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.
A reminder of what you’re after here. This blog is about crafting compelling openings. Not interesting, compelling. Why does it have to meet that hurdle? First, if your work is going to an agent, you’re competing with hundreds of submissions. You have to cut through that clutter and competition with powerful storytelling and strong writing. If it’s a reader browsing in a bookstore or online, the same goes—there are scores of published books competing with yours. Yeah, you need compelling.
Eoghan sends the first chapter of Hiding in Plain Sight. The rest of the chapter follows the break.
Just before afternoon coffee break, the art dealer decided to kill Roberta Lord.
Compressing a tennis ball, he gazed out of the corner office window, watching another heavy snow shower blanket the area between Harbour Street and Market Square. Snow was a natural enemy; it meant tracks and traces, but with more prolonged showers forecast for tonight, it would hide footprints and allow him to slip away unseen.
He’d observed her at a gallery, and sidled up close to catch her scent, eavesdropping long enough to learn the basics: a single mother and artist, employed part-time in a café, struggling to stretch her income. He overheard her ask where she could find a secondhand copy of a particular book, and later, he’d smelled her insecurity as she paused at a display, giving him a glance and a quick smile.
No conversation. No phone number exchange. No swapped business cards.
He’d taken the volume Roberta was looking for from his own library, and kept it in his briefcase; an alibi, if needed.
He sat back and closed his eyes. Yes. In a few hours, Roberta Lord would die. He willed his body to start triggering that intense, powerful hormonal surge he’d been rewarded with before, swelling and gushing like waves, followed by blessed peace of mind, and…
A desk phone rang, interrupting his reverie. ‘Yes?’
So this first page (and chapter) start out in the creepy point of view of the bad guy. If you read the chapter, you’ll see him murder and be unsatisfied, which motivates him to think about trying something new for his next killing. You’ll get his thoughts on what the next victim needs to be like for his “hunt.”
As it is, I have to say that this opening page definitely contains a strong “what will happen next” story question. From that purely technical point of view, it passes the test. However . . .
I urge the writer to take a look at beginning the story with the protagonist. All the first chapter does is introduce the sadistic, psychopathic nature of the villain. You can do that when he first moves to get our protagonist. This opening chapter, for me, ended up being quite a downer. I really don’t need the bad taste in my mind. I know that the chapter sets up serious trouble to come for the protagonist, but can’t that happen when the struggle is joined? 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 © 2018 Ray Rhamey, chapter © 2018 by Kathy.
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:
‘Mrs. Wilson’s downstairs.’
‘Could you get someone else to deal with her?’
‘She specifically—’
‘Ambrose, perhaps?’
‘—asked for you. Won’t talk to anyone else.’
The art dealer glared at the phone, face muscles bunching, and wished he could throttle both this new secretary and Christine Wilson. A digital desk clock blinked 2:49. ‘Be right down,’ he said.
Ten minutes. He had to be out of here in ten minutes.
He pressed an external line and dialled a local garage number. ‘My car needs a service,’ he told the receptionist. ‘I want a replacement.’
‘Of course. What day—?’
‘Now.’
‘I’ll transfer—’
He dropped the receiver, shoved the tennis ball into his pocket, and placed a pair of leather gloves into his briefcase. He patted down his hair, straightened his tie, grabbed the case and marched out. At the lift, he pressed the call button, lips curling in distaste when he saw the secretary totter towards him, teetering in tangerine high heel courts. She gestured at the folder she was carrying. ‘I’ve typed up and printed the file, sir.’
‘What file?’ The art dealer stared at her.
‘The one you said was urgent.’ The secretary blushed, wary now. ‘Um, will I leave it on your desk?’
‘Oh.’ The art dealer smiled. ‘Thanks a lot. I’ll take it.’
The secretary handed over the folder and disappeared into her office. The man punched the lift button again, riffled through the pages, scowled at a typo he spotted on page three, and dumped the folder in a rubbish bin. He gave up on the lift, pushed through an exit door and bounded downstairs. On the ground floor, he switched the scowl to a choirboy’s smile and walked into the reception area, hand outstretched. ‘Christine. So wonderful to see you again.’ The handshake was warm and firm. Placing a hand on the woman’s elbow, the art dealer guided her towards another room ‘Now,’ his sincere voice settled like smoke around the visitor, ‘prepare yourself to be impressed…’
Twenty-two minutes later, across town in Kilcruttin Business Park, the man exchanged keys with a garage mechanic, checked all lights and taillights were working.
Faulty brake lights. That was how others got caught.
Settling behind the wheel of a Toyota Avensis, he nosed the car onto the N52, past Charleville demesne, and through Kilcormac village. Indicating left after Fivealley, the car jounced down a narrow pot-holed lane, and he glanced in at the empty farmhouse. When the road petered out, he stopped, opened a field gate and inched the car up a gravel road that gave access to farm sheds. Eastwards, dark cloudbanks hovered over Stillbrook Hill and Wolftrap Mountain, presaging more snow.
In a toolshed, he slipped into wellingtons, donned a hooded raincoat, swapped his leather gloves for latex and cased the Toyota boot with a heavy sheet of old black tarpaulin that had been used to cover a silage pit. Housed cattle stuck their heads under feed bars, lowing in expectation. From a toolbox, he took out a steel-handled claw hammer with a rubber grip, and a short-handled mallet. Hefting each in turn, judging weight and balance, he decided on the mallet, and placed it in the briefcase alongside a new pair of latex gloves. From a storage space, he selected a tin of black paint and an artist’s rigger brush. Eight strokes changed the registration numbers from 10340 to 18848. He stepped away, inspected his handiwork…
Fine.
Dabbed on a small adjustment…
Better.
…and placed items he’d need later on the shelf: a bottle of turpentine and a cloth. He left his mobile phone beside them, tore off the paint-stained latex gloves, shoved them into an old fertiliser bag, and glanced around once more, thinking things through. In an old box, he found a rusted Stanley knife blade, and laid in the car’s ash tray. A trickle of anticipation snaked up his spine. ‘Number seven,’ he said. ‘Your time begins… now.’
Retracing the route back to Tullamore, the art dealer skirted the town and continued towards Kilbeggan. A quick glance at his wristwatch.
16:34.
To the left, spotlights cast a shadow on the big house stitched into a glade on Hattinger’s estate. He hadn’t set foot inside since marrying into the family. Linking up with the M6 motorway, he headed west amid a convoy of commuters.
16:41.
He needed to be in position five-fifteen.
Pillow drifts reduced the motorway to a single lane. The convoy of vehicles ahead slowed his progress; he’d have to risk a shortcut rather than take the more circuitous route. Westwards, the orange glow of Ganestown’s lights appeared tantalisingly close, before another snow squall, thick as duck down, obliterated the view.
A “Traffic Diverted” sign caused a holdup. The man growled in frustration. He took the tennis ball from his pocket, squeezed it tight, ignoring the darts of pain that coiled and dug like strands of barbed wire around his brain, and glowered at the silent council machines barricaded behind traffic cones. Further repairs of the road surface chewed away by weeks of Arctic ice and frost would have to wait.
He inched by, fury simmering…
16:58.
…gritted his teeth, and mind-mapped the quickest route to Oak View Lane.
If he went left—
The van in front stopped. The man jammed on the brakes, skidded on the ice-crusted surface, arms and body tensed, anticipating an impact. The anti-lock brake system kicked in, and he felt the pump-pump action as tyres struggled for traction, stopping centimetres from a collision.
Deep breath.
He stared at a portable traffic light, willing it to turn green.
Everywhere seemed similar in snowy suburbia.
It took eighteen minutes to find Oak View Lane, the cul-de-sac where Roberta Lord lived. The art dealer steered into the dead-end, where a lone streetlight cast shadows in the gloom. Roberta’s house was still dark. Navigating past a snow-covered, ice-crusted car, to a traffic circle, he halted three-quarter ways round the curve, cut the lights, set the wiper blades to intermittent, and stared through a fresh flurry of billowing snowflakes, and with the patience of a spider, settled in to wait.
Her schedule had become a predictable pattern: Leave café by five-fifteen. Collect boy at crèche - except on Mondays and Thursdays when the child was picked up by a man, presumably his father - and taken to an apartment across town for sleepovers. Either way, Roberta was always home by five-thirty. Lights out at eleven. There’d been several chances to kill her, but tonight felt right. A treat for his thirty-ninth birthday.
He glanced at his watch and frowned. She was late. Perhaps there’d been a crash. Maybe she… His eyes followed the dipped headlights that turned into Roberta’s driveway. The trickle of anticipation became a torrent.
A tiny figure ran from the car to the front porch. The man’s lips tightened. The boy was supposed to be with… Probably the weather caused a change in plans. Should he wait for a better opportunity? When would that happen?
Roberta draped a jacket round her shoulders and removed bags from the back seat.
The pounding headache was upgrading to a throbbing migraine. He needed relief. Impossible to suppress the urge. It had to be now. If the boy saw him, he’d have to kill him too. One body or two didn’t matter. But that meant… kill or at least stun the woman first. Otherwise she’d cause havoc. Then deal with the child.
His eyes traced Roberta’s progress. Watched her juggle shopping bags, fumble keys, nudge the hall door open with a hip, and shepherd the child inside. She hadn’t closed the driver’s door. Means she’s coming back, he thought. Saves me knocking on the door.
He rolled the car forward, executed a reverse manoeuvre, positioning the car boot-to-boot with Roberta’s on the short driveway. He switched off the engine, pulled the waterproof hood over his head and pushed the boot release. Opening the briefcase, he snapped on the latex gloves, gripped the hammer, and stepped out.
One, two, three...
Checked the tarpaulin was in place.
Light spilled from a front room window. A television screen flashed, and he saw Roberta stretch to fasten the curtains.
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen...
Roberta reappeared in the doorway. One hand held the jacket over her head. The other clasped a mobile. She peered at the screen, high-stepping through the snow. Shrouded by the snowburst, the man waited.
Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine...
Roberta glanced up, saw the strange car, stopped, frowned, squinted at the motionless figure. ‘Hello? Is there a problem? Has there been an accident?’ Then, a sudden flash of recognition. ‘Oh, erm… The art exhibition, right?’
Thirty-five, thirty-six…
The figure stepped forward.
‘No.’ The word burst from Roberta, sharp as a sword swipe, and she put out a hand to defend herself.
With his left hand the art dealer pressed the jacket down over her head. His right hand arched and descended. The dull “whap” like bowling balls colliding.
Forty…
The delivery was blunted by the heavy garment. Stunned, Roberta sank to her knees.
Forty-three, forty-four...
Her arms flailed. The mobile fell. The man grabbed Roberta’s shoulder, held her in position, adjusted his stance and launched another attack, using more weight. His arm jumped from the impact, and he tightened his grip on the hammer.
Forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one...
A quick glance at the house. Faint, up-tempo cartoon sound effects wafted through the doorway. If the boy appeared, he’d drop the woman and grab him.
Third crunch. Harder now. The lump hammer’s metal head snapped off and disappeared into the snow, leaving him holding a short piece of jagged wood. He snarled.
Fifty-five, fifty-six…
He threw the useless piece of wood into the boot, stooped, gripped the hammer’s shortened handle that was jutting up from the snow, and struck again. The damage had already been done. This fourth blow, that sounded like a shoe squashing through soggy soil, shattered Roberta Lord’s skull.
Sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy…
He crouched, poised, scanned the front door, prepared to kill again.
Nothing.
He swivelled towards the roadway, gazing through soft, silent snowflakes.
No voice.
Seventy-three, seventy-four…
No shadow.
Clear.
With ease, he pitched the body into the boot. The fingers on Roberta’s right hand jerked, flexed, clinched, then relaxed.
Eighty, eighty-one, eighty-two…
He tossed the hammer on top of the corpse and slammed the lid. Picked up Roberta’s mobile and shut her car door with his knee. Within an hour, nature would obliterate his presence.
Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine...
Ninety seconds after reversing in, the art dealer drove away.
The migraine hadn’t slackened. Why didn’t he feel the rush? Where was the release? Maybe when he’d got rid of the body, he’d feel… something.
At the temporary traffic light, he used the Stanley blade to prise open the cover of Roberta’s mobile. He levered the SIM card from its slot, broke the chip and flicked both it and the blade out the window. Sweat, trapped inside the latex gloves made his hands itch.
Opting to avoid the motorway, he crossed a flyover to join a minor road. Swirling snow hampered his vision and neutralised landmarks. Within a kilometre, neither full nor dipped beams helped distinguish where the roadside ended and the water table began. He slowed, concentrating hard.
Past Ferbane, he lobbed Roberta’s phone battery into a ditch. After Cloughan, the heavy snow shower suddenly turned light as lace, and he increased speed, relieved to have completed the circuit and be back in familiar terrain. A few kilometres later, he flung the mobile itself into the swollen Rapemills river. Time to take Roberta Lord to her burial place.
The Toyota crawled along the gravel road, tyres locked into the ruts they’d made earlier, its undercarriage scraping the build-up of icy slush. A half-moon sloped over Wolftrap Mountain, punching a gap through clouds, its beam illuminating the galvanised farm sheds. The art dealer unbolted a double steel door, steered inside, and parked beside a Hitachi excavator. He switched on fluorescent lighting and retrieved the items he’d stashed. Checked his phone. Was pleased to see three missed calls. If ever proof of his whereabouts was needed, satellite towers would have pinged and stored his phone’s location at the farm for the past few hours. He soaked the cloth in turpentine, scrubbed the paint off both number plates, started the machine and manoeuvred it outside to a feed area. Dipper arms arched and the bucket scooped up a half-tonne wrapped silage bale.
Back at the car, he unlocked the boot. Roberta’s coat lining had stuck to congealed blood. He wrenched the fabric away, unveiled the corpse, and studied the mushy goo that gelled in clumps to her hair and coat. An inch deep indent from one of the hammer blows was visible. Her left eye had disappeared within the shattered side of the skull, the other remained wide open in an expression of eternal surprise. The tangy metallic smell of blood compelled him to lean closer and inhale. He took a last look, folded the plastic covering around the corpse, used baling twine to secure the crude body bag, and placed her alongside the silage bale.
No trophies.
Another way others had got caught.
He unlatched an enclosure gate to one of the cow byres before climbing into the Hitachi cab. The caterpillar wheels tracked into a field, chewing up virgin snow. A dozen cattle followed the trail of sludge. Near a boundary ditch, he dumped the load, and spun the turntable ninety degrees. The engine growl deepened as the metre-cubed bucket sank through snow into soil. He toggled controls, removed the clay, dropped the bucket into the opening again. Four scoops to make a grave.
One more for good measure.
The man hopped down from the cab, rolled Roberta’s body over the gaping hole, pushed it in, waiting for the hollow thump before stripping the silage bale cover and throwing it onto the corpse. Back at the controls, he used the side bucket to refill the grave, and nudged the feed until it was positioned across the fresh clay. The animals arranged themselves in a semi-circle, eyes reflecting in the machine’s beams.
The art dealer smiled.
By the time they’d finished eating, the combination of hoove tracks and the next snow shower would have erased all signs of his activity.
Nothing beats natural camouflage.
Back at the sheds, he washed the lump hammer and the broken handle, shoved both pieces, along with the raincoat into the fertiliser bag. The byre gate remained ajar; the cattle would return for warmth after their snack. He added the paint-stained cloth to the trash, replaced the turpentine on the shelf, then peeled off the latex gloves, stuffed them beneath the raincoat, and held both hands aloft, letting the polar air act as a balm, before slipping back into shoes. He added the wellingtons to the rubbish and placed the bag in the car boot. On the way home, he’d scatter the contents. He straightened his tie, ran a comb through hair, and slid his mobile into a pocket. Now, he needed a shower.
The art dealer signalled right in Kilcormac.
Past Saint Cormac’s Park, he pressed a fob to unlock cast-iron automatic electric gates. Noticed fresh tyre tracks.
Madeline’s back.
Using his wife’s Jeep tracks as a guide, he drove through the tree-lined avenue, headlights reflecting on the mock-Palladian mansion, and parked beside an Audi Q7. The hall door opened and a woman stepped into the entrance.
‘When did you get here?’ The man brushed by his stick-thin wife.
‘An hour ago. This weather… didn’t know if I’d make it. Happy Birthday.’ Madeline leaned in to give her husband a kiss on the cheek. A dry peck more suited to greeting a distant cousin. ‘Ugh, you’re wet.’
‘Had to check on the farm.’
Madeline’s nostrils quivered at the faint stench of silage and cow manure. ‘Why bother? You’ve got a part-time farm manager to—’
His glare cut like the flick of a bullwhip. Madeline flinched, retreated a step, arms folded. ‘I’ve booked Spinner’s restaurant for nine.’ Her timbre changed from bearish to benign; anything to avoid another night marred by a mean mood. ‘I wasn’t sure what time you’d get here.’
The art dealer eyed a speck of mush on his shoe.
‘I’ll take care of that,’ Madeline said. ‘Have a shower. If you want.’ She squeezed out a tight smile. ‘Good day at the office?’
‘Fine.’
‘Anything new in the art world?’
‘Sold a Paul Henry earlier. That was the highlight.’ He crossed the hall to his library, removed the book from his briefcase, slipped David Hockney’s book back into its slot on a bookshelf, lining the spine precisely with volumes on either side. Upstairs, he turned to face the shower spray and waited for the cascading water to wash the migraine away. This time, it didn’t recede. He closed his eyes. Conjuring up images of Roberta Lord’s last moments failed to generate the anticipated gratification.
Had it been too fast? Too quick? Too easy?
What he needed was… a hunt. A different technique. A challenge. More stimulation. Someone with spirit. Bolder. Someone sharp. Competitive. He needed to watch that last look of resignation in her eyes, knowing she was going to die.
A finger of expectation caressed his senses. Tomorrow morning he’d vacuum the garage car and begin another search. One more. In time for her anniversary.