, particularly a big one right after the break, what I could call head-hopping. I don’t know if this is mean to be written in omniscient voice, but for me it felt more like head-hopping. Break apart shifts in POV, please.
There are some small craft issues that should be attended to on this page, notes below. The chapter is definitely involving and promises a strong story, but I think the first page needs to be stronger if it’s going to get us there. Good stuff, could be better. This was a close one for me, and I gave it an almost, mostly because of the craft issues I saw. Notes:
Jimmy Tayhoe sat in his battered recliner with a pistol pressed to his head. A light breeze fluttered through his hair while his gaze remained constant out the open window where mesas and pinnacles hid under a thousand stars and the cool air smelled sweet as melon. “pistol pressed to his head” is a little vague. Where? How? For example, “the muzzle jammed hard against his temple” would give a clear picture.
Alcohol had never been a part of his life, but six years in a prison cell had broken him, and tonight he needed courage. He closed his eyes, downed more whiskey and slid a finger around the trigger. He was only a few feet from the edge and stared down into the unknown.
A deep growl came from the big dog in the kitchen. Tayhoe squeezed his eyes shut. He pressed the cold metal hard into his flesh, he tried to meditate, to summon his Ancestors, his courage, but a woman’s voice shouted hello. He squeezes his eyes shut, but in the paragraph before he has closed his eyes. Seems redundant since nothing shows that he has opened them. Why not give us more regarding the voice now?
He laid down the gun as he made his way toward the door. The Ancient Ones hadn’t answered him, and it occurred to him now that they simply didn’t give a damn.
He jerked open the door. A young woman stood outside. They stared at each other, both surprised and silent until she finally spoke. A point-of-view slip—we seem to be in close third person, but suddenly we are told that they are both surprised. He can’t know that she’s surprised unless her behavior indicates that.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, but I've missed the turn to Matos and I’m nearly out of gas. Do you think I could buy some from you?"
Tayhoe mumbled something, opened the door wider and shoved back his growling dog. Mumbling “something” is meaningless to the reader. It’s nothing. Why not include what he mumbles? There’s a need to create tension here, and this could be an opportunity, depending on what he says.
The cabin was dark, and the woman stayed just inside the doorway. There appeared to be (snip)
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 © 2017 Ray Rhamey, chapter © 2017 by Judi
My books. You can read sample chapters and learn more about the books here.
Writing Craft Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling
Fantasy (satire) The Vampire Kitty-cat Chronicles
Mystery (coming of age) The Summer Boy
Science Fiction Hiding Magic
Science Fiction Gundown Free ebooks.
Continued:
. . . one room. She could make out a small kitchen with table and chairs, and beyond this, a couch and recliner. A fireplace separated the two areas. The warmth felt good after walking in the cold desert.
The Indian stared at her. He seemed impatient, edgy, so she hurried to explain once again. "I was on my way to the town of Matos and must have missed the turn. I got lost and just kept driving, until I saw my car was nearly on empty.” She could feel the nervousness in her smile.
Tayhoe moved closer. "Where did you come from?”
"I'm doing research for Sustainable Agriculture. I’ve been sent here to gather information on your people’s traditional farming.”
Her hair glittered in the dark like moonlight on sand and was held back with a red scarf.
"So you’ve come to gather information?” he said, his voice oddly resigned. “Come in, then."
She only moved as far as the small kitchen. Tayhoe motioned to the large dog, and she heard the animal lay down in the dark. She repeated, “Do you have some gas I could buy?”
He came up behind her and shut the door. “How about a little honesty, first?”
She faced him and tried to hide her panic. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I really do need to get going.”
He moved closer. “You’ve got all the information you need. I’m here, I haven’t disappeared, but, oh-oh, I’ve been drinking. A violation of my parole, eh?”
She stared at the door and prayed for a chance to make a run for it. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah?” He stood in front of her, his chest rising and falling with agitation. “Just how stupid do you think I am? You’re FBI.”
“I don’t know what’s going on here, but I definitely am not FBI.”
“Right, you’re a good-looking woman, at my place in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the night. What were they hoping for? That I would assault you?” He glanced out the window. “How many agents are outside right now just waiting for you to scream?”
She backed up. “Who? What . . . no, I’m just looking for some gas. Honestly.”
He was wound up now, she could tell by the way he flicked his hair back over his shoulders. “Why can’t you people just leave me alone? I’ve done my time. Haven’t you taken enough?” Grabbing the pistol off the recliner, he shoved it at her.
“Go ahead, use it. Just tell them I attacked you.”
“My God . . .” The gun hit the floor hard, and the dog jumped up barking.
The woman stepped back, her only thought to get to the door, but Tayhoe caught her by the elbow. Whiskey and outrage fired his voice. “Go tell them their little plan didn’t work. Even though it was perfectly wrapped.”
There was a hard snap as she ripped a turquoise necklace from around his neck and hit his face with it, the heavy stones pelting eyes and ears and nose.
"Goddamn . . ." He stumbled back, and she was out the door.
Tayhoe lay face down on the floor. His head felt as if he had boiled it, and his neck hurt like hell. When he touched it there was blood on his fingers. At the door his dog whined to go out, and Tayhoe groaned before getting up.
He crossed the room and his glance shifted to the half empty whiskey bottle and the pistol on the floor. His jaw clenched, but the dog continued to whine, and he went to the door.
"Damn, almost bit the 'big one' last night." He rubbed the top of the dog's head. "Sorry. It could have been a few days until someone finally fed you."
The dog's tail waved as the door was pushed open. He circled the yard a few times, nose to the ground, and lifted his leg against a rusty pile of scrap iron.
Tayhoe went out also and walked barefoot across the cool morning sand, careful to dodge all the prickly pear cactus. Near a cluster of brittlebush, he stood and relieved himself. He stared at the ground and knew there was something larger than the memory of prison. He just couldn’t remember what it was.
Glancing up, he saw the Red Tailed Hawks’ nest near the top of a ponderosa pine and wondered if they still returned. He had been gone six years, and the nest sat fragile and barren. He could relate.
The dog lifted his head. His hair bristled and a deep growl rumbled up from his chest. A hundred feet away Tayhoe saw the car.
In ten quick steps, he was back inside the cabin, grabbed a rifle from the closet, and looked out the window. The dog was everywhere: circling the vehicle and trying to jump through the windows. After a few seconds, the dog paused to lift a leg on a front tire.
Tayhoe scanned the area but was no longer worried about the car. The dog's actions told him no one was inside. But being ambushed still had him spooked. He stepped just outside the door and made a circle in the air with his finger.
The dog trotted off, head down, and searched the premises. A few minutes later, he returned, tail wagging. Tayhoe lowered the rifle and walked out to the car. It was a newer Nissan. A pile of boxes were in the front, a couple suitcases in the back.
Tayhoe pulled out a folder from one of the boxes. A woman’s name was typed neatly at the top: Kara Lindstrom, Sustainable Agriculture Analyst, District Ten. The shock hit him full force. He felt it erupt like a small bomb inside his stomach. He stared at the name unblinking and knew the dream was not a dream.
"Jesus . . ."
His gaze panned out across the desert. Then he was all action. Running back inside the cabin, he gathered up blankets, water flask, matches, flashlight, and stuffed them into an old duffel bag. Then he saw the red scarf lying on the floor. A sharp pain twisted his gut, but there was no time to think about last night's horrors.
Outside, he called the dog named Koot and dropped the scarf on the ground. The dog had found people before, but was there enough scent?
Koot ran his nose across the scarf. His tail wagged like crazy as he looked up at Tayhoe.
Tayhoe said, “Go find her!”
After a few false starts the dog broke into a run and headed north. For just a moment, Tayhoe looked at his motorcycle leaning against the shed, but knew the terrain would be too rough for the old Yamaha. Instead, he whistled for his horse, and the Appaloosa/Mustang charged toward the fence.
He grabbed a bridle off the post and slipped it on the stallion. Then swinging a leg over, and with just a touch from his knee, he sent the horse into a headlong gallop.
The sun had been up five hours; already the temperature was over 80 degrees. A strong wind scoured the sand and wiped away any tracks. Tayhoe knew it would be difficult if not impossible for him to find the woman if not for the dog. Sometimes Koot paused, losing the scent, only to locate it seconds later on a scrap of sage or branch of hawkweed.
He rode the stallion straight ahead, sand kicking up a cloud behind them, while the desert stretched as far as his eye could see. The sun was high in the sky now, and Tayhoe marveled at how far the woman had traveled. It could be a good sign, he thought. She was strong. He hoped that strength had held on.
Looking ahead, he watched as the dog disappeared now behind a formation of rock and started to bark, and Tayhoe was there in seconds. The woman lay with her body pressed against the rough stone, but she was conscious.
Sweat plastered her hair, ran down her face, soaked through her shirt. “Thirsty,” she mumbled, and he grabbed the canteen and a blanket from the duffle bag, lifted her head and poured water into her mouth. “More,” she pleaded, “More . . .” when he took it away.
“A little at a time . . .”
“Please . . .”
He gave her more, but only a few swallows, and her eyes closed and she went limp. The dog came closer and watched as he wrapped the blanket firmly around her. Then lifting her onto the Appaloosa, he swung up behind and turned the horse toward home.
Sometime after midnight Kara Lindstrom opened her eyes. There was a man asleep in the chair next to the bed. His head was back against the wall as if he were exhausted. He may have been Latino or Indian. She was curious, but already drifting back into dreams.
The next morning she woke with a start. A small patch of light came through a window to her right, and she shifted to see outside.
Tayhoe woke also. He stood over her now with the canteen of water. His hair brushed her face when he leaned down, and she drank with a thirst she had never known.
"That's enough," he pulled back the canteen, and she recognized his voice. Her lids slammed shut and the blood beat in her throat and ears.
"Hey, you hungry? You should try and stay awake this time." He was back on the chair beside the bed.
She feigned sleep, but heard the chair creak, and the bed shimmied with his weight.
He shook her arm. It was stiff as a pipe. "Hey. You have to eat. It's been over a day." He got off the bed. "I don't have much. Haven't been to town for a while. I'll see what's around."
For long moments there was no sound. Kara opened her eyes and found the room empty. She felt sick, weak, and tasted blood in her mouth from cracked lips. Slowly she pushed up on her elbows. Her eyes shifted around the room looking for an escape, and for clues that would tell her what had happened the past day of her life.
But there were few facts to deal with. She was in the bedroom of the small cabin. The bed was filthy. The sheets full of grease and grit as though everything but a body had been tossed on top. Worst of all, there was only one window, and a huge dog lay beneath it.
The Indian came back so quietly she had no time to move or think. And for a moment Tayhoe didn't move either, not with those eyes of hers full on his face. He had been pitied, beaten, screwed-over and worshipped. But no one had ever looked at him as she did now, as though her life depended on getting past him.
His gaze lowered. "I found some sardines and crackers. Not great, but it will have to do." He pulled the chair closer to the bed and set the plate on top. "I'll get more water." Then he was gone.
Kara glanced once at the plate and closed her eyes. Keep your mind clear! You can outsmart him. You have to.
In minutes he was back with the canteen and set it on the chair beside the plate. “You can drink more than I gave you during the night, but not much.” He simply stood there.
She had no clear memory of things that had happened. Just dreams of being in water, cool water. She realized now her clothes were wet.
She glanced up and found him unrecognizable. It had been dark inside the cabin when she first came, and she remembered nothing except the strength of him. She was surprised that he looked younger than she thought, somewhere in his late 30’s, not much older than her. He still hadn’t moved and she risked another glance. He wore jeans and a gray t-shirt. The muscle in his upper arms explained why she’d been unable to move him. He was tall, over six feet, but too lean for the height. Black hair hung over his shoulders. He seemed nervous, jumpy, his right hand opening and closing into a fist. She turned away.
Finally, he said, "I mistook you for someone else.” His eyes focused on the window. "There won't be any more trouble."
She had no idea how to respond. She felt as though a part of her was still dreaming.
"Thank you for your honesty, Mister . . ."
"Tayhoe. Jim."
". . . Mr. Tayhoe, but I really need to leave. There are people expecting me."
His gaze shifted back to her. "Maybe you don't realize how sick you are. You were in the desert all night and half a day without food or water. You were pretty dehydrated when I found you."
"I appreciate that you did find me, Mister Tayhoe, but I'm nearly two days late for my job. I'm not making it three."
"Okay," he said, and slipped from the room.
She stared at the doorway a moment, then pushed back the sheet and swung her feet toward the floor. The walls waved back and forth, and she closed her eyes and slumped onto the mattress. Did he drug me?
Again she tried to get up, but it was no use. Her head floated like a cloud, and she felt weightless.
Tayhoe was back. "Brought your clothes. Figured you’d want something clean and dry to put on." He dropped her suitcases in the middle of the room. By the door, he said, "I'm going to town, get some food, and gas for your car. It's over twenty miles, so I'll be gone a while." His voice was flat, quiet, and he stood now with his hands loose at his sides. “Don’t go out. It’s too damn hot.”
"Wait . . ."
He looked up.
“I’d like to ride into town with you.”
Quick dark eyes studied her. "I've only got the bike. You wouldn't make it."
"Wait, please . . .” Desperation forced her off the bed. She knew Tayhoe wasn't drinking now and that he was the only way out.
"I can't stay here . . . I have to get to my job . . . I won't be any . . ." She teetered, began to sink to her knees, and Tayhoe caught her.
He laid her back down on the bed, pulled a bandana from his back pocket, poured water into it and began bathing her face and neck. As his hands squeezed water down her shoulders, he silently appraised her in the daylight. Slender, not big tits, but shapely, great face, hair dark blond. It fell to the middle of her back.
He shook his head and his smile was full of despair. When she left she'd go straight to the cops.
Outside, towers of red rock had caught the morning sun. He longed to feel their power, their energy, to be on top, waiting for the sun to explode.
He closed his eyes, and his head hung slightly. When they came for him, it was where he would be, up on the buttes, climbing his way to the stars. He refused to die in some jail cell because he'd found Satan in a five-dollar bottle of whiskey.
The sun continued to rise as Tayhoe sponged the woman with water. Her eyes fluttered as she came to and when she looked fully conscious, he grabbed the canteen. “You need to drink.” He helped her sit up and brought the water to her mouth. At first she tried to pull away from him, but her thirst was worse than her fear. Again, he guarded the amount.
He screwed the cover back on, and for a long moment he simply looked at her. Then he said, “I’m going into town to get food and gas. You need to relax until I get back.” He set the canteen on the chair by the bed. “Only a little at a time. Otherwise you’ll regret it.”
He grabbed his hat and turned to the dog. "Watch her until I get back."