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.
Ann sends the first chapter of The War. The rest of the chapter follows the break.
James Sullivan grasped the metal railing tightly and leaned into the wind that beset him from first one direction then another. Relentless and angry, the gusts lashed his face and searched for openings in his clothing.
Scudding clouds loomed in the blue sky over his head. He fought the urge to bury his icy hands in his armpits, regretting the stubbornness that had made him leave his jacket downstairs.
From this open platform eight hundred feet in the air, atop his office building, he could see all of West Penn. To the north, in the forested hills, lay the overblown mansions he’d been forced to build for the shareholders. He searched among them until he found Sam's school.
Last night he'd come home to find Sam grinning at him from where he sat sprawled on the kitchen floor surrounded by a litter of broken china and emptied boxes of cereal and flour. Sam had torn the cabinet doors off their hinges, and left the refrigerator door gaping open, empty egg cartons and broken catsup bottles at its feet. Splotches of viscous yellow dripped down the walls.
Eyes squinted against the wind, Sullivan shook his head. He'd built West Penn to give Sam the perfect place to grow up and become a perfect son. Sam hadn't lived up to his side of the bargain.
Sullivan surveyed the ten thousand square miles he'd transformed for his wife and son. (snip)
More clean writing and a good voice, both of which I’m always happy to see. This opening both succeeds and doesn’t, in my view. It does succeed in raising a story question—what’s he going to do about his son? But, even there, I don’t think that was strong enough. For example, the son ripped doors off of hinges. This would be amazing if he was 8 years old, not so amazing if he was 18—we later learn that he is 16, which would give the reader a better picture of the son. His age makes a huge difference in how his actions are perceived--context matters. Also, where was the mother? She’s not even mentioned at this point.
This is a dystopian future novel, but there’s no evidence of that on the first page, and I think that’s a much more valuable bit of information than his building is 800 feet tall. There was a nifty paragraph on the second page that would have enhanced this opening a lot for me. I’ll show you that in a moinute.
I understand the need for world building in a science fiction novel, but not at the expense of interest and story questions. For me, there’s too much time spent on atmospherics—is it important that it’s windy and cloudy? What’s significant about the weather to this story, other than perhaps mood? In fact, it doesn't impact anything in the rest of the chapter. Even the detail about leaving his jacket and his hands being cold doesn’t work very well—leaving his gloves behind would relate to cold hands, but not leaving a jacket behind. Here’s an edit that gets the needful information on the page.
From atop his office building, James Sullivan could see all of West Penn. To the north, in the forested hills, lay the overblown mansions he’d been forced to build for the shareholders. He searched among them until he found Sam's school.
Last night he'd come home to find Sam grinning at him from where he sat sprawled on the kitchen floor surrounded by a litter of broken china and emptied boxes of cereal and flour. Sam had torn the cabinet doors off their hinges, and left the refrigerator door gaping open, empty egg cartons and broken catsup bottles at its feet. Splotches of viscous yellow dripped down the walls.
Farther north, he could almost make out the twenty-foot tall gate that separated West Penn from the rest of what used to be the United States. The almost-constant mist that hung over the huge swamp that bordered the city proper obscured his view of the impassable mountains to the west.
Sullivan surveyed the ten thousand square miles he'd transformed for his wife and son. He hadn't yet found a use for the mountains. Clenching his jaw, he told himself he would, though, just as he would find a solution for Sam, just as he would overcome his enemies on the council,
Farther north, he could almost make out the twenty-foot tall gate that separated West Penn from the rest of what used to be the United States. The almost-constant mist that hung over the huge (snip)
Here's a poll for the alternate. 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 © 2017 Ray Rhamey, chapter © 2017 by Chris.
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:
Farther north, he could almost make out the twenty-foot tall gate that separated West Penn from the rest of what used to be the United States. The almost-constant mist that hung over the huge swamp that bordered the city proper obscured his view of the impassable mountains to the west.
Sullivan hadn't yet found a use for the mountains. Clenching his jaw, he told himself he would, though, just as he would find a solution for Sam, just as he would overcome his enemies on the council,
To the south, across a fast-running river, lay the hundreds of thousands of comfortable homes he'd erected to house the workers who owed their lives to him. The snug, secure houses went on, block after block, square mile after square mile.
Even further south, and to the east, train tracks bordered the food fields and factories that supplied jobs for the workers.
Sullivan sighed. So far, he had made good on his promises to the workers. George Morrow’s face appeared in his mind, as if blown there by the strong winds. The eyes in that face laughed at him and his hopes for West Penn. Sullivan's shoulders tightened and his hands made fists around the rail.
When he heard the metallic click and gush of air that signified someone had opened the roof door, his grasp on the rail intensified.
The interloper, barely sixteen, turned his collar up and drew his jacket tighter as he crossed the white-painted H that marked the helipad. Alek was the worker boy who'd interned in the council offices last year, and done so well, he'd been invited back for a second year.
"Alek," Sullivan said flatly. "I've told you not to interrupt me up here."
"They sent me up to get you for the meeting. They're all waiting."
"Except Morrow," Sullivan said.
Sullivan turned back to the railing. Alek came up to stand beside him. For a moment Sullivan wished it was Sam standing there; Alek was tall and strongly-built, self-assured to a fault. But his fragile son, with the beseeching eyes that embarrassed Sullivan so much that he couldn't look at him, was nothing like Alek.
Sullivan said, heavily, looking out over West Penn, "It all comes down to what a person wants, doesn't it, Alek? Whatever that is, be careful not to want it too badly, or you'll end up sacrificing your soul to get it. And that will be the end of you."
***
His heavy boots scraping on the metal treads, Sullivan descended the stairs, Alek close behind trailing behind him. When he opened the door into the lobby, three elderly shareholders were clustered greedily around the short round figure of George Morrow. Morrow beamed at them, managing to convey the impression that he was looking down at them rather than up. When the four caught sight of Sullivan, their animated conversation halted, and they looked anywhere but at Sullivan.
A voice spoke behind Sullivan's back. "James Sullivan, as I live and breathe."
Recognizing the old-man’s words uttered in a young man’s voice, Sullivan collected himself before he turned to face the halo. He should be used to Hunter's appearance by now, but he wasn't. Hiding his distaste, Sullivan faced the perfectly healthy young man who, three years ago, had been a dying old man in a wheelchair.
Sullivan pointed out what he had just noticed. "You’re not doing that bouncy thing on your toes that you haloes do. Like you have so much energy your body wants to fly."
"You’d bounce too - if you’d lost your legs and then had them given back to you. When are you going to get haloed, anyway?"
Sullivan persisted, though Martin was motioning to him from the doors to the conference room. "I mean it. Why no bouncing?"
Hunter’s lively young eyes shuttered themselves. When they blinked back open, Sullivan thought for a second he could see the aged, querulous man Hunter had been, looking out from those eyes. He’d have sworn that man was terrified.
Hunter's voice was uneasy. "It’s nothing. A form of depression I suppose, where everything seems pointless. It will pass quickly."
Sullivan's own depression hadn't, not in the six years since Bella had died.
"Then you've had episodes like this before?" he asked.
"No, this is the first."
"Then how do you know it will pass?"
Hunter bristled. "Of course it will pass. A perfect man has nothing to be depressed about." He turned abruptly and walked away from Sullivan, toward Morrow’s empty office.
Sullivan entered the conference room and seated himself at the head of the rectangular table that filled the room. The outer wall of the conference room was glass, as were the outer walls of each council member's office. Sullivan had insisted the conference room overlook the sectors that housed the workers, to remind his fellow council members where the wealth they enjoyed came from.
Sullivan rubbed the ball of his thumb across the words engraved into the table surface in front of him. "I, James Sullivan, promise to supply everything that you, the workers in West Penn, need. You will receive food and medical care, homes and jobs, safety and peace." Each of the three million workers belonging to West Penn had received a signed copy of those words the day they moved in, and a card to carry in their wallets.
Morrow bustled in, putting his papers down at the other end of the table, directly opposite Sullivan. "Let’s get right to business. I apologize for my lateness; important shareholders kept me. In regard to those shareholders, I have an important announcement to make. Extremely important, and profitable."
"No, we'll start with your report on worker health. Are your clinics still overbooked? Workers waiting weeks for appointments?" Sullivan countered. Morrow’s clinics were the source of the medical care he'd promised the workers they would have. Lately Morrow's attention had seemed more on his haloes than on his clinics.
When Sullivan had rescued the workers from the chaos of the failing United States, most of them had been ill. Cancers and malnutrition dominated, but it seemed every disease known to science was represented in the shambling hordes that filed into West Penn, their faces alight with hope. Seven years later, over three-quarters were healthy and working, but he had promised to make every worker healthy.
Morrow said, "And are the workers still going hungry while they wait for appointments in my clinics, because your food production isn't meeting projections?"
A flat-out lie, but Morrow seemed to consider a lie that provided him with ammunition to be a form of the truth.
Sullivan sighed and made himself more comfortable in his chair. "Martin, read the numbers, please."
"Food production is twelve percent over goal, projected on an annual basis," Martin said without referring to his screen.
"Satisfied?" Sullivan asked Morrow.
"But the workers are still hungry, aren’t they?"
"They were starving before they came to West Penn. I don't think being a little hungry bothers them very much." He’d told the workers the day he opened West Penn that it might take ten years before there would be enough food for everyone to have full rations. Martin's numbers told him he was going to beat that prediction by two years.
Hodges grunted, "The workers might be a little hungry, but they’re peaceful and they trust Sullivan. Those are the important things."
Hodges and his soldiers ensured that the workers of West Penn lived in a peaceful environment, safe from each other and from the lawless chaos outside the wall that surrounded West Penn. Even before West Penn opened, he’d become Sullivan's friend and ally.
Baldwin, the council member in charge of prisons and who imagined himself Morrow's crony, half-rose, to gesture at the window wall. His prison could be seen through it, sitting next to the sectors. "My prisons are responsible for the peace in West Penn."
Morrow glared at him, and Baldwin fell back into his seat.
"Peace is irrelevant, compared to my news." Morrow stood, then paused to run a finger between his collar and the flesh that bulged over it. "I now have enough genetic material and growing tanks to make not one but two haloes per month, doubling our profits. In anticipation of the council's approval, I've begun hiring additional staff."
"Then you'll need to fire them, because, no, I will not approve the increase." Sullivan said, incredulous. "It's your job to heal the workers, Morrow, not to make haloes. Sit down."
"No?" Morrow's disbelieving face flushed. "What objection could you possibly have? The additional staff? I assure you they are necessary."
"My objection is that I control the majority of shares on this council, and I say no. I didn't promise the workers haloes, I promised them doctors to make them well. The workers, and my promise to them, come first."
Morrow seemed to think then, for a moment. Then he nodded to himself, and sat down.
"Do they? I think, in fact, that they don't trust you to always put them first." Morrow's voice was contemplative, as if he was musing to himself.
Sullivan's face narrowed in a frown. "That's ridiculous. Of course the workers trust me. I saved them, didn't I? And they know I'll keep my promise to them. No matter what it takes."
Behind his disdainful words was his knowledge that Bella had trusted him, yet he’d failed to save her. From Morrow.
"But Sam always comes first, doesn’t he?" Morrow said sweetly. "That time… well, by rights he should have gone to prison. If only to set an example."
Baldwin nodded vigorously.
"Sam has some problems. He’s just a kid. I’m too busy running West Penn to give him the attention he needs. He-," Sullivan floundered to a stop.
Sam wasn't perfect, wasn't what he'd imagined a son of his would be, but Sam was all he had left of Bella. His mind was flooded with thoughts of cats, and cans; of Sam's beautiful face, a perfect copy of his mother's. The tightness in his throat wouldn't let him speak.
Hodges jumped into the awkward silence. "We were discussing expanding the halo program. Sam is irrelevant. I vote my shares with Sullivan. Along with Martin-" he glanced at Martin and received a confirming nod, "we have a majority. The expansion is denied and the subject is closed."
While Hodges spoke, Sullivan collected himself, keeping his face noncommittal. When Hodges finished, Sullivan nodded at him, then straightened in his chair at the head of the table.
Morrow held up a finger. "I will do whatever is necessary to get the council's approval. The consequences of what I do will be on your head, not mine."
Sullivan ignored Morrow's nonsensical posturing. To get approval, Morrow would have to persuade Hodges and Martin to change their votes, an impossibility.
"Let's move on," he said calmly. "I've got real work to do yet this morning. Baldwin, we haven't had your report yet."
But it was Morrow who spoke, not Baldwin.
"I'll be haloing Sam this month, you know."
Sullivan's calm disappeared instantly. He gaped at Morrow. "What!? Are you mad? The hell you will!"
He looked at Hodges, whose lifted shoulders expressed his puzzled consternation. Baldwin tried to hide his surprise behind an expression meant to convey that he'd known this, of course.
"News to you, Sullivan?" Morrow's tone was mocking. "Oh, yes. Bella made the reservation, for when Sam turned sixteen. Not wise to do it any younger, you know."
Sullivan tried to keep his hurt off his face. Bella had done this, behind his back?
"And you never bothered to mention this to me?"
"It's a thing a wife would tell her husband herself - if she trusted him…"
Sullivan heard the truth of that. Did no one trust him? He closed his mind to the betrayal he felt and stood up. Putting his hands on each side of the engraved promise, he leaned as far towards Morrow as he could.
"I will never put my son in your hands. Before I let you kill what's left of my family, I'll make you halo me instead. Hell, I'd even let Baldwin there have the halo." Anger turned his voice into a snarl.
"Let me know by next Friday whether it's going to be Sam, or you, or –" Morrow's voice became disbelieving and amused, "Baldwin."
"This meeting's over." Still standing, Sullivan jerked his head at Hodges, who got up as well.
At the door to the conference room, Sullivan brushed off Baldwin's importunate hand to stride in a fury toward his office. Hodges followed him and closed the door behind them.
Sullivan walked over to the glass wall. Even here, the wall thrummed under the onslaught of the wind.
"Is it true, Hodges? The workers out there," he jutted his chin at the sectors visible through the glass, "don’t trust me? Because of Sam?"
Hodges hesitated. "If you did halo Sam-"
"-he wouldn't do these stupid things anymore," Sullivan finished Hodges' sentence bitterly. "Sam isn't much right now. I keep hoping he'll grow up a little, on his own. He's the only thing I have of Bella and me. If he is haloed, I'll have nothing."
Sullivan's fury dropped away. He looked over at his desk, where a photo of Bella, Sam, and him stood. Sam was about ten, golden-haired, his arms around his parents, innocent goodwill and happiness radiating from every part of him.
"He's my son, Hodges. How can I not put him first?" Sullivan shook his head helplessly. "But if the workers don't trust me, we're all in trouble."
Hodges walked up to his desk and placed a hand lightly on its surface. "Remember: it's my job to ensure that West Penn is safe and peaceful. Don't let this thing between you and Morrow turn into a war that upsets the workers. If it does, I will declare martial law, in which case neither you nor Morrow will rule West Penn; I will."
Sullivan looked up at his old friend and smiled. "And we both know how you'd hate that. Don't worry, nothing's going to change. Morrow doesn't have the votes. He can't win."
"See that he doesn't. Or we'll both regret it." The answering smile on Hodges' face was apologetic, but Sullivan knew he'd meant what he said.