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. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.
Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling.
Donald Maass,, literary agent and author of many books on writing, says, “Independent editor Ray Rhamey’s first-page checklist is an excellent yardstick for measuring what makes openings interesting.”
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.
Dennis sends the first chapter of Crossroads. Here are the first 17 lines. The rest of the chapter follows the break so you can turn the page.
The annunciator played a soft rising tone: Mother in two minutes. Always gave advance notice, time to consider one’s failures. Said it was a courtesy.
Zafira sighed, shifted her webbed wings, and pulled the covers closer in the darkness. She should get up, make herself presentable. Mother was replacing Mistress today.
Wouldn’t matter. Mistress wasn’t who’d needed replacing.
Light filtered through her eyelids: the wall behind her had opened. She didn’t move.
“Zafira,” Mother said quietly, “please get up. Your new teacher is here.”
Zafira folded her wings, rolled over, and sat up, sliding her legs off the bed. As the ceiling brightened, she watched half the covers slip to the floor, covering her bare feet.
“Sleeping in your underwear again? Would you like a new nightshirt?”
Changing wasn’t worth the effort. A nightshirt wouldn’t help her sleep.
“Say something, dear.”
“Good morning, Mother.”
“Good afternoon. Look, here’s your new teacher.”
She looked. In the opening with Mother stood a small, older woman— the replacement, studying her. Studying Mother, too— she dared? It wouldn’t end well.
“Say hello to her,” Mother said.
It’s always a pleasure to see strong writing and a distinct, likeable voice. The scene is pretty well set (though I would like to know what the “opening” in the wall looks like—a rectangular doorway, a circular portal, what?). The character is sympathetic and, having wings, definitely interesting. This could be a fascinating world.
But what of tension? What happens here? A girl/young woman is awakened by the arrival of her mother and a new teacher. She has a few grumpy thoughts, but that’s about it. Is there even a hint of a problem here? A story question raised? Not that I could see. Strong writing and voice go a long way to earning a page turn, but for me that’s not enough. In my view, after reading the first page I should be wanting to know what happens next, but here there’s no clue to much of anything happening next.
I liked this writing. But, as I see it, it is well-done setup. The only story question generated by the end of the chapter is whether or not the girl will be able to fly, but there are no threatening consequences if she fails. If I were editing this novel, I’d be looking for a later place to start the story and then weave in whatever from this is necessary. I would also point out the head-hopping that occurs, the narrative bouncing from the minds of the girl, the teacher, and the mother. It would be fun to see what this writer would do with the objective to insert tension into the story.
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 © 2018 by Dennis.
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:
“Hello, Mistress.”
The replacement raised an eyebrow. “Mistress?”
Zafira looked down. Five words, and she’d already disappointed Mother twice.
* * *
The new teacher shifted her purse on her shoulder, suppressing a sigh. The girl was worse off than she’d expected. Academic credentials notwithstanding, ‘Mistress’ hadn’t been fit to train a lapdog, much less teach a child.
And Zafira was a child. She had a young woman’s body— plus her unique wings and tail— but she hadn’t been allowed to develop psychologically or emotionally. She’d never been given responsibility, never been allowed to make a choice that mattered to her. Her room reflected this: a simple bed in a sterile white box, it had no persona. The girl could have decorated it, but hadn’t bothered.
Approaching the bed and crouching down, the new teacher looked up into Zafira’s dull, half-closed eyes. “You called your previous teacher ‘mistress,’” she said softly, “but if you would, I’d rather be called Teacher.”
No reaction. Zafira didn’t see the difference. She’d lived in a hierarchy— Mother over Mistress over herself. No peers, and no friends. She didn’t realize that a teacher’s role was to help students, not rule them.
“I’m not your master,” Teacher said. “I’m here to teach you. To teach you what you want to learn.”
The girl slumped, turning away from her mother as she did. There was only one thing she wanted to learn, the one thing that would please her mother: how to fly. Nothing else mattered. But the leaden arms, the slack face, the limp wings, the unmoving tail made it clear: she didn’t believe she could learn that. So nothing mattered to Zafira— especially not Zafira herself.
Teacher kept her expression still for a moment as she suppressed her anger, not letting Zafira see it. The child would think she was angry at her, which was far from the truth. She turned and rose from her crouch. “Synthea, can I be alone with her now?”
“Of course. Call for me if you need me.”
“And please turn off the monitoring of this room.”
In her peripheral vision, Teacher saw the girl’s head rise up a fraction. She’d always been monitored, like a laboratory animal. Asking her mother for relief from that had surprised her.
Synthea was considering the request. She was accustomed to looking in on her child at any time, and didn’t want to give that up.
“Permanently,” Teacher added. “She needs privacy, a place that is hers and hers alone. So will I.”
The girl’s head dropped and pulled away a little. She expected her mother to deny the request, perhaps forcefully. ‘Mistress’ had never asked anything from Synthea, not in front of Zafira. It would have violated the hierarchy.
“As you wish,” Synthea said. “Room, end surveillance, permanently. Reinstate only with Zafira’s consent. This order cannot be overridden.”
And it wouldn’t be. Lying about teaching conditions would be a material breach of their contract, and Synthea had too much at stake. Zafira had a private place now, for the first time in her life. Teacher hoped she’d believe that.
* * *
The wall closed, and Mother was gone. Zafira looked around the room, as much as she could only moving her eyes. Mother wasn’t watching? Not even listening?
If that was true … it was a new room. Not Mother’s. Hers, at least a little, because of Teacher?
What was happening? Teacher had prescribed, and Mother, not liking it, had complied— why? Who was this Teacher?
Teacher turned to her. “May I sit with you?”
Zafira looked up. Teacher had brown hair, lightly tanned skin, and waiting, confidently but patiently. Waiting— for her permission?
She hesitated. Mother obeying Teacher? Teacher obeying her? It was all impossibly backwards, but Teacher was just standing there, waiting. Waiting— for her.
She nodded, and Teacher sat beside her on the edge of the bed— there wasn’t anywhere else. It felt odd, sitting with someone, almost touching. Did she like it? Should she?
“You can relax now,” Teacher said.
No, she couldn’t. She was bound to screw up again, to not measure up.
“If you’re worried about disappointing me,” Teacher said, “don’t be. I don’t have any expectations.”
Still—
“I reviewed your time with your last teacher. You did your best to please her, but couldn’t fly. That wasn’t your fault.”
Of course it was. Who else’s could it be?
“Your mother wants you to fly, and you want to make your mother happy. But at the end, your old teacher said it was impossible. Said you were a failure, and slapped you. Your mother fired her then, but she should have been dismissed long ago.”
Why? It wasn’t Mistress who’d failed.
“It was about four years ago when your old teacher gave up on you. Your mother didn’t notice, so it was only a matter of time before you gave up, too.”
Teacher was right, Mistress had given up on her. She’d failed again, and Mistress had turned and left her, not saying a word. After that, Mistress’s praise had been mildly sarcastic and had felt … hurtful. Teacher had sensed it, but she hadn’t— she wasn’t to judge Mistress.
“Do you know what your old teacher meant,” Teacher said, “when she said it was impossible for you to fly?”
That her wings were too small, and she was too fat, too weak, and too stupid.
“When someone says something is impossible, it means they either don’t know how to do it, or they don’t want it done. Zafira, your hair could use brushing. May I?”
Asking permission, again. Zafira nodded, and watched Teacher pull a brush from her purse.
Teacher traced an arc with a finger. “Turn a little, please.”
Zafira did, and felt Teacher pulling her hair back between her wings.
Teacher began at the bottom, brushing out the minor tangles. “Your mother is amazing. She did something every expert had told me was impossible, something more important to me than my own life. I can never repay her for that, but I can teach you to fly. I’m not an expert there, but your mother says you can. After what I’ve seen her do, I’m not going to say it’s impossible.”
Mother was amazing? She was just Mother. Always insisting she fly, that she could fly. Mother cared more about her flying than she did about her.
Teacher was brushing down from the roots now, the brush scritching Zafira’s scalp. It felt … nice.
“There’s never been anyone like you,” Teacher said, “you’re proof that ‘impossible’ is a nonsense word. Not just because you’re an incredible scientific achievement, although you certainly are. Our colony on Crossroads is a bit backwards, but even Old Earth never produced your like. Six functioning limbs, two of them wings, and a tail as well. Many smart people would call that impossible.”
Her hair felt tangle-free now, but Teacher didn’t stop brushing it.
“Your mother’s quite an artist, too. You’re very beautiful.”
Zafira almost shook her head, but didn’t, not wanting to disturb the hair brushing. She was fat, Mistress had said so. And she was heavy, not just because her hips were wide and her breasts large. She also had a layer of fat all over, fat that exercise had never thinned. Mistress had tried to put her on a diet, to practically starve her, but Mother had forbidden it. Zafira was to eat whenever she was hungry, and she was hungry a lot. Being heavier made it harder to fly, but Mother couldn’t be contradicted.
Teacher continued brushing Zafira’s hair. “Some men prefer thinner women, and I won’t say I wish I had your figure, I’m happy with mine. But most people would say you’re beautiful, and more than that. You ‘invite the masculine passions,’ as one of my favorite authors once wrote. A lover might say you’re a comfortable cuddle, a biologist that you’re well-built to breed.”
Breed? Have children? Teacher was wrong. She had the form, but she couldn’t. It wasn’t what Mother wanted.
“For my debt to your mother,” Teacher said, “I will teach you to fly, someday. But there’s something more important I have to teach you first, something I owe you. Can you guess what?”
Teacher owed her? How could that be? And nothing was more important than flying. Mother was very clear.
“Your mother is brilliant, but she doesn’t know everything, or she wouldn’t have hired me.”
Mother just had better things to do than trying to teach a failure.
“She told me she doesn’t know how to teach. So she doesn’t realize that nothing great, much less anything impossible, was ever accomplished without zeal, enthusiasm, passion. Surprising, isn’t it? You wouldn’t have been born if she didn’t have that, but it’s so ingrained in her, so unconscious, that she doesn’t realize how important it is.”
If Mother could do but couldn’t teach … could someone teach who couldn’t do?
“You had it, before your old teacher burned it out of you. My first job is to get it back.”
Teacher was brushing in long, gentle, deliberate strokes, moving over Zafira’s entire head. Back from the top or above an ear, or upward from the nape of the neck. She was giving the brush a twist as she started each stroke, so that it sank into the hair smoothly. Zafira closed her eyes, letting the feeling soothe her, and immersed herself in Teacher’s voice.
“I can’t return the enthusiasm you had,” Teacher said. “You had faith in your mother, so you had faith you could fly. Faith has moved planets, but no one can teach it to you, or restore it to you once it’s lost.”
Had she lost faith in Mother? But Mother loved her, and all she wanted was to make Mother happy.
“You love her,” Teacher said, “and she loves you. But that’s not enough. You think what she wants from you is impossible. Worse, you know it is. You’ve proven it to yourself, through long years of failure, of disappointing your mother and old teacher. And you could feel the scorn, the resentment, your old teacher felt for you.”
She had. In the end, Mistress couldn’t hide how she’d hated her. Hated her as a waste of Mistress’s time and talent. As an embarrassing failure. But according to Teacher, Mistress was the failure. Was that possible?
“What your mother and old teacher overlooked,” Teacher said, “is there’s a trick to attempting the impossible. A necessary perspective. It doesn’t matter how many times you fail, if you get something from the attempts. Your old teacher didn’t seem to get that, but your mother’s a scientist, and she couldn’t have created you without at least a few failures.”
Mother, fail? First Teacher said Mother was amazing, then she said Mother had failed. Wasn’t that a contradiction?
“But like her zeal, her acceptance of failure as a scientific necessity is so ingrained, she doesn’t realize you need that acceptance, too.”
But if she couldn’t make Mother happy—
“Zafira, success is only real if you could have failed, so life isn’t worth living just because you succeed. Life is worth living when you’re enjoying it, enjoying the experiences, enjoying the challenges, and enjoying the well-earned successes. You have to enjoy it for yourself, no one can do that for you. So the first thing I have to teach you— the first thing I have to help you discover— are your own reasons for enjoying life, your own zeal. Pleasing others can be part of that, but it can’t be all.”
Teacher put down the brush as Zafira turned to look at her. Teacher was calm, sure, sincere. More than that, she cared about Zafira in a way Mistress never had, not even at the start. It was in her posture, her voice, the way she’d brushed Zafira’s hair. Almost like Mother, but without needing anything, without expecting anything. Could caring about some be … unconditional?
She looked in Teacher’s eyes. They were ordinary eyes, clear and brown in a middle-aged face. But they were the most beautiful eyes Zafira had ever seen.
“If you try your best to find your own happiness,” Teacher said softly, “you’ll never disappoint me.”
Zafira’s back straightened, and her wings lifted a little. She breathed in through her nose, long and slow, her breasts rising as the faint scent of Teacher— baking spices?— filled her nostrils. There was wetness on her cheeks— when had she last felt tears?
Grinning for the first time in she didn’t know how long, she nodded. “Yes, Teacher.”