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.
John and Melissa, our first co-author submission, send the first chapter of a middle-grade story, The Last Princess. The rest of the chapter follows the break.
I didn’t know how, but I knew that guy in the Hawaiian shirt was really an ogre.
I saw him through a gap in the plywood, standing at the end of the alley behind our craft booth, gnawing on a big, greasy turkey leg. He had hairy arms and a hook nose and one big eyebrow all the way across his forehead.
I sat completely still while my heart thudded. Ogres were the ones that ate children, right?
Except that nobody in the crowd seemed to notice him. Magic dust or something sparkled all around him, but everyone else walked by like he was just some random guy hanging out at the fair. I didn’t know what was scarier – the fact that I was looking at a real, live ogre or the fact that I was the only one seeing the freaking ogre. Had the meatball completely rolled off my spaghetti? I held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut ... then looked again.
The guy in the Hawaiian shirt was just a guy. No sparkles or anything.
I blew my breath out slowly. Get a grip, Cat. Rose warned you not to read those fairy tales right before bed, the other night. Right. Like I’d ever actually do schoolwork at a sleepover at my best friend’s house. I wasn’t allowed to read fairy tales or watch those kinds of movies – Mom said they’d give me Ideas – but what Mom didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.
But that meant I was stuck doing my schoolwork now. Feeling guilty, I looked down at (snip)
Solid and sometimes charming writing and a lively, interesting character do a lot of good for this opening page. Her sighting of the ogre definitely opens up a strong story question . . . but then it sorta diminishes when the ogre changes back into a person. Tension drops. The only question remaining is whether or not she’s seeing things. For me, that wasn’t totally compelling.
The rest of the chapter is fun, mostly because of the narrator’s personality. But, after the opening story question that fizzles, most of the chapter is setup. I ask the writers: does the fact that she’s home-schooled impact the story? Does the fact that she has a little brother affect the story at this point? Does the fact that she has a vivid imagination impact what happens to her in the now of the story? How important is it that her parents do craft shows for a living and that one is a potter and the other a florist?
Using material from the end of the chapter, I’ve concocted an alternative way to open the story that leaves out all of this setup, which could easily come later as the story develops. For me, it takes that fizzled story question and boosts it to compelling by doubling down on the weird things she’s experiencing. I’m not saying this is the way the story has to open, and I appreciate the fun of the characterization and setup that the original has . . . but, since that could also be done in the context of a more gripping scenario, I think it’s worth considering. A poll follows. What do you think?
I didn’t know how, but I knew that guy in the Hawaiian shirt was really an ogre.
I saw him through a gap in the plywood, standing at the end of the alley behind our craft booth, gnawing on a big, greasy turkey leg. He had hairy arms and a hook nose and one big eyebrow all the way across his forehead.
I sat completely still while my heart thudded. Magic dust or something sparkled all around him, but everyone else walked by like he was just some random guy hanging out at the fair. Had the meatball completely rolled off my spaghetti? I held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut ... then looked again.
The guy in the Hawaiian shirt was just a guy. No sparkles or anything.
“Hey, princess.” Dad walked up carrying one of his fancy blue ceramic bowls. “Take this to Mr. Goldschmidt. And thank him for fixing our cash register.” Dad handed me the bowl, but didn’t let go. “You won’t drop it? I can’t afford to make a lot of these.”
When I got to the craft aisle with Mr. Goldschmidt’s booth, the little bald man was hunched over his workbench. He was a clockmaker, and he could fix anything.
I froze, heart pounding. A million gold sparkles danced around Mr. Goldschmidt and my fingertips itched and tingled. The air seemed to hum against my skin as if his twinkles were singing to me. Mr. Goldschmidt looked exactly like a dwarf, with a long red beard. I shook my (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 © 2017 Ray Rhamey, chapter © 2017 by John and Melissa.
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:
. . . the paper on the picnic table in front of me. I was homeschooled, so Mom would be the one reading my report – and the only thing I’d written so far was, “Catherine Brökkenwier, age 12.” I was supposed to be writing about Warwick Castle in England, for history. But instead, I’d been dreaming of being a wealthy princess in my own fairy-tale castle. Fortunately, Mom couldn’t stop me from wishing.
I know – they say, “Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.” Yeah, I’m not seeing the downside there. Where was there to go but up? Here I was stuck doing schoolwork on a rusty picnic table in our booth’s private area, ten feet from the excitement of the Rockford Fair. It was like being trapped backstage at the circus, forced to clean up the elephant poop.
“Look at me! I’m a superhero!” My little brother climbed up onto the table and jumped right in the middle of my schoolwork, sending pencils and erasers flying. He still wore the red cape he’d gotten for his fourth birthday because he was still allowed to have an imagination.
“Thomas, stop it. You’re getting dirt on my school stuff.”
“Hey.” He balled up his fist and struck his fiercest warrior pose. “You’re a bad guy. Fight with me, bad guy.”
“Not now, buddy. I’m doing my work. Go bother Dad.”
“Never!” He whacked me on the head with his “sword,” part of a foam rubber pool toy he’d found. “Hya!” Like the rest of us, he’d learned to make do with what we had.
“Ow!” I really wanted to hit him back, but I knew he would just think I was playing with him and then he’d never leave me alone. This happened about nine hundred and forty-seven times a day. But I knew if I ignored him, he would usually go away.
Finally, Thomas climbed down off the table. “Tell me a story, then?”
Sigh. This wasn’t going to be one of those times. “Don’t let Mom hear you.” I glanced nervously over my shoulder.
“But you said you’d tell me a new story after your sleepover at Rose’s house. That was three days ago.”
“Shhh! Mom doesn’t know Rose lets me read her fairy tale books, okay?”
“But you promised!”
I gritted my teeth, then leaned close so I could whisper. “It’s our secret, remember? So we have to be quiet.”
“Why?”
I frowned. Because Mom wants me to be Little Miss Perfect – straight A’s, a clean room, and no fun. A flash of yellow passed by the gap in the plywood wall and my head snapped up. The guy in the Hawaiian shirt? And that gave the sneaky part of my brain an idea. “Okay, buddy, I’ll tell you a story. But we have to keep our voices down, because if the ogre out there hears us he’ll know there are children hiding back here and he’ll come and eat us!”
“An ogre? Awesome! Where is he? I can take him.” Thomas jumped up and grabbed his sword. In an instant he had climbed on top of the ice chest and was peering through the gap.
I laughed. “No, you can’t go out there. Mom says you have to stay inside.”
“Please?”
“Maybe next time.”
“Darn it! I wanted to fight the bad guy.” He slouched back to the table and sat down.
I smiled. “Okay. So, once upon a time there lived a wealthy and beautiful princess in a big castle.”
“You, again?” Thomas rolled his eyes.
“Yes. Princess Catherine. But she had a little brother, Prince Thomas, who was the mightiest warrior in the whole kingdom.”
Thomas stood up on his seat and sliced the air with his foam rubber sword. “Hya! What did he fight?”
“Everything. Giants and trolls and goblins.”
“And ogres?”
“Of course, ogres. Well, one day a giant came knocking on the castle drawbridge.”
The curtain that separated our private area from the rest of our booth moved and I stopped, guiltily. But it was just Alex, my older brother, poking his head through. “Hey, brat.”
“Hey, stinky.” We never called each other by our real names.
“Mom wants you out front. I’ve got to head to work.” He jangled the keys to Dad’s car.
Alex was in college now, and only helped with the family business when he wasn’t in class or working at Taco Bell.
“Okay,” I told him as his head disappeared back through the curtain. “Tell her one minute!” I closed my textbook and gathered all the school stuff Thomas had scattered. “Sorry, buddy. We’ll finish the story later. I promise.” I zipped up my backpack, brushed my rat’s nest hair into something close to presentable, then ducked through the curtain – into a whole new world.
I adored the Rockford Craft Fair and Farmer’s Market. You could buy anything here, from homegrown vegetables to pretty dresses, plus get lunch and go on rides. Mom grew flowers and plants, and Dad crafted ceramic pots to put them in, and that’s how we made our living. We had a permanent booth with our name, “Brökkenwier Boutique,” painted on a big wooden sign and everything. Standing in our booth always felt like being in the middle of a royal garden, while people of every description streamed by. As if this was a village marketplace in some long-ago kingdom, filled with elves and dwarves….
“Oh, good. You’re here.” Mom smiled and touched my hair as she rushed past with a watering can. “You look nice.” Mom always flitted around like a happy hummingbird when she was surrounded by her plants.
Now, my mom could totally pull off being a fairy-tale princess if she wasn’t so busy being a perfect mom instead – smart, beautiful, cheery, and a total green thumb. She could make her strawberry-blonde hair cover-girl perfect in about five minutes, while mine frizzed out like a big brown dandelion no matter how much I threatened it. And her dresses made the jeans and t-shirts I preferred feel cheap, which they were.
In other words, Mom was everything I wasn’t.
“What do you want me to do, Mom?”
“Here.” She pressed the watering can into my hands. “Give the ferns a drink, please. They look a little wilted.” She began rearranging the table full of tiny cactuses. Cacti.
“Sure,” I sighed, then carelessly dumped water on each of the waist-high plants. Between you and me, I thought a potted fern had about as much magic as a cold, half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich. But apparently enough people liked Mom’s plants that selling them let us scrape by. Just barely.
“Hey, princess.” Dad walked up carrying one of his fancy blue ceramic bowls in his big hands. I got my messy hair from him, along with my large nose. “Can Mom spare you for a bit? I’d like you to run an errand for me.”
I looked over at Mom by the little banzai trees. She smiled and nodded.
“Okay.” Whatever Dad wanted, it was bound to be better than watering plants or dealing with customers. And I could pretend I was Princess Catherine, surveying my kingdom.
“Fantastic. Take this bowl to Mr. Goldschmidt. You remember where his booth is? And thank him for fixing our cash register.” Dad handed me the bowl, but didn’t let go. “You won’t drop it? I can’t afford to make a lot of these.”
I grinned. “Cheese, Dad. I’m not as clumsy as you.” Mom snickered as I yanked the bowl out of his big hands. “I’ll be careful.”
“You put on sunscreen?” Mom asked.
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Mother. I’m just going to the other side of the fair, not the Sahara Desert.” I strolled out of the booth – making sure to grip the bowl firmly with both hands. I got my clumsiness from Dad, too.
All of the booths near ours sold things like fruits and vegetables, or even apple cider or honey. In my kingdom, these people were all peasant farmers. Although I liked to pretend the tall woman who sold maple syrup from up north was an elf. I smiled as I passed – Princess Catherine silently welcoming a distant visitor to her kingdom. The big tattooed man who sold knives had to be a dragon slayer. And I was pretty sure one of the ladies selling makeup was a pixie or a fairy.
Somewhere between the food court and the carnival games I caught more sparkles out of the corner of my eye and almost dropped the bowl. My heart sped up as I looked – was it the guy in the Hawaiian shirt again? But the glitter surrounded a red-haired girl standing in line for the Fun House. She turned to look at me, and I swear the glimmers around her legs were shaped like a fish’s tail.
I blinked, and the sparkles were gone. The girl waved to someone behind me.
Why was this happening? Why was I suddenly seeing actual fairy-tale creatures everywhere? Okay, I am not going to end up the nutty cat lady who talks to the wallpaper. I’m not! I swallowed. Only insane people saw imaginary creatures walking around in broad daylight. Right? Maybe Mom was right – reading fairy tales was bad for me.
I am not nuts, I told myself firmly. No more Princess Catherine today. I took a deep breath and kept walking.
When I got to the craft aisle with Mr. Goldschmidt’s booth, I spotted the little bald man hunched over his workbench. Mr. Goldschmidt was a clockmaker, but I was pretty sure he could fix anything you put down in front of him.
“Caserine? Vat have you got there?” Gold teeth flashed through his beard as he spoke with a thick German accent.
I started to answer but I froze, heart pounding. A million gold sparkles danced around Mr. Goldschmidt and my fingertips itched and tingled. The air seemed to hum against my skin as if his twinkles were singing to me. Mr. Goldschmidt looked exactly like a dwarf, with a long red beard. I shook my head and the sparkles vanished.
“Caserine?” he repeated, looking perfectly human, with spectacles on his forehead.
“Um.” I thrust the bowl out. “This is for thanking. I mean, thank you for fixing our cash register. My dad made it for you.”
“Oh! It vas no trouble. Tell your father ‘sank you,’ yah?” He took the bowl then looked up at me. “Caserine, is everysing alright?”
“Yup.” I smiled woodenly. I am not nuts. I am not nuts. I am not nuts.
Mr. Goldschmidt continued looking at me.
“Well, okay. See you later.” I left in a hurry.
Keeping my eyes down so I wouldn’t see any more sparkles, I shuffled along Craft Row muttering under my breath. “Alright, I know this isn’t really a fairy-tale kingdom and I’m not really a princess. So whoever you are, you can stop pranking me right now. My mother doesn’t stand for pranks.”
Nobody answered. Which was probably a good thing. I am not nuts, I reminded myself for good measure.
“Catherine Brökkenwier,” croaked a high voice. “Right on time.”
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