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.
Jared sends the first chapter of a YA urban fantasy Down In Headis. The first 17 lines follow, then a poll. The rest of the narrative follows the break so you can turn the page.
Mom and I sat in the driveway of the most horrible kid I’d ever met—Brandon Phillips. Just thinking his name made my head hurt. Like me, he had Down Syndrome. But he was…so violent. Last time I’d seen him, he pushed me down, bit my arm, then yanked out a clump of my brown hair, all without saying a word. The school was forced to expel him.
A cold drizzle ran down the windshield. Mom turned to me and exhaled. “You don’t have to go through with this.”
“It was your idea.” I clutched the wrapped birthday gift in my hand. “This isn’t going to deliver itself.” We’d bought him a “Homie with an extra Chromie” t-shirt like the one I wore.
She frowned. “I shouldn’t have said anything. My number one job is to keep you safe.”
The right thing to do would’ve been to drive away at that moment. Besides the obvious danger, I didn’t belong at Brandon’s birthday party. I was a seventeen-year-old girl. He was fourteen. But no one else had agreed to come and that didn’t seem right either. “Maybe Brandon just needs a friend.”
Mom kissed me on my forehead. “Hope Thieleman, you never cease to amaze me. You’re a superhero. Have been since the day you were born.”
She always said that. It wasn’t true, of course…I didn’t become a superhero until I was four. Or maybe I was five when the man in white visited me. I couldn’t remember for certain.
I like stories that start out with something happening that promises trouble to come. Here, the action is just talking, but it’s what is said that creates scene tension and raises story questions.
The narrative does a good job of immersing us immediately into the experiences of a sympathetic character—and a character unlike most characters, one with Down Syndrome. And who, if the last line delivers, is also a superhero. What fun.
Note how the story questions build. First we learn of an upcoming get-together between the protagonist and someone who has attacked her violently. What’s going to happen when she goes inside to a party with a violent kid? And then, still on the first page, the narrative introduces the notion that this teenager with a disability is a superhero. What kind? What is her super power? What does she do with it or them? Great story questions. I’m in. Your thoughts?
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:
My face stretched into a smile as big as the world. I leaned over and hugged her. “I love you, mom!” She always knew what to say to make me feel better. And she always believed in me even though she had no idea what I was really capable of. That made her faith in me that much more amazing.
I opened the door and stepped out into the cold damp, then reached back for my empty purse. I never went anywhere without it, not because I needed to carry anything—that’s what mom was for—but it had a sea turtle embroidered on the side and I loved all things turtles. Figurines. Books. Clothing. Anything. If it had a turtle on it, I had to have it. Mom said it was an obsession but it made buying gifts for me easy.
“Hold on a second.” Mom unbuckled. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” When we reached the door, something crashed inside the house. I gulped and gripped the white, U-shaped pendant that the man in white had given me. It was a key with the power to whisk me away to Headis or even Shadow World, which was great—greater than words could ever express. But it didn’t give me any power in Body World. I held it, in hopes of gaining focus and courage. I would have given anything for super-strong hair instead.
“I think I should stay here for a while…just in case.” Mom rang the doorbell.
I nodded. “Good idea.”
The distant commotion stopped. Footsteps approached, right to the door, but then everything fell silent. Mom and I exchanged glances. We’d had a few moments like that before. Times when I was younger and acting up until someone came knocking. Mom would take an extended moment at the door to straighten her clothes, inhale deeply, and force a fake smile before turning the knob.
Pam Phillips opened the door…smiling. She’d missed a disheveled strand of black hair. “Hope! We’re so glad you came.” Her face strained when she met my mother’s gaze. “Alyssa. Thank you for bringing her.”
“Glad to.” Mom swept past me and embraced Pam. It wasn’t one of those courteous, friendly hugs, but instead a robust squeeze while rubbing her back. “Is this a bad time?”
Pam hesitated. She lay her head on my mom’s shoulder for a moment. “No. Everything’s fine.”
Mom had said that a lot too, when I was younger. Don’t know why. She seemed to cry a lot for everything being fine. Pam’s eyes were puffy. Brandon must have been acting up. My stomach sank. Strong hair wouldn’t be enough. I wanted to run. My body urged me to, but Mom had taught me that I shouldn’t listen to every impulse. I held up Brandon’s birthday gift. Pam smiled gently, took the package from me and set it down.
“Let me see if Brandon’s…uh…ready for you. Be a dear and wait here?”
Mom took my hand and squeezed it as Pam tip-toed upstairs and out of sight. “I’ll be right here,” she whispered to me. “Don’t hesitate to holler if he threatens you or if you get scared.”
I wasn’t scared of anything. Not normally, anyway. But when Pam and her husband, Robert, were terrified of their own son, I had the right to be too.
I found myself clutching my pendant again. Like the man in white had told me, I always wore it and kept it with me, even when taking a bath. Mom had tried to convince me otherwise, but like my collection of turtle figurines at home, she was pretty chill about things like this. As long as it made me happy.
Pam reappeared at the top of the stairs. “Look who came to see you.”
Brandon squirmed in her arms. He had ruffled black hair and a broad face which was contorted like he’d been force-fed a heaping spoonful of lima beans. He let out a series of grunts.
Mom squeezed my wrist. “Maybe…maybe we should come back another time.”
“Oh no,” Pam said. “He’s so happy you’ve come.”
He didn’t sound happy, but what did I know? “Good to see’ya.”
Brandon grunted again.
“They got you a gift for your birthday,” Pam said in a high-pitch.
Brandon’s eyes widened. He spotted the package on the chair, squealed, then bounded down the stairs. Mom and I backed up and let him pass. He ripped into his present.
“No, Brandon,” Pam pleaded. “Not until after…”
She was too late. He’d already shredded the wrapping paper and plastic cover. Beaming, he jumped up and down, swinging his new shirt above his head.
“What’s it say?” Pam asked.
Brandon ignored her.
“It’s just like mine,” I pointed at my stomach. “We’re twins now.”
Mom sniffed the air. “Is something burning?”
Wisps of smoke fogged up the hallway.
“Oh no.” Pam ran into the kitchen. “Alyssa! Quick, fan the air before the smoke alarm goes off.”
Mom glanced at me, then ran down the hallway after Pam. Brandon watched them disappear then turned to face me. His eyes brightened. He pointed at my shirt then his own.
“That’s right,” I said. “Just like mine.”
Then his eyes widened even more. He pointed at my purse and grunted.
I felt for him. I didn’t understand what he wanted and I knew how frustrating that was. It had taken me a long time to learn to talk well enough for people to understand me. Some people would just nod and pretend they understood, which only frustrated me more. Imagine asking where the bathroom is and after being asked to repeat yourself the person just nods and says something along the lines, “Oh, that’s very interesting.” Not being understood was the worst.
“Show me,” I said to Brandon.
He snatched my purse and headed up the stairs.
“No. It’s mine.” I tugged on the straps, but he tugged harder, forcing me up and to his room. Blue-green walls surrounded me. “Whoa.” An under-the-ocean mural covered the walls.
The far wall had a shark with its mouth gaping. Brandon released my purse, then pointed for me to turn. There was the hugest, cutest sea turtle I’d ever seen.
“Cool!” I wanted to hug it…but it was a wall, so I didn’t.
Then Brandon started showing me his seashell collection and his beach-themed bed, which also had a few turtles on it. He cheerfully grunted each time he pointed…until the smoke alarm blared.
Brandon covered his ears, then knocked me backwards.
I screamed as he pulled the drawers out of his dresser and threw them to the ground. Their contents spilled out. Then he toppled the dresser while I cowered in the corner, clasping my pendant. I cried and shrieked as loud as the alarm.
Mom burst into the room, but Brandon was between me and her. He lunged at her and pushed her against the wall.
“No, Brandon!” Pam pulled him off my mom. “No!”
He slapped his mom across the face, but she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him into a bear hug. “It’s just the smoke alarm,” she said to him. Pam looked at mom. “Get Hope out of here. I’ll take care of Brandon.”
Mom pulled me to my feet. I stumbled over the clothes and knick-knacks strewn across the floor, desperate to get out of the house…and that was when I spotted it mixed in with scattered seashells on the carpet. A white, U-shaped pendant.