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 prologue and first chapter of I’m Dying Up Here. The first 17 lines of each follow, along with polls. The rest of the narrative follows the break so you can turn the page.
Prologue
Jacob Zenk had been locked down in a prison hell-hole. Now, out on early release, he sniffed at the clear, morning sky. A rattled cough shook loose a gob of bloody phlegm from deep in his chest. A hand rose from his pocket with a ball of tissue. He had always been wiry slim and hard muscled. But burned out lungs from toxic inhalation had a way of wasting a man in a hurry. The Prison drugs had only served to thin his hair, weaken his stamina and inflame his eyes with red scribbles. Death was upon him. He hadn’t slept. Couldn't sleep. Didn't want to sleep. He knew the score and he had only one purpose now. He hoped he had the strength for what needed to be done.
Zenk’s taxi delivered him to Angel of Mercy Long Term Care Center, in Saint Paul. He sat in the car for a moment and assessed the run down facility and its exterior security camera. Fuck em’, he mumbled to himself, gathered his stuff and dropped a boot on the pavement. The ‘man in black’, boots, pants, ruffled front shirt - entered the building. The oxygen tank cart he pulled, jangled as it dragged along the uneven tile floor. Photos of county officials lined the walls and cast a suspicious eye on his presence. He passed by the reception desk and went unnoticed by a woman with a bulbous, tomato face consumed with on-line shopping. Some angel, Zenk thought to himself. A dimly light hallway led him, past open doors with vegetative ghosts, grayly flat in their beds. There was a baby too, motionless in a crib. His sympathetic senses heightened. (snip)
Chapter 1
Vince Locker stood in the back of Louie’s Comedy Lounge. A well-lubricated crowd packed the house. He had survived the preliminary rounds in the Twin Cities Laugh-Off Contest. Tonight, the best comedic act would be declared the winner. He watched the show and checked his set list. As a stage performer he was aware that there were very few original ideas left, everything had already been said, thought or performed… but what kept him in the game was the rare day when a creative spark revealed itself. And right now he was desperate for combustion. He needed to set the house on fire in order to lay claim to the fifteen hundred dollar prize. Cash, he desperately needed. He tried to focus but the day’s events had him totally off balance.
--
Earlier, as Vince scrambled off to his telemarking job, already late, his phone chirped. He considered pushing the call from his ex-wife to voice mail. They shared a daughter. He clicked it in.
“Is everything alright with Claire?”
“Fine. We’re moving to Wisconsin.”
“Whoa, what are you talking about?” Her declaration landed like a gut punch.
“Got a new job, as in more money, something you’re incapable of producing and near my folks who will provide daycare for free, something you’re not supporting.”
Despite a need for some copyediting for grammatical issues, the prologue does introduce a different kind of character in a gritty but interesting way. But what is he doing? What is his mission at this place? What is his goal? More than that, what has gone wrong that he needs to deal with? The prologue doesn’t give us an idea of what the story is about. Despite that lack, because of the character I gave this an “almost.” A notion of story might get me over that line.
Typically, the prologue doesn’t appear to be related to what’s happening in the first chapter. As a reader, this always disappoints me. Why spend the time to produce a prologue, which certainly should have some relationship to the story to follow, if there is no connection that the reader can latch onto? This illustrates the notion that, indeed, prologue is not story. Many literary agents simply skip prologues because they know it’s story that sells stories, and that’s supposed to start in chapter one.
But what of story in this first chapter? We start out with a character that has a need and faces a situation in which he could fail. So far so good. We don’t know the stakes of him not getting the money he needs, which would help. But then we take a hard left and leave the story for a detour into backstory. Oh, boy, here comes the “then” of the story . . . right at a time when you were about to involve me in the “now” of the story. For me, this detour signals more wanderings away from the story to come, and it’s the story I want to read. So no go for me. My advice: don’t lead with setup, lead with story. Also, before querying agents, you need to deal with grammar issues that take a professional reader out of 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 © 2018 Ray Rhamey, prologue and 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:
Death permeated the air and clung to the walls.
He found her room and closed the door. He flicked on the overhead light. An industrial strength disinfectant permeated the air and stung his eyes. A single incandescent light bulb hung from a cord. The old, cracked plastered walls, painted a dull yellow, sprinkled chalk dust on the floor. Electrical conduit snaked along the baseboards. A slow drip pinged from the rusted porcelain sink bolted to the wall. A single bed and a small three drawer crowded the small space. He pulled a folding chair next to her bed. Green lines scrawled along a monitor and graphed the vital signs of the bag of bones he once knew as Riva O’Malley. Zenk’s own raspy breathing fell in synch with her wheeze, funneled through the trache tube. He touched her arm and studied her face, frozen in a question mark as to how she ended up here. Thick tufts of hair, from her roughly shaved head, sprouted in patches between crisscross suture tracks - wounds from a horrific act of violence. He tried to check his sense of rage.
Zenk regretted almost nothing, except this. But there was no one else. To his knowledge, Riva O’Malley, an indigent ward of the state had no relatives and no medical directive. In reality he knew very little about her past and had been more than happy just to live in her presence.
From a brown paper bag he had brought, he removed a wig - long brown hair with a flip. He gently caressed the back of her neck in his hand and slid the wig onto her head. After some adjustments to the fit, he went to the bag and extracted a rockabilly, A-line dress, with a red rose pattern. He stripped Riva’s blanket away and laid the dress over her skeletal frame. From his pocket he removed a bottle of ‘Fiercely Fabulous’ red nail polish. Although her feet were swollen and in need of a pedicure he meticulously painted every nail as if they were worthy of ruby slippers.
Zenk sat for a long while trying to make sense of why everything he’d loved, had died. As being lifted by a power not of his own making he gently placed a large gnarled hand on Riva’s face. There was no moisture on her skin or even her mouth, it was as if she could collapse into dust and blow away. Slowly, he applied pressure and felt his own desperation and weakness mixed in with the power of an executioner. Her eyes flickered. A haunting, primal frozen gaze had emerged to witness the hand of death.
As Zenk walked out of Riva’s room, he found it curious how one or two acts in a person’s life ended up defining them for an eternity. Instead of a beautiful artist and musician, she’d more likely be remembered, if at all, as his girlfriend. And therefore, an associate of a dirt farmer, a small time drug-dealer and he supposed now, killer. He couldn't let that happen. The truth of her needed to be told. He’d find someone to tell her story.
Chapter 1.
Deadbeat
Vince Locker stood in the back of Louie’s Comedy Lounge. A well-lubricated crowd packed the house. He had survived the preliminary rounds in the Twin Cities Laugh-Off Contest. Tonight, the best comedic act would be declared the winner. He watched the show and checked his set list. As a stage performer he was aware that there were very few original ideas left, everything had already been said, thought or performed… but what kept him in the game was the rare day when a creative spark revealed itself. And right now he was desperate for combustion. He needed to set the house on fire in order to lay claim to the fifteen hundred dollar prize. Cash, he desperately needed. He tried to focus but the day’s events had him totally off balance.
--
Earlier, as Vince scrambled off to his telemarking job, already late, his phone chirped. He considered pushing the call from his ex-wife to voice mail. They shared a daughter. He clicked it in.
“Is everything alright with Claire?”
“Fine. We’re moving to Wisconsin.”
“Whoa, what are you talking about?” Her declaration landed like a gut punch.
“Got a new job, as in more money, something you’re incapable of producing and near my folks who will provide daycare for free, something you’re not supporting.”
“You can’t take my daughter away, out of state. I’ll fight it.”
“Even if you had enough money to lawyer up, no judge would side with a deadbeat dad. Plus it’s only five hours away, so its not like we’re going to South America. Adios.”
He squeezed the phone in a vicarious strangle hold on his ex.
---
New Day Health and Wealth, a telemarketing sales operation, occupied the third floor of the former Schmidt Brewery on St. Paul’s river flats. The once formidable Romanesque brewery complex, established in 1900, had been converted to a small business incubator. Tenants included a soap maker, video production studio and plumbing supply warehouse. A hoppy smell seemed to be the only unifying feature amongst the occupants. A hundred years of brewed-barley and yeast infused a thick malty scent into the old yellow brick walls and oak plank floors, to the edge of noxiousness. An emanation the entrepreneurs were willing to put up with in return for cheap rent.
New Day Health and Wealth telemarketers sat nestled in four-foot high partitioned cubicles, bunched together like honeycombs. Cables snaked along the ceiling’s wood beams and fed phone lines into their beehives. If misery liked company there was plenty of it at New Day Health and Wealth. Everyone had a story as to why they were stuck in phone hell. Low demand professional skills, inability to pass a drug test and criminal records were common themes. Their resumes, however, proved to be of little detriment to performance. Some even made a decent living leveraging their unique talents.
Vince had gotten to know a few of the telemarketers in earshot of his cubicle. Stretch, a non-deplume, garnered from doing a five-year sentence for some kind of Ponzi scheme, was like a dark star. He absorbed everything that got near him, especially other people’s money. Now out on parole, he worked the prospect over with head-scratchers. “I’ll bet you twenty dollars you’re going to hang up on me”.
Kim, a middle age, serial lint picker, had a PHD in religious studies. She also had an inseparable bond with her cat named Karma. She kept it under her desk. It might have been a distraction but it proved to be a good mouser in a building filled with vermin. She guided her customers in the purchase of products based on astrological signs.
Benson, who spoke with a slight lisp from missing teeth, took a scientific approach to sales. Something about, ‘the doomsday chain reaction between antioxidants and free radicals’. He supposedly had a chemistry background, which, if his dental appearance, was any indication of past employment, it involved something to do with methamphetamine.
Margarita, a struggling actress, delivered her sales pitch in various accents. Her repartee included Irish lass, Spanglish immigrant and valley girl, among others. Men were easy marks when she put on the southern belle charmer. The Russian accent proved particularly effective in double talking the elderly.
‘You no buy product, yes? Yes, good, how many?’
Most of the telemarketer’s cubicles were covered with photos and memorabilia. Vince didn't bother. Didn't want to acknowledge any sign of permanence about the job. With luck, he’d be on to something else at any minute, maybe to some credible employment. Not that he had a choice in the matter. His position as second to last on the sales leader board, did not speak to job security. He held a Master’s degree in Philosophy, an area of study he fell into by virtue of availability. It was the only major that did not have a wait list and a schedule, first class started at noon, that allowed him to do late night stand up comedy grinding away at dive-bars for tips, drinks and personal therapy.
Comedy came to him as a defense. He was ten years old when his father disappeared. To mitigate the loss, he took refuge in food and became the fat kid. To beat the bullies to the ‘punch’ he engaged in self-effacing humor. Over time, he developed comedic routines and worked through some of the abandoned-kid-daddy-issues. Even lost some of the chubby-ness, although his baby face endured. Not that comedy paid the bills. He had worked as a philosophy-teaching assistant but couldn't catch on as a full time faculty member. The burden of a failed marriage, child support, student loans and living expenses, had him in a perpetual cash crunch.
The only accessory in his sales pen was a small mirror positioned head high. He checked his smile aware it transmitted through his voice. A round face with soft eyes, arched eyebrows, high forehead and a full dimpled chin starred back at him. Features in the composite that were attractive enough, almost cute. He emitted an uncomplicated, carefree innocence, a look not stereotypically suited for a philosopher. A deeper look revealed a vocational failure and an angry, disenfranchised father, about to have his daughter relocated. He took a deep breath, shelved his personal plight and readied a light-hearted, icebreaker. The constant comedic interaction with callers allowed an opportunity to practice his timing and stay sharp. If there was ever a time to be on, it was now. Tonight, the Twin City Laugh-off Contest finals would be his biggest test as a comedic talent. The fifteen hundred dollar prize would help get the child support on track and maybe throw a road-block up on his daughter’s out state relocation.
“Stations,” the shift manager shouted. The auto dialers kicked in. Prospect names were displayed on a monitor along with prompts to overcome objections and guide the sale of products. The line up included: Smooth as a baby’s ass anti-wrinkle cream, bright as Chiclets teeth whiteners, glide pattern mood levelers, totally buff muscle toners, rock cock potency aids, stare down a cheeseburger diet pills, chia pet hair growth topical, rocket fuel caffeine energy boosters, and Machu Pichu mystical healing stones.
“High, is this Carol?”
“Great, Vince here, from New Day Health and Wealth. Do you know, I am now talking to the most amazing person on the planet, she has a brilliant smile, vibrant smooth skin and is as calm as a summer day.”
“Boy do you have the wrong number,” Carol popped a big laugh, “but you made my day.”
“Carol, thanks for being a good sport. I just called to share with you a couple of health and beauty secrets found in our specially formulated products. You ready?”
“Carol who’s on the phone?”
“Vince, a nice man from …”
“Give me the phone,” muffled sounds, “Hey, cocksucker, quit blowing smoke up my wife’s ass and don’t call here again. Take us off your list.”
“Sir, I’m sorry to inconvenience you, as per FTC requirements, and your request, we will place your number on the ‘do not call list’.” He had heard a hundred rude rants, let it wash over and waited for the caller to hang up.
“Yeah, like I should take the word of a low-life faggot.”
All right, this guy doesn't won’t to let it go, so just hang up. No screw it. I’m not going to let this prick get away with it, not today. “In order to facilitate the removal of your number from the call list,” Vince managed an even voice, “I’ll need to get some information. Is cocksucker one or two words?”
“Don't get smart with me dick-head.”
In the background the wife demanded her husband hang up. “Shut the fuck up,” he shouted at to his wife, and back to the phone, “Let me talk to your supervisor.”
“You want to blow him too?” If he wasn't already fired, that one put him over the edge, all calls were recorded.
The call dropped. The name “Locker” boomed from the supervisor’s office.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m already out the door.”
--
Louie, the comedy lounge owner, anchored the Twin Cities Laugh-Off Contest, held in a converted, downtown St. Paul warehouse. Photos of Louie, in the dimly lit entrance, with the likes of Dangerfield, Pryor and Carlin, testified to his past comedic success. Now, a club owner, Louie worked all the angles. He charged the comedic contestants an entry fee. Secured a local beer distributor to sponsor the contest. Charged a twenty-dollar cover for the event that included two drink tickets. To determine the comedy contest winner, Louie concocted something he called the ‘electronic laugh-o-meter’. No one knew exactly how it worked. Supposedly, Louie’s black box tracked the frequency and decibels of each performer’s garnered laughs. The highest score, subject to Louie’s oversight, to be declared the winner.
Vince watched as the only competitor that stood between him and the fifteen hundred prize took the stage. A single spotlight reflected off her metal face studs. Dressed in a leather bustier, cut off shorts, fish net stockings and leather moto boots she looked Sarah Silverman hot. If Louie gave out contest points for stage presence, she’d nail the category. The Goth princess missed on the punch line, yet Louie, who hung out on the edge of the stage, let out a big bravado laugh - the crowd followed. Something didn't feel right. Up next, Vince rechecked his set list. He had some reliable openers, closers and new high-risk jokes slotted for the middle of the set. If they hit, he’d be the last comic standing and in the money.
Louie had a formidable presence. He wore a loose-fitting bowling shirt that draped his six-foot-six, three hundred pound frame. He schmoozed with the crowd to clear the air between acts and launched a couple of one-liners to let the audience know he was still the big dog in the room. “Now, I want to introduce a talent who’s a real comer, give it up for Vince Locker.”
Vince bounded onto the stage connected with the microphone and lifted it from the stand. The smell of perfume, from the last act, hung in the air. Maybe it would mask the nervous sweat trickling down his sides. The Gillette Speed Stick he brushed on at 7 a.m. had not survived the day job. He took a conscious breath; aware the next ten words could make or break the act. He needed to connect quickly. The spattering of applause faded to the edge of silence and he launched the opener. A rapport builder, delivered from the gut.
Vince: “I am a philosophy major: which is code for unemployed. But of course if I could grow a beard you would have figured that out. The secret to being a successful Philosopher is in asking the right question, so far it’s been - can I super size that drink of for you?”
Audience: Groans. A miss.
Vince: That usually scored. Reload. Can’t let the silence linger….“Philosopher’s always come off as arrogant but in reality, were no smarter than a large pepperoni pizza with anchovies except the pizza can feed a family of four.”
Audience: Disinterest. Nothing.
Vince: Why didn't they laugh? That’s killed in every joint I’ve ever gigged in. He looked at Louie. Help me out here? Okay, the set up’s too rushed, timing off. Not terrible but … gotta pull this out, change the tempo get a riff going.
Vince: “Since I’ve never had a meaningful job I list dead philosopher’s as my personal references. In and interview I was asked who’s Nietzsche? I said, a Nihilist, the interviewer said it meant nothing to her, I said that’s the point.”
Audience: Nothing.
Vince: “Can this Descartes vouch for you? She asked, “I think not,” I replied;
“Then you shouldn't be here? Exactly.”
Audience: Nothing.
Vince: “You state, that as someone with a philosophy degree you refuse to work sitting down. It only stands to reason, I said.”
Audience: Talking among themselves.
Vince: “You list your religion as dyslectic, why? I don’t believe in a dog.”
Audience: A taunt. “You’re acts a bitch.”
Louie shook his head.
Vince: Stay calm, do not panic. Material not working. His throat suddenly felt dry; the lights too hot. Shimmering beads of sweat, like sequins, dripped off his face. What do they want? I won’t do a fart joke. Need a saver. Come on, come on. He searched his brain for something grittier to get the crowd back. “Philosophy major’s love to argue, so naturally I got married. Our first argument was whose parents to live with.”
Audience: Nothing.
Vince: “Arguing with one’s wife takes special training: I got a nipple piercing so I’d be familiar with pain and buying jewelry.”
Audience: Nothing.
Vince: “The Marriage didn't last long, my wife was an existentialist – she always thought about death – mine.”
Audience: A taunt. “The Philosopher’s stoned.” People are out of their seats, heading for the bar, restroom, out for a smoke.
Vince: Oh, my god, they know. He felt his soul escape his body and watched in horror at the floundering idiot in the spotlight and fought back tears. The crowd mute, the only sound, the pulse in his ears. Reset, reset. Be honest, acknowledge the acts a disaster, get the audience back.
Vince: “These jokes usually work. Lucky for you I’m not a suicide bomber.”
Audience: Flat. No interaction.
The room spun. He searched for the light in the back of the room and hoped it would mercifully flash and end the debacle. The boozed flush faces in the crowd wanted blood not humor. Just off stage Louie ran a finger under his throat and pointed at him. I get it. That fat fuck Louie, is pulling the strings in favor of the Goth chick. I’m not dying alone. You jerk offs are going down with me. No, don’t do it. Do not attack the audience. Do not take the bait.
Vince: “How many people can you get on the short bus? Look around assholes. I'm sorry, I don't know how to deal with you - I'm a comic not a proctologist. Don't get me wrong, glad you came, too bad your father did. People like you make me wish birth control was retroactive. What, not funny? Got your tongue caught in a zipper. This is my job you’re fucking with. I don’t tell the your clients to hold back when your giving blow jobs. In case your deaf and you didn't hear my jokes, here’s a sign you’ll understand.” He flashed a middle finger, tossed the mic on the floor and left the stage.
Audience: Boos, heckles, self-congratulatory high fives.
The collective had broken another scumbag comedic want-a-be in favor of Louie’s new bunk punk princess. Louie stalked him, poised for murder. Vince avoided eye contact and stumbled toward the EXIT beacon in a stupor of self-destruction.