Apologies for not posting as frequently as usual. There just haven't been any free BookBub books that I wanted to spend the time looking at, and submissions from writers slacked off. I'm in the throes of polishing a new novel, too, and that's a major distraction. But today's submission is worth a look, for sure.
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.
Glenda sends a revision of Broken Toys. The rest of the chapter is after the fold.
Blood trickled from a gash on Alyssa’s forehead. It mixed with sweat and dripped into her eyes, burning and blurring her vision. She brushed it away.
Floundering to a stop, she doubled over, gasping for oxygen. Her pale skin gleamed in the meager light of the crescent moon. She wrapped the dark blanket tighter, camouflaging herself in the shadows. Hands resting on scraped, bony knees, she sucked in a ragged breath, choking on the smell of rotten eggs.
“Sour gas,” he said, bending over beside her, “from the oil wells.” His eyes met hers. The concern — or was it excitement? — smoldering in his indigo eyes pulled at her emotions. “Here, put this on.” He straightened and placed his navy baseball cap over her hair, tucking the platinum lengths from sight. “Let’s go.”
She hesitated.
He grabbed her. The blanket slid from her shoulders. His calloused fingers, rough on her young skin, spun her to face back the way they had come.
“Do you want them to catch us?” he asked, voice menacing. He yanked on her arm, tugging her forward. “I can always take you back, you know. Less hassle on my part that way.”
The metal storage container where she had been imprisoned loomed in front of them, a darker shadow among shadows. Despite the oppressive heat of the early August Texas morning, (snip)
Glenda evokes a strong opening scene here. The scene is quickly set—we have images of where the characters are and what they are doing. A dark mood is created as well, with light, touch, and smells. No musing here, no lazy description, and plenty happening, and there’s jeopardy for a girl who has been imprisoned. There’s hope of rescue for her, too, which creates a strong “what happens next?” story question. From a story point of view, I think this works.
The writing is good, but I felt like it tries too hard at times and not hard enough at others. These are, admittedly, nitpicks, but we’re always looking for ways to make our writing stronger, aren’t we? First, there’s a bit of a break in POV when her pale skin is described. The character wouldn’t be thinking of the paleness of her skin at such a moment, IMO. The description can be made to work, though, with a simple shift in the description.
Her skin gleamed palely in the meager light . . . etc.
Similarly, she wouldn’t be thinking of her hair color here, either. I felt that the color descriptions were trying too hard. “Indigo” is a rare enough word that I had to look it up to be sure of its meaning. In a tense scene like this, why not just “blue” or “gray-blue” so the reader gets an immediate picture instead of having to work for it? The same goes for the use of “platinum.” Sure, it’s a legitimate color for hair, but is in necessary to be that specific for this scene?
Lastly, I was bothered that she hesitated when the guy says to go. Why? She’s being led away from imprisonment in a storage container. Why would she hesitate? Wouldn’t she instead be pulling ahead? If you must have her hesitate here, motivate it. We’re deep in her POV, so you can do that. She could have a greater fear of what’s ahead that of what’s behind, but only if we understand her motivation.
Other than those little things, I think this is worth a page-turn.
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 © 2019 Ray Rhamey, excerpt © 2019 by Glenda.
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:
. . . a shiver raced down her spine. Oh my God! He wouldn’t actually take me back, would he? A surge of panic paralyzed her. She forgot to inhale. Dark spots danced on the edges of her vision. Tremors cascaded through her body.
“Hey, breathe, okay? I didn’t mean it, not really.”
She drew in a deep breath. Only this young man, this dark-haired, blue-eyed stranger, offered her hope of freedom.
Trust him.
His massive hand engulfed her tiny, trembling one. His fingers entwined with hers as he led her through the gloom. Dawn lurked just over the horizon, a sullen vow to steal the protective shadows from the field and illuminate their flight.
“Hurry,” he said, pushing her onward. “Stay down. We can’t let anyone see us.”
Bent low at the waist, they plunged haphazardly through hip-deep, dry grass. Its sharp edges ripped at her arms and face but she didn’t feel it. The tall grass rustled as they struggled through it. She stumbled and fell, collapsing from hunger and exhaustion. A whimper of pain escaped. “I’m so tired,” she said.
“Shh,” he whispered harshly, whipping his head back the way they came.
What did he hear? She strained her ears for any sound of pursuit. The rushing of her pulse pounding in her ears drowned out everything else.
Dogs? Are those dogs baying in the distance?
She spun around wildly, looking this way and that. Was that movement over there? Squeezing her eyes closed, she wrapped her arms tightly around her stomach and rocked back and forth on her knees. Dear God, I’m only fourteen. I promise I will never sneak out again. Please. I want my Mommy..
He wrapped his rough, workman’s hands around her delicate wrists and pulled her to her feet. “I’ve got you. Come on.” He pointed to a ramshackle barn hidden in the brush line. Only an unlit parking lot lined with trucks and heavy equipment stood between them and sanctuary. “We’re almost there. We can hide inside and rest up a bit.”
***
“Where the hell is that boy?” Seamus slammed open the door to the makeshift taxidermy shop. Hot, humid South Texas air swamped the space. “Patrick? Where are you?”
He paused in the doorway allowing his eyes to adapt to the dim interior light. He spotted his son crouched awkwardly behind the antique glass-topped, cedar-framed display case stored at the far end of the dilapidated barn, focused on something on the floor in front of him. Seamus dragged a hand across the back of his neck. All the sightless, glass eyes staring down at him from the animal heads lining the walls gave him goosebumps. He shuddered, shaking off the sense of anxiety wrapping around him.
“I figured I would find you hiding in here, boyo. We’ve got driveways to pave. Get your ass up and out to work. We’re already behind schedule.” Seamus’s voice echoed off the walls, a rough scratchy sound that assaulted the eardrums. Hints of his Irish heritage clung to his speech. Ignore the accent and his entire persona screamed stereotypical used car salesman — loud, brash, and pushy. The only things missing were the gold chains gleaming against a hairy chest exposed by a shirt unbuttoned halfway to the waist, and a heavy, gold nugget pinky ring.
“Shut the door, Da. You’re letting flies in.” The boy stood from where he knelt behind the display case, wiping his hands on stained blue jeans.
Seamus stepped into the barn pulling the door closed behind him, shutting out the harsh Texas sun. Dim light from a single bulb dangling from the ceiling plunged the shop back into its former cave-like murkiness. “Stop acting the maggot. We need to start the jobs before the gits change their minds. Or their nosy kids talk them out of it.”
The single air conditioning window unit wheezed as it struggled to cool the space. Seamus skirted around large aquariums sitting on a rusty, industrial workbench. Heat lamps above the aquariums kept the creepy crawlies inside warm beneath the wood shavings. A tiny tremor of unease crawled down his spine. He raises flesh-eating beetles, and he’s worried about flies?
He crinkled his nose as he walked deeper into the shop. The sickly sweet odor of rotting meat was overcome by a more noxious, more immediate odor. “What is that manky smell?” he asked. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his mouth and nose. “What have you been doing now?”
The closer he got to his son, the stronger the stench became. A few feet from the counter, the mixed odors of raw iron, burning flesh, and feces hit him full in the face. He stepped quickly around the display case and looked down.
“No!” Seamus slammed his fist against the glass top so hard it splintered. Slivers of glass embedded themselves in his hand. His handkerchief fluttered to the floor. “No, no, no, no.”
An emaciated teenage girl lay crumpled on the dirty wooden floorboards at his son’s feet. Her head rested in a widening pool of blood. It tinted her platinum hair a rusty shade of copper. The blood crept beneath the counter.
Her bloodshot, green eyes widened at Seamus’ arrival. Bruises covered her face. Cigarette burns marred the skin down her arms. A filthy cloth, shoved in her mouth and tied around her head, muffled her cries. Cuts, bites, and dried blood covered her naked body. Silently, she pleaded with him before her eyes fluttered closed. A teardrop of blood cut a path through the dirt covering her porcelain pale cheek.
Prickly heat raced through Seamus’ body. He shoved his son out of the way and dropped to his knees beside the girl. Ignoring the fresh blood dripping from the cut on his hand, he placed two fingers against the girl’s neck. He searched for a pulse. Skin cool and clammy. Pulse weak and thready but there, barely there. He removed the gag and gently brushed the hair from her pallid face, examining the damage inflicted by his son. With a tender hand, he wiped the tears from her cheeks. He stared up at his son, seeing him clearly for the first time. Blood spatter covered the young man from head to toe as he stood idly twirling a blade between his fingers.
Rage pulsed through Seamus unlike any he had ever felt before. He shot to his feet and slapped the knife from the boy’s hands. It slid across the dirty, wooden floor. Grabbing his son by the shoulders, he shook the boy violently. “How many times?” Spittle flew from his lips. He jammed his finger into the boy’s chest. “How many times have I told you not to play with the livestock?” He shoved his son away so hard the boy stumbled. “You, idjit, how thick can you be?”
The young man lowered his eyes. He ducked his head, raising his shoulders like a puppy cringing away from a blow. He was the perfect image of submissive obedience.
Seamus wasn’t fooled. He caught the flash of malevolent hate glittering in his son’s eyes before the blank expression claimed the boy’s features, hiding all emotions. “You listen to me when I’m speaking to you, ya useless, poxy litle shite. Do you realize how much money you just cost me?”
“I’m sorry, Da. Really sorry. I just wanted to have a little fun.” The boy swallowed audibly. “I guess I just got a wee bit carried away.”
“You guess? Really? You guess?” Seamus’ voice rose with each syllable. He pointed at the brutalized girl on the floor. “You call that ‘a wee bit’ carried away?” Disgust laced each word. He shook his head. “I truly have no words.”
The boy raised his chin just a fraction, a tiny show of smug defiance. “You didn’t want this one anyway, Da. She was damaged goods. Once the makeup and clothes came off, she was a brutal mess.” The son laughed, a cold, dark laugh. “And that was before I started on her. Scars everywhere. She wasn’t very bright either. She actually believed I was helping her escape.”
Seamus clenched his hands at his side to keep from wrapping them around his son’s neck. He stepped closer. His pulse hammered in his ears. Spots forming on the corners of his vision, he focused on the face of his one and only child.
Eyes widening, the color faded from the boy’s face as he took he quick a step backward. He held his hands up to block his father’s approach. “Seriously, Da, no one would have paid much for her. I did you a favor when you think about it, keeping you from offering subpar merchandise.”
A growl slipped from between Seamus’ lips. He moved even closer.
The boy stepped back, hands still extended in front of himself. “Da …”
“Shut the fuck up.” Seamus raised his clenched fist. A muffled moan drew his attention back to the girl.
Eyes closed, he squeezed the bridge of his nose. With a deep sigh, he knelt beside the child laying on the floor. He slid the back of his hand down her cheek in a soft caress. Lowering and gentling his voice, he spoke to her. “I’m so sorry, sweetling. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.” A Bowie—type knife whispered out of the leather sheath in his boot. Muscles in his forearm rippled as he quickly slit the girl’s throat from ear to ear, slashing open her windpipe while severing both the carotid artery and jugular vein. The smell of hot iron flooded the space. Warm blood sprayed creating a Jackson Pollock abstract on the floor and walls. Arterial spray splattered the cedar beams holding up the roof. For several long seconds, the only sound heard was the whistle of air bubbling through the bloody wound. Gradually her pulse stilled, her heart stopped. Pale, green eyes glazed over with the opaque covering of death.
Seamus rose slowly to his feet, the weight of what he had just done pushing against his shoulders. Scooping his handkerchief from the floor, he methodically wiped the blood from his face and hands. He looked down at himself and then glared at his son. “You made the mess. You clean it up. I have to go change. Get cracking. We still have paving to do.”
Seamus saw his son’s eyes light up as they darted from the fleshing machine to the terrarium housing the flesh-eating beetles. A shudder ran down his spine. Gruesome images of what he imagined his son doing turned his stomach.
“Don’t worry, Da. I’ve got this.”
Seamus started to the door, stopped, and turned back to face his son. “And you need to find me a replacement. I promised the buyers twelve and I will deliver twelve,” he paused, his hardened look crawling up and down his son’s solid frame, “one way or another.”
***
The boy wiped a drop of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. Absentmindedly, he touched the tip of his tongue to the smear of blood. Copper pennies.
He looked at the body on the floor and then around his taxidermy shop. His eyes locked on the pale, white bone of a European-mounted deer skull. He smiled as he remembered peeling the skin from the flesh. The stew-like smell of muscle boiling from bone tickled his memory as he thought of turning slaughtered animals into trophy mounts. He looked at the girl again. An idea began to form. His smile widened.
“Don’t worry, Da,” he whispered to himself, “I’ve got this. No one will ever find her.”
He walked to the bench of tools mounted on the side wall. He picked up and discarded the bone saw. Lovingly, he fondled a variety of knives before deciding on a small skinning knife with a gut-hook on the end. He picked it up. The weight of the knife felt good in his hands, balanced. He rarely used this particular knife, so he drew the edge of the blade slowly across the tip of his finger to test the blade’s sharpness. A thin, red line of blood welled up. He sucked the blood from his finger as he glared at the old, wooden door his father had just stormed out. Removing his finger from his mouth, he smiled again. This time, the smile reached his eyes. One day, Da, maybe one day real soon, no one will be able to find you either.