Writers, send your prologue/first chapter to FtQ for a “flogging” critique. Email as an attachment.
Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, It seemed to me that it could be educational to take a hard look at their first pages. If you don’t know about BookBub, it’s a pretty nifty way to try to build interest in your work. The website is here.
I’m mostly sampling books that are offered for free—BookBub says that readers are 10x more likely to click on a book that’s offered for free than a discounted book. Following is the first page and a poll. Then my comments follow, along with the book cover, the author’s name, and a link so you can take a look for yourself if you wish. At Amazon you can click on the Read More feature to get more of the chapter if you’re interested. There’s a later poll concerning the need for an editor.
Next are the first 17 manuscript lines of the prologue from Big Numbers. Should this author have hired an editor?
The stench of my own vomit fills my nose. Breath comes in short, shallow gasps. Why doesn’t blabbermouth just shut the hell up and get this over with?
“You said you’ve never been deep-sea fishing, Austin, so I’m guessing you don’t know dick about giant bluefin. But when you were a kid, jigging off that pier in California, did you ever hook up with a two or three-pound bonito?”
A muddy green Atlantic Ocean surrounds us, the expanse of gentle swells empty but for the fifty-two-foot Hatteras under our feet and a dozen chum-sucking seagulls screaming overhead.
“Remember how hard those bonito fought, the way they bent the rod near double?” Mr. Blabbermouth says. “Well, imagine one of those bonito’s big cousins, one that weighs...oh, say five or six hundred pounds. I’m talking brute force. Hooking up with a giant bluefin is like playing tug-of-war with a Harley-Davidson.”
Endless waves of dirty wet jade slap against the drifting hull. Clouds shaped like tombstones regularly block the morning sun.
“Those shoulder straps okay?” Mr. Blabbermouth says. “Not too tight, I hope.”
Bastard. I am bridled by what is known as a stand-up fishing belt and harness. Tough leather straps encircle my waist and chest as well as my shoulders. Belts, buckles, and locking (snip)
You can turn the page and read more here. Did this writer need an editor? My notes and a poll follow.
Close, but no cigar. This book received 4.2 out of 5 stars on Amazon. The strong writing and voice were nearly enough for me. There is definitely attitude, and the protagonist seems to be in some sort of trouble.
But what trouble? What are the stakes? Since I could read on, I did find out what the stakes were—life or death—and what kind of trouble he’s in. But that was too late to compel a first-page turn for me. Still, there is promise here, and I’ll probably read it.
So I’ll offer up a quick edit designed to get what I thought were the compelling elements on the first page, withink 17 lines of narrative. See what you think—a poll follows.
The stench of my own vomit fills my nose. Breath comes in short, shallow gasps. Why doesn’t blabbermouth just shut the hell up and get this over with?
“You said you’ve never been deep-sea fishing, Austin, so I’m guessing you don’t know dick about giant Bluefin.”
A muddy green Atlantic Ocean surrounds us, gentle swells empty but for the fifty-two-foot Hatteras under our feet and a dozen chum-sucking seagulls screaming overhead.
Mr. Blabbermouth says. “I’m talking five or six hundred pounds. Hooking up with a giant bluefin is like playing tug-of-war with a Harley-Davidson.”
Endless waves of dirty wet jade slap against the drifting hull. Clouds shaped like tombstones regularly block the morning sun.
I am bridled by a stand-up fishing belt and harness. Tough leather straps encircle my waist and chest as well as my shoulders. Belts, buckles, and locking brass clips anchor me inside the harness, to the pole, even to the rod-mounted Penn 130 International reel.
Nobody but nobody fishes for giant bluefin in a stand-up harness. If you have balls—big balls—you strap you into a fighting chair bolted to the deck, hope Big Tuna doesn’t rip that out. It’s happened many times.
Did I mention my wrists are bound together with duct tape?
What do you think about the need for an editor?
My books. You can read sample chapters and learn more about the books here.
Writing Craft Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling
Fantasy</strong >(satire) The Vampire Kitty-cat Chronicles
Mystery</strong >(coming of age) The Summer Boy
Science Fiction Hiding Magic
Science Fiction GundownFree ebooks.