Writers, send your prologue/first chapter to FtQ for a “flogging” critique. Email as an attachment. In your email, include your name, permission to use the first page, and, if it’s okay, permission to post the rest of the prologue/chapter.
Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, it’s educational to take a hard look at their first pages. A poll follows concerning the need for an editor.
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.
Next are the first 17 manuscript lines of chapter 1 for Cobweb Bride, book one of a trilogy. A poll and the opening page of the first chapter follow. Should this author have hired an editor?
He came to them in the heart of winter, asking for his Cobweb Bride.
He arrived everywhere, all at once. In one singular moment, he was seen, heard, felt, remembered. Some inhaled his decaying scent. Others bitterly tasted him.
And everyone recognized Death in one way or another, just before the world was suspended.
But Death’s human story began in Lethe, one of the three kingdoms of the Imperial Realm.
It was evening, and the city of Letheburg reposed in amber lantern lights and thickening blue shadows. At some point there had been a silence, a break in the howling of the wind, as the snow started to fall.
The silence preceded him.
Flakes of white glimmered through the frost-blurred glass of the myriad windows of the Winter Palace of Lethe. In moments the snowflakes turned into armies. They piled and compounded, stretched and distended into geometric symmetry. Folding into garlands of impossible gauze veils, they appeared at last to be the faint and vaporous spinnings of a sky-sized ice spider casting its web upon the world.
This fantasy received 4.1 stars on Amazon. Professional writing with an appropriate high-fantasy voice, this started well for me with the introduction of Death and his arrival. So far, so good.
I was with this until the last paragraph on the page, when the flowery language took a long detour to describe a snowfall. Tension died right there, and that makes me wonder if it foreshadows other dense pieces that make the story slow-walk. If that description had not been there, five better lines from the second page would have been included:
While the pallor and the darkness grew outside, Death was arriving within—inside a bedchamber permeated with illness, the boudoir of the old Queen.
In silence he formed out of the cobwebs of the gilded crown molding near the ceiling, the dust motes of desolation, and the fallen shadows in the corner. All these tiny bits and pieces of the mortal world rushed together to shape him.
Yep, with those lines on the first page I would have read on. Your thoughts?
Cover critique
The cover is so-so—the image of the woman’s face is dramatic and eye-catching, though it doesn’t promise much in the way of story. The author’s name is the loser on this cover—make it big and at least look like a best-selling author.
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.
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.
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.
Jeff sends the first chapter of The Art Murders. The rest of the narrative is after the break.
Adam wondered if she would live until morning. He had dropped an excessive dose of Rohypnol and Valium into her cocktail, and while that alone probably wouldn't kill her—with the surprisingly cold water enveloping her body—the combination of muscle relaxants, sedatives and hypothermia should.
She had leaned heavily against him as they had walked slowly like tipsy lovers down West Broadway, just half a block from the bar, to this tiny, private park. Adam had planned it that way.
It had taken thirty minutes, maybe longer, to do his work. His capacity to sense and measure time passing was diminished when he was overtaken by the act of creation. He had experienced the transcendence of his handicap—the broken part of his nervous system—only a few times in life so far, all during the past few weeks. This was his fourth such experience, to be exact.
Adam stepped back, folded his arms across his chest, and admired his work. She looked almost perfect, her head and arms seeming to float above the water, while her body disappeared so gracefully into its depths. She had turned out to be an even better model than he had hoped. The dress he had found and sent to her was stunning: the silver-beaded bodice and filigree lace skirt, the way it fit her slim, long figure, and draped. How the silver sparkled above the water (snip)
Other than a few verb tense slips now and then (missing “had”), the writing is sound, as is the voice. We appear to be witnessing a murder in progress, so there are the required tension and murder mystery story questions raised. From that point of view, this works fairly well.
But, for me, I have to wonder at the story value of such an exhaustive (the rest of the chapter) dive into the mind of a sick serial killer. What story purpose is served by drenching the reader in the inner pleasures this person gets from objectifying and killing an innocent woman? Yes, I know this approach has been done over and over in serial killer novels, but I think it’s worthy to question the value.
I usually keep content out of my analyses and focus on just the storytelling. But, in this case, it seems to me that content affects the effectiveness of the storytelling here. Sure, there continues to be a market for creepy serial killer stories, but what is the worth of a scene that, from the killer's point of view, romanticizes the objectification and murder of a woman? While it may intrigue some readers, I suspect it turns off others.
This reader would have been perfectly happy with an opening that has the police investigating the scene—the posed woman, etc. (Although, the way the chapter goes, there is some doubt that the woman will die.) Your thoughts?
. . . line, and seemed to blur below it. Adam had demanded she wear the dress for their date; even so, he was surprised when he met her at the bar and saw how beautiful she looked in it. His plans had almost been derailed in that moment, but not quite.
The skin around her neck and face glowed. Warm, ambient city light filtered through the night, through ginkgo and locust trees fanning overhead, reflecting off the glassy water in the large, ornate fountain, in which she appeared to have fallen. Subtle hues of golden luminescence seemed to come from within her, from under her skin, even more exquisite than the artist's original oil colors, Adam thought. He would have to work very hard on that part when it was his turn in front of the canvas again.
He had spent more time with her in this secret place than he had allowed for in his plan. It was time to go. This composition was harder than he had anticipated; that is, getting her limp body—limp from all the drugs—propped up just right in the water. Positioning her hands had been the most difficult part. He had used molding clay and duct tape hidden in the palm of each of her long graceful hands, and fifty-pound fishing line to suspend her hands above the water. Stepping back, you couldn't see the lines.
Adam stood very still and stopped breathing while he looked at her for the last time. He framed the scene, mainlining the infinite and dense layers of color and form and sensory detail into his near-photographic memory. It was glorious—his best work ever, better than any sex, any god, any desire, better even than nothingness.
He wanted to stay with her, but he had to go. Adam picked up his Bloomingdale's shopping bag containing the duct tape and molding clay and other supplies, slipped his suit jacket back on, and exited quietly through a very tall iron gate, the only way in or out of the private park.
He closed and locked the gate behind him. He used an oversize skeleton key that Josh had given him—that Josh had presented to him with great fanfare at a gallery party years earlier. Josh rewarded artists he represented who exceeded $1,000,000 in sales for the gallery with a key, and the perk of access to his snooty building's private park. Adam had passed the $1,000,000 mark almost six years earlier, and now he was Josh's number-one producer in the gallery.
Adam had visited the tiny park a few times, attending boring, intimate parties Josh hosted for special clients, but it was rarely used otherwise. He had always regarded the big skeleton key and access to Josh's private New York park to be stupid, a perk of no real value, until tonight.
Pocketing the key, he walked slowly down the narrow alley between two of SoHo's famous cast-iron buildings, then turned onto the sidewalk, heading uptown.
He chose his suit for the date tonight carefully. He chose one he'd had tailored to match Cary Grant's suit from Notorious—the one he's wearing when Ingrid Bergman drinks her last cocktail after the party. Adam's is dark blue, constructed of luxurious lightweight fabric from Italy, the same sources Brioni uses. His tailor argued but Adam had insisted on the wide lapels, a perfect copy of Cary Grant's, down to the matching silk handkerchief peeking out of the breast pocket of his jacket.
It was nearly midnight but one of those hot summertime nights when everyone was still out and about on the street—the cafes were overflowing, the bars noisy. Adam walked, gently swinging the Bloomingdale's bag, not making eye contact with anybody, just another tired New Yorker finally going home.
He turned west on Houston Street just as several sirens began to converge, wailing above the normal din of traffic, getting closer. Two and then three NYPD Ford Police Interceptors appeared down Houston, red-and-blue lights blinking fast, ripping down the wide street from the east, blaring and popping their rumbler sirens—leaving rubber on the pavement as they drifted around the corner too fast onto West Broadway.
Oh, shit.
Adam watched the speeding cop cars go by with other locals at the corner, but he knew things they didn't. He was pretty sure he knew where the cops were headed.
He continued walking west, head down, but did not quicken his pace.
This changes everything. Time for Plan B. What had the cops found? What mistake had he made? Today? Yesterday? Last week? Adam rewound his brain's memory banks through the many painstaking steps of preparation for tonight, but could not pinpoint his lapse. It was something he did. Or didn't do. Much had happened during the past six weeks. There were too many possibilities, too many risks.
Where was he going? If the cops had figured out the location—surely they were headed for the private park—they must know his identity. Right? They would put it all together. They would find everything. He couldn't go home.
The blocks were long, streetlights bright. Being around more people would be better. Bleecker Street will be hopping. Adam navigated northwest up Bedford Street toward the Village.
Right now it didn't matter how or why. He had miraculously slipped out of his masterpiece and away from that little park just minutes before the cops got there. They must have found her. They were probably pulling her body out of the water now. Maybe she would live after all.
He had to find a place off the street where he could be alone, hole up for a while beyond the reach of video surveillance cameras and cops. Adam kept his head down and turned the collar of his jacket up, hunching his shoulders higher as well, lifting the jacket to better cover his neck and face as he walked.
At the corner of 7th Avenue the blip-blip of a siren announced a police cruiser behind him. Adam turned on cue—as if he had finally reached his destination—into the Village Tavern on the corner, which was crowded with patrons, mostly men looking for men, pumping to an electronic beat. As soon as the cruiser passed by Adam turned back around into the street and proceeded across.
While his gait seemed to slow in the crosswalk his mind was racing. Where could he go? Who did he know? He needed to find a place they couldn't trace him to, or find through his address book, or any known contacts. Adam didn't have his phone with him, for obvious reasons. He projected a mental map of the Village, of the meat-packing district, the cross-streets all heading for the river. He headed for the river.
And then he remembered. It had been a warm night just like this. Two years ago? July. Roger. Roger with the white hair and affected style, gold necklace, very tan like he had just flown back from Miami, another rich art collector. He had tried to fondle Adam's leg while they sat together on the piano bench. It was a lavish party that Josh had begged Adam to attend, in a gorgeous penthouse apartment with very high ceilings, jammed with well-dressed socialites maneuvering among huge glass vases of cut flowers. Roger had acquired two original Adam Walker paintings that hung on prominent walls, part of an extensive art collection, Adam recalled. And Roger lived alone—except perhaps for the occasional gigolo who spent the night—occupying the top floor in a building on West 10th Street.
Across from the Church of St. Veronica, the brick-and-stone Empire style box of a building was leased mostly to import/export and professional services companies, and retail space on the ground level. Only one residence, one penthouse at the top. No doorman.
Adam set the Bloomingdale's bag out of view, he loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, roughed up his hair on the sides and top, then leaned in toward the camera lens above the intercom box next to the glass entrance door and pressed the button for Roger Smith in 6A.
It was after midnight. No sirens. Adam focused. Please be there.
After a long wait, "Hello?" The voice was scratchy.
"Roger, is that you? I can't see you. I hope you remember me." Adam reached up and raked his fingers through his hair, smoothing it out so he would appear more presentable. "Roger, I'm the artist—"
"Of course I know you, Walker, I have—" A pause. "What're you—"
"Rog-er," Adam interrupted in a relieved, imploring tone, exhaling the second syllable of his name. "I need your help. I'm so sorry to bother you so late."
Adam gestured for the intercom camera and then got animated. "I was mugged! Just now. I was interviewing this photographer guy. I was headed back home. And, out of nowhere, bang! Hit me in the back of the head. Two of them. They took my wallet, and my phone." He let his face droop slowly down, modulating the eyes, showing signs of fatigue, a slow blink, the victim. "Can I please come in and use your phone?"
"Umm," Roger's voice said.
Adam looked toward the glass door then back to the intercom camera, bringing his hands and palms together in front of his chest. "Please. I'll just be a minute."
Five long seconds later the entrance door lock buzzed. Adam waved to the camera, picked up his shopping bag, pulled open the glass door, and stepped inside the vacant lobby.
Writers, send your prologue/first chapter to FtQ for a “flogging” critique. Email as an attachment. In your email, include your name, permission to use the first page, and, if it’s okay, permission to post the rest of the prologue/chapter.
Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, it’s educational to take a hard look at their first pages. A poll follows concerning the need for an editor.
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 shout-out for Things Too Big to Name
The author, a terrific writer and editor named Molly Best Tinsley, is a colleague and a client—I design book covers and interiors for her publishing company, Fuze Publishing.
Ordinarily, I don’t read the books I design—it just takes too much time. But Molly and I exchanged beta reads of novels, and my treat was to read this one. I recommend you check it out, it’s a great read by a high-level author. The website page is here, Amazon pages here.
In the tradition of FtQ, here is the first page.
For the record, I am not a violent person, I announced to the empty corridor. All night going over my speech, and I started spilling it before I got in the room.
Behind me, the tight-lipped, tight-permed guard gave one last push, and I was through the doorway, staring at a blank wall. Some trouble catching my breath.
Forced eyes right: pelt of black, garbled hair and fleshy male, young enough to be my son, if I had one. He sat behind a table looking uneasy, but maybe I was projecting.
I flexed a smile. I do not make a practice of intentionally inflicting harm on other living beings, I said. (Voice squeaked.) I’m not counting the occasional pest from the lower orders—insects, arachnids, slugs. They have their world. I think I have the right to remove them from mine.
His dense eyebrows jumped a little, but no return smile. He pointed me to a seat opposite.
I slid into it, delivered my finale: I would like to convey my gratitude to your employers for my private room. However, you might want to reassure whoever orders that person to disturb me every half hour: if I were going to commit self-harm, I would have done so a long time ago.
He sat there, head bobbing on a wad of neck. Heavier than he should be, candidate for Type II diabetes any minute. I’ve got him to thank for this pen and paper, but if I had, he might have guessed I’ve got my own plans for their use.
To turn the page, click here. This opening page introduces (for me) a unique and interesting character. Story questions arise, created first by the protestations about not being violent. And then we can wonder to what use the pen and paper are going to be put. And the fact that she's being guarded makes it clear that something has gone wrong, something she needs to deal with.
Writers, send your prologue/first chapter to FtQ for a “flogging” critique. Email as an attachment. In your email, include your name, permission to use the first page, and, if it’s okay, permission to post the rest of the prologue/chapter.
Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, it’s educational to take a hard look at their first pages. A poll follows concerning the need for an editor.
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.
Next are the first 17 manuscript lines of chapter 1 for Better Off Wed (Annabelle Archer Wedding Planner Mystery Book 1). A poll and the opening page of the first chapter follow. Should this author have hired an editor?
Planning a wedding can be murder. Planning weddings for a living is nothing short of suicide.
“Is there a patron saint for wedding consultants? Because I think after this wedding, I just might meet the requirements.” I stood near the top of the wide marble staircase that swept down the middle of the Corcoran Gallery of Art’s central foyer. Below me, dozens of tuxedo-clad waiters scurried around the enormous hall filled end to end with tables and gold ladder-backed chairs. After having draped ivory chiffon into swags on all forty tables, I massaged the red indentations left on my fingers by the heavy pins.
“Annabelle, darling, I may be a lapsed Catholic, but I’m pretty sure you have to be dead to qualify for sainthood.” Richard Gerard had been one of my closest friends since I arrived in Washington, DC three years ago and started Wedding Belles. At the time he’d been the only top caterer who’d bother talking to a new wedding planner. Now I worked with him almost exclusively.
“The wedding isn’t over yet.”
“At least your suffering hasn’t been in vain.” Richard motioned at the room below us. “It’s divine.”
The museum’s enormous hall did look magical. The side railings of the staircase were (snip)
This cozy mystery received 4.5 stars on Amazon and an Agatha Award for best first novel. Right off, this narrative benefits from good, clear writing and an inviting voice. But, alas, there’s no tension. Yes, the opening sentence teases us with “murder” and “suicide,” but that quickly goes away. There are no story questions raised. Even if this is a cozy, how about getting the murder up front? The murdered person is the mother of the bride, found dead at the end of the chapter—and it should be the beginning. Setup kills this opening for me. Your thoughts?
Cover critique
I like this cover. The art is bold and eye-catching, yet feminine, and I’m pretty sure the main market for cozy mysteries is women. The wedding theme is accentuated, and murder is signaled by the knife dripping blood into a blood-red title. The typography works well, too, with a clear title and a large presentation of the author name.
Writers, send your prologue/first chapter to FtQ for a “flogging” critique. Email as an attachment. In your email, include your name, permission to use the first page, and, if it’s okay, permission to post the rest of the prologue/chapter.
Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, it’s educational to take a hard look at their first pages. A poll follows concerning the need for an editor.
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.
Next are the first 17 manuscript lines of the prologue for The Girl From Paradise Hill: The McClintock-Carter Crime Thriller Trilogy: Book One. A poll and the opening page of the first chapter follow. Should this author have hired an editor?
Stirring the pot…
The posters flapped in the cold winds of October, the ink faded, the photo blurred. People in town still talked about her, Melissa, the pretty little girl from Paradise Hill, but their voices were hushed, their expressions resigned.
That was going to change if he had his way, and most of the time he did.
He drove to the cabin along the narrow dirt road bordering the lake, past the cemetery at the edge of town. A cathedral of tall pines sheltered the historic graveyard, with its row upon row of headstones and crosses, some of them so old they were covered in moss. The girl should have been laid to rest there, but the body wasn't buried with the other dead of Paradise Hill.
It was hidden. Maybe too well.
The girl with the sad brown eyes and long wavy hair had been missing five months. The case was still warm enough to have a detective assigned but with no leads, no suspects and no crime scene, it was rapidly growing cold.
Stupid pigs.
They thought they were so smart. The killer was right under their nose. Hell, some of (snip)
This received 3.8 stars on Amazon. I only critique free BookBub books here, and this was one of the few available today. The writing is clear, and the topic of the killing of a child as seen through the mind of the killer works . . . as far as it goes. There is tension and a story question: what is the killer going to do? Kill again? Reveal himself? Good questions, but . . .
I have a subject-matter issue—here we have another serial killer, this one picking on little girls. Sick. In this currently troubled world, do we need yet another journey with a demented monster? Is this entertainment? Escape reading? Not for me. While the aim of this blog is to critique writing, I want to encourage writers to look for strong stories that don’t drag us into the world of the criminally insane. At least avoid putting us in their minds. Look for another genre, another story to tell that reveals human nature. Bottom line on this one—it works if you like to read this kind of story. An if that grows larger for me the more I see these stories. Your thoughts?
Cover critique
The cover works. The title and author are clear and strong, and the foggy forest road creates a somber mood and a sense of mystery.
Writers, send your prologue/first chapter to FtQ for a “flogging” critique. Email as an attachment. In your email, include your name, permission to use the first page, and, if it’s okay, permission to post the rest of the prologue/chapter.
Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, it’s educational to take a hard look at their first pages. A poll follows concerning the need for an editor.
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.
Next are the first 17 manuscript lines of chapter 1 for Summer Magic: The Thorne Witches Book 1. A poll and the opening page of the first chapter follow. Should this author have hired an editor?
“We’ve got a problem, C.C.”
Cooper Carlyle, in the process of cooking breakfast, hung his head, appetite gone. “Please don’t tell me it’s that damned elephant.”
“Okay, I won’t.” Keaton swiped two bacon strips in passing.
Coop’s head came up. “Really? It’s not the Thorne beast?”
His brother laughed. “Oh, no. It is, but I won’t tell you he’s in our pool again if you don’t want to know.”
With a litany of curses, Coop threw down the spatula, turned off the burner, and stalked to the deck. What he saw triggered another long series of swear words. Eddie The Elephant was the most recent rescue of one Summer Thorne, his all-around pain-in-the-butt neighbor to the west. Since she’d petitioned and freed the elephant from a miserable life of performing on command, the ginormous beast had been nothing but a menace to the Carlyle estate. When he wasn’t leaving massive amounts of gag-worthy crap all over the lawn, he was making himself at home in the Olympic-sized swimming pool off the back deck.
Today, Eddie was already underwater and using his trunk as a snorkel. Periodically, he would peek over the edge of the pool toward the rear of the property where the Carlyles’ prized horses grazed.
This received a strong 4.7 stars on Amazon. Okay, I’ll confess that I’m in a summer read mode and I enjoy witch stories. The protagonists are usually sassy and smart, and it’s fun to see variations on how magic works.
Here, we start out in the POV of an antagonist (of sorts). And we know there’s a problem as the first line lets us know that. The situation of an elephant being in your backyard pool promises entertainment, and there’s some intrigue for Summer Thorne, who rescues beasts such as elephants. Can’t be an all-bad person, right?
Voice and writing are good, the narrative professional in its presentation. Anticipating a light-handed solution to this conflict, I wanted more—BTW, the tension here is the kind that literary agent calls “bridging tension” that leads to the main story/tension. Your thoughts?
Cover critique
The cover works pretty well for me. The title and author are clear and strong. The young woman, along with the title, create an idea of who the story is about. If there’s one thing that could have been stronger, it is the “magic” radiating from her hand. It blends with the blue background and would have been much clearer if done with hues of gold and yellow, IMO.
Writers, send your prologue/first chapter to FtQ for a “flogging” critique. Email as an attachment. In your email, include your name, permission to use the first page, and, if it’s okay, permission to post the rest of the prologue/chapter.
Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, it’s educational to take a hard look at their first pages. A poll follows concerning the need for an editor.
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.
Next are the first 17 manuscript lines of chapter 1 for A Harvest of Bones. A poll and the opening page of the first chapter follow. Should this author have hired an editor?
From Brigit’s Journal:
The house is remarkably big, and there are so many things to remember. I hope I do well. Mr. Edward rather frightens me, though the Missus is nice enough.
I didn’t know school would be so expensive; they were very firm on that account—they don’t accept charity cases and I’ve no resources or family to whom I can turn.
My only hope is to save up enough money to try again. I’m disappointed, of course, but at least this situation is better than starving. It won’t be so bad. The time will pass quickly, and I’m used to the work—I’ve never been spoiled or without chores to do. And I’m sure that in a couple of years, I’ll be able to carry out my original plans. I just have to bide my time, mind my manners, and do what is expected of me until then. At least they let me have a cat—bless them for that. My Mab is such a darling, and she’ll be good company for me when I need to talk about my troubles. I learned long ago, best to turn to animals for that, they can’t tell yours secrets. Even a diary isn’t safe from prying eyes. But a cat will listen, and keep her silence for you.
“JEEZUZ!” AN ARGIOPE darted across my hand, off the branch I was holding. A second later, both tree limb and spider went flying. The striped orb weavers had grown fat on the last of the autumn insects; now their webs stretched in a parade through the tangle of brambles, silken strands shimmering under the feeble sunlight glinting through the buildup of clouds.
This received a strong 4.8 stars on Amazon. It’s clear that the writer has professional chops. The opening voice/diary entry are strong and inviting. I liked the part about the cat. But no real tension yet.
Then we shift point of view, in a sense, to someone dealing with spiders in some place. But there’s no jeopardy here—the spider that startles her/him goes flying and we get a description of pretty silken strands. No jeopardy here. As much as I responded to the opening entry, there’s no real compelling reason, narrative-wise, to carry on. Your thoughts?
Cover critique
The cover says this is a NY Times bestselling author, so the cover does the right thing in presenting her name as largely as possible. I think doing this signals potential quality because we associate big names on covers as bestsellers.
The cover art, though, doesn’t pass the web test. It might work fine on a bookstore table, but on a web page the montage of images just becomes a mess the viewer has to unscramble, and people just don’t like to do that. And the ghost cat, definitely a question-raiser for me, is very difficult do distinguish. The title is pretty weak, too. So this cover is half good, half bad, IMO.
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.
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.
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.
Melissa sends the first chapter of Doubting River. The rest of the narrative is after the break.
All for the want of a horseshoe nail. That pithy warning, one of his dad’s favorites, taunted nine-year-old Lucas Gibson as he watched a sleek, black bullet streak toward its target. In this case, the nail was a forgotten leash, the bullet was a dog, and the target was a fallen duck. Mister Halsey’s duck.
It wasn’t as if he’d meant for River to go after the bird. As late as he was, they’d still detoured the long way through the woods at the far end of the long, narrow strip of pasture that made up Mister Halsey’s favorite hunting spot. But River had seen Mister Halsey’s gun swing toward the sky. Thankfully, in the seconds it took the dog to mark the duck that dropped, Lucas had tackled him and wrapped his arms around his neck.
“Stay,” the boy hissed, his mouth close to the dog’s ear. “Stay.” The duck had fallen over a rise, at the other end of the fallow pasture, probably landing in the pond. No way River could have seen where it fell. No way.
Judging by the frantic waving and incoherent shouts coming from his neighbor, Mister Halsey’s half-deaf, half-blind Labrador Buddy wasn’t having much luck finding the bird. Lucas buried his face in River’s neck and screamed. Just go get the dang bird already! His mom was due home any minute, and she was going to kill him if he wasn’t there.
Seconds turned into one minute, then two. Lucas shifted to ease a cramp in his leg. River (snip)
I like the writing and voice, the scene is clear and well written, and the characters likeable—who doesn’t like a boy and his dog? But the tension is, for me, on the mild side. I don’t think for a minute that Lucas’s mom will actually kill him if he’s late. Oh, there will be trouble, but nothing more serious than, at worst, a spanking (he’s grounded). So, while there is something going wrong here, and that meets the guidelines, the consequences are not serious. There’s little at stake. For me, not compelling.
The rest of the chapter is equally well written, but mostly setup, introducing us to the world and characters. The real trouble doesn’t happen until the end of the chapter. I suggest looking for a way to start with that and weaving background stuff in as the story deals with looks like a tragedy and trouble for the boy and his family.
One other thing—the wording of the saying used in opening line is not the same as the famous one the author is trying to evoke. The actual Ben Franklin quote is “For the want of a nail the shoe was lost.” I suggest the original be used. Your thoughts?
. . . swiped the boy’s cheek with his tongue and stamped his front feet. The boy stroked the dog’s chest with his thumb. “Just be patient,” he murmured, the curls on the dog’s ears tickling his lips.
River was a retriever, but not like Buddy, and physically there was little resemblance. River’s muzzle was a little longer, and the smooth fur of his face morphed into slight waves on his forehead then into crisp curls, small and delicate on his ears, larger but still tight on his neck and body, giving him what would have been an almost lamb-like look had the fur been longer or his body less powerful.
The old man waved and hollered and occasionally blew the whistle hanging around his neck. The shouts turned to swearing, and finally he lumbered down the slight slope and out of sight, Lucas assumed to fetch the duck himself. Lucas exhaled.
“Let’s get home,” he whispered and loosened his hold to grab the dog’s collar. But he underestimated the value of the fallen prize. River bucked once to the side, broke loose, and bolted. The boy’s mouth dropped open. Crap.
He followed, yelling the dog’s name, but the dog ignored him and sprinted across the pasture, leaping over thatches of Johnson grass beaten nearly flat by late-season storms and winter cold. Unlike the chunky Labrador, River’s long-limbed body was built for speed. Lucas crested the small rise in time to see him blow past his frustrated neighbor on a direct line to the pond. For several long seconds, the startled hunter just stared, and then he frantically struggled to get his shotgun to his shoulder.
“No, Mister Halsey, no!” Lucas shouted. He flung himself at the man’s arm, pulling the gun down. More swearing, as the old man tried to shake him off. “It’s River.”
The man looked down at him and blinked twice, and then squinted toward the water. “What the hell are you doing? Call that mutt back!”
Lucas didn’t get a chance to call him back, because at that moment River reached the edge of the pond and came to an abrupt halt. He swung his head right and left looking for the downed bird. Buddy sat on the bank nearby, looking for all the world like he was waiting for River to get in that cold water and get his duck for him. Probably no more anxious to get wet than Buddy, River turned and followed the left bank.
Mister Halsey growled and spat. “Damn dogs. I’d shoot every one of ’em, but I can’t afford the shells.”
Lucas gripped his neighbor’s flannel jacket. “No—look.”
River had picked his way around the edge of the lake to the far side, where he paused, sniffed, and then plunged into shallow muddy water and emerged seconds later with the duck.
Before Mister Halsey could respond, Lucas grabbed the whistle hanging around the old man’s neck and gave two sharp tweets.
Both dogs looked towards them. River paused long enough to shake and adjust his grip on the bird, then trotted back the way he’d come, around the end of the lake and along an easy path through the weeds, stopping directly in front of them.
“Holy shit.” Mister Halsey sounded awed. Then he snarled again. “That’s my duck, kid. I shot it on my own property. There’s laws against stealing.”
“We’re not stealing!” Lucas yelled back. River dropped the duck into his hands, and the boy shoved it at the old man. He took off at a run, his dog at his heels. “You’re welcome,” he shouted over his shoulder.
They didn’t stop until they reached the barbed wire fence that separated Mister Halsey’s land from his parents’ farm and, more importantly, kept the cattle out of the bottomland swamp his dad claimed was overrun with alligators. Well out of range of his neighbor’s ire, Lucas bent over and sucked in deep breaths of cold air. He glanced back the way he’d come and wondered briefly if Mister Halsey would call and complain. Nah. Mister Halsey was a crazy old grouch, but he wasn’t a snitch.
River plopped his butt on the ground and scratched his ear. Lucas glared at him. “This is all your fault, you know. Now we’re really late.”
Lucas peered through the rusty wire. Their barn blocked most of the view of the house and driveway beyond, good cover for a boy coming back from somewhere he shouldn’t have been with a dog he wasn’t supposed to take out.
He tugged on a silky corkscrew of a curl behind River’s left ear. “Mind your manners, and keep quiet,” he said, then added as an afterthought, “and no, you can’t chase a cow.”
The retriever’s eyes brightened at the mention of the beloved “c” word, but Lucas held tight to his collar as they crossed the pasture and slipped into the barn through the horse paddock at the back.
The chestnut gelding napping in his stall woke and snorted. Lucas put a finger to his lips. “Shhhh.” He reached over and unlatched the stall door. Home free.
"Where have you been?"
Lucas's head whipped to the right. His mother stood in the barn’s doorway, arms crossed, watching him. Busted. "Just out back.”
She arched her eyebrow and looked him up and down. “Want to try again?”
He followed her gaze. Mud, wet grass, and leaves coated his jeans from the knees down, and one knee had a conspicuous rip. In unison he and his mother looked at River, who chose that instant to trot through the stall door. Still wet from his dip in the lake, he had taken the opportunity to roll in the stall bedding, and sawdust (and other less desirable substances) covered him from his nose to the tip of his tail. As if to emphasize the point, the dog shook, showering them both.
"River!"
"Lucas Alexander Gibson!"
The boy dragged the dog toward the house, scattering a trio of chickens pecking for tidbits in the middle of the gravel drive. River bounced every other step, trying to free himself from the death grip on his collar. "I'll get him cleaned up, Mom. I swear," Lucas said over his shoulder.
She followed him, brushing at the sawdust flecking her jacket. "That doesn't answer my question. And honestly," she said, "the pond? Without a leash? If we've told you once…"
Protests rose in his throat. He hadn't intended for River to go in the pond, and he'd had a leash when they left, but he left it at… never mind. She definitely didn't need to know where he left it.
"This dog isn't a pet, Lucas." She punctuated each word with a shake of her index finger. "He's a hunting dog…"
"A very special hunting dog," Lucas sing-songed, more than familiar with this particular litany. “And he belongs to Mr. Forbes, not to us, and we have to take extra special care of him.”
"Exactly.” She glared at the dog in question. “Lord knows, we can't afford to import another one if something happens to him."
The water hose lay in a tangled heap where he'd left it after filling the troughs that morning. He grabbed the nozzle and turned on the spigot on the side of the house. The hose choked and sputtered, but no water came out. "Oh, come on," he muttered, shaking it.
"What would your father tell Mr. Forbes if you’d lost him?" his mother continued. "You know better. Where were you?"
"Maybe it's frozen," he said, peering into the end of the nozzle.
She pressed her lips together. "That's not an answer." She took the nozzle and gave it a shake. "This is Mississippi, not Michigan—it's not that cold. If you would put the hose away properly, it wouldn't get kinked up." She snapped it, hard.
Water exploded from the end, jerking the hose from her grasp. Mother and son screamed and jumped apart to escape the deluge. His mother stumbled backwards, but the hose, writhing like a dancing cobra, followed her. River, delighted with this game, jumped in the middle, chasing the stream as it whipped to and fro. Lucas stared, open-mouthed, too shocked to act.
"Turn it off!" his mother yelled.
Lucas grabbed the knob and turned it left, then right, then left again. Which way was off?
"Righty tighty, lefty loosey!" She danced forward, backward, spun left, and bobbed. Water was everywhere, and everywhere was River, moving in an odd syncopation, bounding and snapping at the drops.
Lucas turned the spigot to the right until the hose sputtered and fell lifeless, bringing the game to an abrupt end. River sniffed at it and pawed it hopefully. For a long moment, no one spoke.
Lucas gawked at his mother. Water dripped from her nose and her chin. Her hair, a red, usually somewhat more tamed, version of his own curls, hung limp in her eyes, and now, in addition to the sawdust, her jacket sported a set of four perfect paw prints walking their way from her left hipbone to her right shoulder. To his horror, laughter quivered in his gut. He bit the inside of his cheek, but he couldn't help it: a giggle climbed his chest and burst out of him. I am so getting grounded for this. Once he started, he couldn't stop.
His mother stood frozen, mouth gaping open. Then a tell-tale red built in her cheeks, and her shoulders began to shake.
Lucas smothered his guffaws under clasped hands and cringed. Not grounded. Dead. I am so dead.
Instead, there was a snort, then a chuckle. Then deep belly laughs. Lucas's jaw dropped open, and for a moment he forgot his own amusement and just stared. That seemed to delight her even more. She plopped down at the picnic table and laughed until tears mixed with the water on her face. After a moment, she shrugged out of her wet jacket and dabbed at her face and streaming eyes with the collar of the lightweight cardigan underneath.
Lucas slid onto the bench beside her. "You're wet."
"I am?" She shook her head, showering him with water droplets. His squeals of delight turned to ear-splitting shrieks when she slipped her hands under his shirt and tickled bare ribs. "I'm cold too!"
"I'll get you a towel." He started to get up, but she caught hold of his wrist.
"Not yet. First, I want you to tell me where you were when I got home."
"Mom…." He tried to pull away, but she pulled him down beside her and wrapped her arm around him to keep him still.
"I spent twenty minutes looking for you. You weren't out back."
He stuck out his bottom lip and looked down.
She held up an index finger. "One."
Lucas's eyes widened. One day grounded. "Mom!"
"Two."
"It's Christmas!"
"Three."
"But we're training River!"
A horn honked, and tires crunched on the gravel drive. Both mother and son swiveled around to see the source. "Dad!" Lucas jumped up and ran to meet his father's truck, River close on his heels.
"It's not fair!" he complained as his father emerged from the cab.
"What's not?" His father knelt down and rubbed the retriever's ears. "What happened to River?"
"Your son took that dog and disappeared this afternoon," his mother said, joining them.
"Three days!" Lucas said. "She grounded me for three days."
His father looked back and forth between them for a long moment. "Lucas," he said finally, "go inside and put on some dry clothes. Oscar’s waiting for us.”
Lucas glanced at his mother and saw her jaw tighten the way it did when she held back words she didn't want to say in front of him. He started to turn away, then paused. "River…."
"I'll take care of him," his father said.
"Yes, sir." The boy fled to the house, a buzz of heated conversation rising and falling in his wake.
"Why are you making me the bad guy—"
Lucas shut the back door, cutting off the rest of his mother's words. He didn't want to hear. This was his fault. Forget it. I'm telling her the truth. He turned, then hesitated, hand on the doorknob. And then they'd never get to train River. He kicked the door.
The impact scattered chunks of mud from his shoes across the laundry room’s linoleum floor. Great. He dropped to his hands and knees and brushed the dirt into a pile. Then, careful not to dislodge anymore dirt, he stripped off his shoes and his socks, and after a moment of consideration, his jeans.
Mud safely contained in the heap, he left the clothes where they were and raced through the house and up the stairs in his underwear, taking the steps two at a time. Socks on first, but his feet were already chilled, and he hopped from one foot to the other as he dressed. His mother didn't see the point in heating the house during the day when they were out, even now when he was on break from school. He complained once, but she threatened to give him extra chores to keep him warm, so he decided to wear an extra sweater.
Before he went back downstairs, he dashed into the guest room and peeked through the window to see what his parents were doing. They stood face-to-face, his father's jacket around his mom's shoulders, her hands wrapped in his flannel shirt. His father's head was bent close to hers as he spoke. The words were just for her; not even the hum of conversation reached the glass. Her lips were pressed tight, but the corner of her mouth twitched, and then she smiled, looking down when she did so.
Lucas backed away from the window and headed outside. He went through the front door, rather than the kitchen, vaulting over the rail on the porch steps out of habit. The railing wobbled and groaned. He cringed. Squeaking that rail was a sure-fire way to annoy his mom, the last thing he wanted right now. He circled wide to the barn, keeping his head low, hoping not to attract their attention.
When he slipped inside the old structure, he blew out his breath and relaxed. In an unused corner, his father had built a chain-link kennel run for River, and next to that stood a cabinet where they kept training equipment. Lucas opened it and looked over the contents. Whistle, replacement leash, long line—they’d definitely need those. He pulled out a couple of knobby white retrieving dummies and considered them. River usually retrieved these plastic bumpers instead of birds. It sure would be cool if they could retrieve some ducks instead. He looked wistfully at his dad's shotgun.
"You were late."
Lucas looked over his shoulder to see his father and River coming through the barn door. He glanced past them, but his mother was out of sight. "She wasn't supposed to be home until three."
"And you were supposed to be home at two. What happened?"
“I forgot River’s leash.” He summarized River’s adventure in their neighbor’s pond, minimizing his own fault as much as possible.
But his father wasn’t interested in fault. “River marked a duck from the woods and found it in the pond?” His forehead creased as he thought. “That had to be three hundred yards.”
Lucas tilted his head. “How far is that?”
“Three football fields.”
Lucas screwed up his face and tried to imagine the high school football field in Mister Halsey’s pasture.
“Incredible,” his father muttered. Then he frowned. “But that doesn’t change what happened. How many times do I have to tell you? The kingdom was lost…”
“I know, I know,” Lucas whined, anticipating what he was going to say. “All for the want of a horseshoe nail.” He hated that poem.
“Yes, all for the want of a horseshoe nail. You forgot the leash, and now we’re late. And if we don’t get a move on, Oscar will leave, and we won’t get any training done tonight.”
Lucas sighed. Logic sucked. "Am I grounded?"
"No. I told her that boys keep secrets at Christmas." He turned and began sorting through the equipment Lucas had pulled out. "You'd better have something good for her under that tree though."
The boy tapped a bumper against his thigh. How could he tie the vase he made in art class into his trip through the woods? He’d have to ask his buddy Sam. He was good at figuring out things like this.
River grabbed the bumper and tried to tug it out of his hands. He obliged him for a moment, then tossed it for him to fetch. The dog bounded after it and returned it, tail wagging.
"Can we train with real birds today?" Lucas asked. "I bet you can get some pigeons from Oscar."
His dad dug in the back of the cabinet until he found what he was looking for: a pair of foam dummies weighted and painted to feel and look like dead ducks. "We've talked about this. We're not ready for live flyers yet."
"But River has retrieved lots of real birds. Oscar said so. When he was in New Zealand, he retrieved real birds all the time. I told you what he did today. He didn’t have any trouble at all."
"I didn't say River couldn’t do it. I said we're not ready. We need to test him, bit by bit, to find out what he knows and what he doesn't. There's a huge difference between hunting in New Zealand and American field trials. We've got to figure it out systematically, starting with the basics. And that means we go slow."
The boy sighed. "All right. But I think he's bored."
His father faced him and bent down like he was sharing a secret. "You know what? I think he is too. Since he did so well with the pond, what do you say we try some water retrieves today?"
Lucas wrinkled his nose. "Isn't it kind of cold?"
"Not to River." His father suddenly swept the boy up and hung him, upside down and backwards, over his shoulder.
For a split second, Lucas considered complaining that at nine years old, he was too old for this, but his argument was overruled by irrepressible giggles.
"We’re late. Hurry up, and get the stuff," his father said, turning so he could reach it.
It wasn't easy to manage all the bits and pieces while hanging upside down, but that was part of the challenge. Of course, the snickers he couldn't control and the dog that kept jumping up and licking his face didn't help, but he managed to hold onto everything all the way to the truck. He watched his mother approach, shaking her head. She looked funny walking on her head, and it made him laugh harder.
"Jake," his mother admonished. "It's a wonder he doesn't have brain damage. Look how red his face is."
His father swung him around and set him on his feet. "Just trying to get the blood flowing up there. Want him firing on all cylinders."
"Mmmhmm." She didn't sound quite convinced, but at least she seemed amused and no longer angry.
A silver "dog box" designed to hold multiple hunting dogs and their equipment was mounted on the bed of his father's pickup. This one wasn’t fancy like the one Oscar had. His dad had bought it used off Craigslist from some guy near Vicksburg. But it worked fine, and Lucas felt like a real dog trainer with River riding in the box. He shoved the equipment into a compartment on the driver's side, then ran around and opened the one on his side. His dad lifted River in, and then carefully fastened the hatch. Lucas crawled into the truck's cab.
"Seat belt," his father reminded him.
"Don't forget," his mother said as his parents walked around to the driver's side, "your training partner has cows to feed, you have a porch rail to fix—” She shot Lucas a glance that told him she hadn’t missed his attempt to sneak past. “—and we promised to attend the live Nativity at the church tonight."
His father gave her a quick kiss and got in the truck. "How could I forget? Chasing Gertrude McKelvey's ass up and down Main Street is a December twenty-third tradition." He rolled down the window and turned the ignition key. The truck put-put-putted to life.
His mother leaned in the window. "I hope you're talking about her donkey."
Lucas giggled, and she gave him a wink.
"You're going to have to watch Lucas tonight too. I promised to sell ornaments in the church booth."
"Grandma will be there. I can stay with her," Lucas said.
"No, you can't." Her tone was flat. She met his eyes until he nodded, then tapped his father’s arm. "Speaking of the McKelveys, I heard Tom might be looking to hire somebody to help build some new fence in his back pasture before the winter calves come."
"All Tom McKelvey has to do is ask, and the whole county will turn out for free."
"Free won't pay for a new alternator or my textbooks. New quarter starts right after New Year's. I had to charge…"
"Don't worry about that," his father said. "We'll get the money. Have I ever let you down?" He gave her a quick kiss. "Home for dinner!"
She smiled and stepped back so he could turn the truck around. "Be careful."
He started down the drive. "Nahhhhh."
Her laughter followed them onto the road.
Lucas turned on the radio. Twangy music blared for a moment, then dissolved into static. He fiddled with the tuner, but the old truck apparently wasn't in the mood for music today. "Crap."
"Language."
"Sorry." He turned the radio off. "I wish Mom didn't hate Grandma so much."
"She doesn't hate her. They're just too alike and too stubborn, and your mom can't let go of some stuff that happened a long time ago."
"A long time ago like when you got married?"
"Like even before that," his dad said.
Unable to imagine such ancient history, Lucas switched topics. "So if River wins this contest, will Mom stop worrying about money?"
"Field trial. If—When—River wins a field trial, I will be the man for training around here, and our troubles will be G-O-N-E. Trust me, Lucas, that dog is our golden ticket."
"I don't know why Mom's going to school anyway. I know I wouldn't go to school if I was a grownup." Lucas watched the scenery pass for a long moment and then blurted the words he'd been holding in. "I think we should tell Mom the truth."
His father pulled up to the stop sign at the turn onto Highway 61 and stopped. "We've discussed this. I thought you understood."
"I do understand." Lucas kicked the dashboard. "It isn't fair!"
"Maybe not, but don't take it out on my truck." His father made the left onto the highway. "I don't like this either, Lucas, but I don't see any other way to do it."
The boy crossed his arms and huffed. "It's just... She just… She just ought to be reasonable."
His father threw back his head and laughed. "I agree. I don't recommend you tell her that though."
A sudden blur of tan distracted Lucas from his reply. "Look out!"
The truck careened and skidded as his father tried to avoid the buck that leapt in front of them. Lucas glimpsed the deer's eyes, rolling in terror, an instant before the collision flipped the animal onto the hood. Glass shattered, and the boy yelled and threw his arms up to protect himself. Another lurch, and the truck came to a halt.
Lucas sat with his eyes squeezed shut until the unnerving stillness finally drove him to peek. He yelped and flinched away from the buck, its face just inches from his own. The deer was beyond reacting. It had come partially through the windshield, its body wrenched and twisted by the impact. The neck was at an odd angle, the antlers wedged between the dash and Lucas's abdomen.
The boy exhaled. That was close! He pushed at the massive head, but it wouldn't budge. He tried again. No luck. Maybe he could slide out. He fumbled with the seatbelt, but somehow the tip of one antler had jammed in the clasp.
"Dad, I'm stuck." His father didn't answer. Lucas looked over. "Dad?"
His father was leaning forward over the steering wheel, eyes closed, as if he were trapped in that moment before impact, praying they wouldn't collide.
"Dad?" Lucas's voice shook. He reached over and tugged on his father's sleeve. He slumped toward him, his head lolling backwards to reveal a small cut and swelling on his forehead. Lucas grabbed his jacket and shook him. "Wake up!"
His father made a sound low in his throat and blinked his eyes. He slowly lifted his head, wincing as he did, and looked around. He blinked again and sat up straighter. “You okay, Lucas?” He ruffled the boy’s head and looked him up and down.
“I’m fine, but I’m stuck,” he said, his voice trembling.
His father leaned to help him and found himself restricted by his own seatbelt. He jiggled the clasp, pulled on it, then pressed as hard as he could, the effort showing in the tendons on his neck. The belt suddenly popped loose and retracted with a whir. They stared at each other, and then laughed in relief.
A horn blared, and tires squealed. Lucas looked past his father with a gasp and took in their situation all at once. They were on the highway, facing oncoming traffic, or what would be oncoming traffic if he could have seen it. The road angled left limiting his view—and the view of anyone coming towards them. He grabbed his seatbelt and jerked at it. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
His father pressed the seatbelt’s release button. “Stop pulling on the belt!” He finagled with it, alternating yanking on the belt and smashing the button.
In the distance, there was a rumble. Lucas looked around them. Beyond them, the car that had almost hit them had stopped, and a man was getting out. He couldn’t see beyond the curve, but the rumble was getting louder. “You’ve got to get out of here.”
“No, I’ve almost got it....”
“Dad, go!”
The rumble became the blare of a horn, then the squeal of brakes. The seatbelt slithered free, and Lucas threw his shoulder against the door. But it was already too late. He looked back and for the briefest moment caught his dad’s eye. Before the blackness, his last thought was of a dog’s leash and his father’s favorite poem. All for the want of a horseshoe nail….
Writers, send your prologue/first chapter to FtQ for a “flogging” critique. Email as an attachment. In your email, include your name, permission to use the first page, and, if it’s okay, permission to post the rest of the prologue/chapter.
Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, it’s educational to take a hard look at their first pages. A poll follows concerning the need for an editor.
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.
Next are the first 17 manuscript lines of chapter 1 for Rituals of the Dead. A poll and the opening page of the first chapter follow. Should this author have hired an editor?
“Dip, scoop, pour. Dip, scoop, pour. Dip, scoop, pour.” Nick Mayfield’s dried lips cracked open as he repeated his mantra. Just a few more inches, then she’ll float as the survival guide had explained. He leaned against the t-shirt and bits of plank filling the gashes in the sides of the canoe, willing the stream of seawater to stop pouring in faster than he could scoop it out.
The sun was slowly descending, growing in size as it neared the horizon. Bands of pink and orange streaked across the sky, intensifying in color by the second. The new moon was barely a sliver. In an hour’s time, he would be plunged into darkness.
Nick squinted to orient himself, thankful he could see an emerald belt of jungle rising in the distance. He must be in Flamingo Bay, he reckoned, and not too far from land. Still, the expanse of blue-green water between him and the shore was vast. A strong wind tried to push him seabound. Only the weight of the water and a few crates of barter goods still filling its hull kept the canoe in sight of land. Nick sighed. He was in for a long paddle back once his boat was seaworthy again.
Nick stopped scooping to reposition the jeans tied to his head, arranging the legs so that they covered most of his sunburned back. His thoughts turned to the eight rowers who had jumped overboard hours ago. Had they already made it to shore? Nick wondered for the hundredth time if he should have abandoned ship and swum back with them. Though his faith in (snip)
This received 4.4 stars on Amazon. Good writing and good voice foreshadow good writing ahead. And the storytelling should be good, too—this opening has a sympathetic character in trouble, and he’s already working to get out of it. Since this is supposed to be a mystery, it would have been nice to get a hint of that, but even so this works pretty well. Your thoughts?
Cover critique
One of the jobs of a good cover design is to hint at the content, even raise a story question if it can. For me, the sunset scene fails to evoke mystery. Without a subtitle to tell you that this is a mystery, there’s no clue. The title font is at least eye-catching—but it doesn’t seem to radiate “mystery” either. Not a terrific cover despite the beautiful art.
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.
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.
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.
Susan sends the first chapter of Go, Said the Birdl. The rest of the narrative is after the break.
I trudged against an icy wind on Huron Street. At the corner, a tall cop hustled a small, brown-skinned woman out of Ray’s Hardware.
“I did not steal,” she said.
He reached for her wrist. She retreated and bowed her head.
“Look at me, bitch.”
That deep voice. Redmann. For years, I’d avoided him, and he might not recognize in a twenty-six year old woman the terrified child he dragged out of the closet.
He pointed his nightstick at me. “What are you looking at, girlie?”
My mouth dried, I twisted my fingers together.
He hauled the woman to his car. She aimed a pleading expression at me through the rear window, but what could I do? I scurried across the street.
After the years when I couldn’t, I now forced myself to visit my parents once a month.
At the Blue Lake City Cemetery, the caretaker mumbled hello. He cleared gray lumps of old snow and trash off the graves and the hard ground between them.
I swayed between my mother and my father’s headstones. “I’m fine,” I told them. “I am. Really.” I kicked at a pocket of slush the caretaker missed. The inside of my fur-lined boot grew (snip)
I like the voice and the writing in this opening. The scene is quickly and well set, and we’re opening with action. So we can focus on story questions. For my money, there was a missed opportunity. More on that in the quick edit below.
While tension was raised immediately with the narrative of a terrified child dragged from a closet, in a way it’s quickly dissipated when the cop left with the old woman in the car. Threat removed.
But waiting two lines later, on page two, was a much stronger hook that, for me, did the job of raising at least two strong questions: what happened to her years ago, and will the killer strike again? Yes, a killer. Here’s the edit to bring in that on the first page—mostly cutting atmospheric stuff.
I trudged against an icy wind on Huron Street. At the corner, a tall cop hustled a small, brown-skinned woman out of Ray’s Hardware.
“I did not steal,” she said.
He reached for her wrist. She retreated and bowed her head.
“Look at me, bitch.”
That deep voice. Redmann. For years, I’d avoided him, and he might not recognize in a twenty-six year old woman the terrified child he had dragged out of athe closet.
He pointed his nightstick at me. “What are you looking at, girlie?”
My mouth dried, I twisted my fingers together.
He hauled the woman to his car. She aimed a pleading expression at me through the rear window, but what could I do? I scurried across the street.
After the years when I couldn’t, I now forced myself to visit my parents once a month.
At the Blue Lake City Cemetery, the caretaker mumbled hello. He cleared gray lumps of old snow and trash off the graves and the hard ground between them.
I swayed between my mother and my father’s headstones. “I’m fine,” I told them. “I am. Really.” I kicked at a pocket of slush the caretaker missed. The inside of my fur-lined boot grew wet. I didn’t mention seeing their killer for the first time in fifteen years, nor the expression on the face of the woman trapped in his car.
This opening, as revised, leads me to want more of this story. Your thoughts?
wet. I didn’t mention seeing their killer for the first time in fifteen years, nor the expression on the face of the woman trapped in his car.
On the way back to Northside, the city’s oldest neighborhood, I shaped a snowball and heaved it at a parked car’s tire, something I’d scolded three of my second-graders for, only yesterday.
Food wrappers rattled on the broken pavement, burnt out street lights, the remains of the last three snowstorms packed the gutters.
I eyed Ray’s Hardware, ducked my head and hurried into Johnny O’s store.
A grin lit his broad ochre-colored face and dissolved into drawn brows. He snapped the brim of his cowboy hat. “Long face, Nettie. ”
I leaned on the counter. He whipped out two pineapple popsicles and handed me one. Too sweet, with the sour taste of lying to my parents, seeing Redmann, and watching him with the woman thick in my throat.
“You visit your parents today?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Johnny O is psychic.” He clapped a hand to his heart.”But Nettie does not believe. Woe, woe.”
A smile tugged at my mouth.
“Better.” He patted my hand. “You need a boyfriend.”
“And here I thought I didn’t have a mother.” I thrust Redmann out of my thoughts--I had to-- and bought tomato soup, Swiss cheese, and rye bread while Johnny and I made plans for dinner and checkers later in the week.
Eight years in this apartment. I never decorated. White walls, beige curtains, old furniture. No photographs, no posters. Nothing personal. Not after nine years of foster care and Witness Protection, nothing ever mine, including my name.
A lie, two things anyone would call personal. One sat on my desk, a heavy ceramic falcon, with a shiny topoz eye. Horus, an Egyptian god, Johnny gave me for my twenty-fifth birthday.
“Son of truth,” he said, “Or maybe daughter?”
The second item, hidden in the dresser under winter socks, a fading picture cut from the newspaper of Grip, and the rest of the task force.The story, detailing the failure of the task force to file any indictments, a vindication, the chief of police and mayor claimed, I skimmed once, and ignored. I rarely looked at the picture anymore. A failure there, too. Mine.
The next day, Channel Five news said a woman accused of shoplifting was admitted to the hospital with multiple contusions. She refused to say who beat her. A cop was stationed outside her room, not the newscaster said, for her protection. To arrest her as soon as she was discharged.
A few weeks later, a night the Michigan temperature fell to a new frigid low, I craved hot chocolate. I shook the milk carton in the fridge. Empty. Living alone, no one to blame but myself.
Five to midnight, bad time to go out, but I tucked my nightgown into my jeans, grabbed my down jacket, wallet, phone, and ran the two blocks to Johnny O’s.
His sign flashed red and yellow. Inside, the overheated air smelled of meat and garlic, the wrapper of a beef pie crumpled beside the microwave.
“Nettie, about to close. You out late.”
“I really want hot chocolate.”
His wide mouth turned down. He tweaked the brim of the cowboy hat, worn with a Hawaiian shirt dotted with pineapples over long underwear. “I have no hot chocolate mix.”
“I have that, I need milk.” I paid him for a quart.
He shooed me out. “So late, you run home, Miss Track Star.” He grinned. Teasing me about my college track record always amused him.
I paused under the tattered awning. The canvas flapped and whipped in the wind.
No traffic, nobody else out, not even at the ATM across the street, where the camera mounted above it would show me shrinking against the door. I fought an impulse to dart back inside.
A howl. A dog?
Not a dog.
A few doors up the block, Sherry’s Beauty Salon’s pink sign blinked, revealing a police car, lights off, doors open. Two uniforms loomed over a black kid on his back on the pavement. I identified Redmann by his height.
The kid held both hands in the air, his voice high, cracking.“I didn’t do anything. I was going to buy food for my mama.”
Redmann raised his nightstick. The silence on the street amplified the kid’s wail.
I didn’t think it through. My hand shook, lifting the phone. I hit record. I couldn’t see the cop car’s license or Redmann’s face, but I captured the other cop standing under Sherry’s flickering sign, the raised nightsticks, the terrible mingled cries and thwacks.
The short cop turned his head. We gawked at each other. He said something to Redmann and strode toward me, swinging his nightstick.The eleven-year old inside me surfaced in a hot rush.
The milk fell from my numb fingers and splatted on the sidewalk. I shoved the phone in my pocket and ran.
Footsteps pounded behind me. I raced around the corner on to a dead end street parallel to Huron and flattened myself into a recessed doorway toward the end of the block.
The cop breathed with a rasp, shuffling closer. Closer. Two doors from me.
A shout, the cop muttered something and stalked away. A car engine started. It grew louder. Lights off, the cop car inched toward me.
“Where’d you go, girlie?”
The deep voice. My lungs burned. I huddled in the doorway, sweaty and cold all at once.
“We aren’t going to hurt you. Only want your phone.”
The car halted five doors in, and the short cop got out. “Come on, not much place to hide here.”
Their radio squawked. “Redmann, Franks, where are you?”
“Got a situation here, Sarge.”
The short cop stopped walking. I crouched down, inched toward the broken wooden fence and trash cans at the dead end of the block.
Behind me the short cop yelled, “There she is.”
I ran, collided with a garbage can, and pushed it over. It rolled a few feet and I streaked through the opening made by two jagged boards. My jacket sleeve caught on a nail. I jerked it. A ripping sound, feet too close behind me.
On the other side of the fence, a vacant lot. I flew across it to Huron and squatted between two parked cars.
Local jokes claimed Blue Lake disappeared after 11 pm but 95, 000 people lived here. Where were they all? The world narrowed to two cops and me.
The cop car backed out and swung on to Huron. The short cop got out of the car again and trotted along the sidewalk. “They want us to check out a domestic on the next block,” Redmann called from the car. “Got a better idea how to find her.”
The short cop slammed the passenger side door and Redmann made an illegal U turn.
I stood, legs cramping. I couldn’t feel my feet.
The kid they’d beaten must need an ambulance. I tugged my phone out of my back pocket. Damn, recording this whole time, the battery dead. I jammed it in the zipper pocket of my jacket.
A crash, a shout, not close, a couple blocks away maybe. Hard to tell in the quiet. An engine revved. No lit street lights here, several blocks beyond my apartment. I crept along the parked cars, stopping to listen, to search the darkness for any sign of the cops.
I circled back and approached the brick three story where I lived on the second floor.
Early morning, I’d smiled at a goldfinch perched on the fire escape outside my window, a species unfazed by winter days. Now, a thin moon glinted on shattered glass and inside, a shadow moved.
How did they know my address?
My stomach lurched. Their better idea? The noises, the crash... Johnny? He would never tell cops. He didn’t trust them any more than I did. My eyes stung. Unless they beat it out of him.
A tall shadow at the window, climbing on to the fire escape. “Look, there.”
I swiped my hand across my eyes. Half-blinded, I ran.
Three miles later, I stopped at the cemetery. The caretaker locked the gate at eleven every night, and I couldn’t see my mother or father’s graves from where I huddled against a big oak, but I doubted Redmann would think to search for me here.
I took stock. I needed a shirt instead of my nightgown. A phone cord. A toothbrush. If I meant to hide out for a while, I needed cash. A while? I shut down the question of how long, and concentrated on how to get what I needed.
Jacket hood up, I strolled back toward my place. They’d be looking for someone wary, nervous, in a rush. Harder to see someone who doesn’t conform to expectations, Grip said once.
No sign of movement inside my studio. No police car. They’d be back. Should I go in the front door, or up the fire escape? They’d likely expect me to sneak in, if I came back. I strode up the steps, and buzzed my downstairs neighbor. He buzzed the door open.
“Nettie? Forget your key?”
“A couple of guys, cops, are looking for me. Don’t tell them you saw me.”
He tucked his pointed chin down against his neck. “What’d you do? Never mind.” He waved his hand, the same gesture I used in erasing the chalkboard in my class. “I never saw you and I don’t want to be involved.”
“Leave off the second half of that sentence and we should both be fine.”
He swiveled and shut his door. Click of a lock, metallic slide of a chain. We were neighbors, not friends, but his self-interest should work for me. Maybe.
In my apartment, I yanked off my nightgown, pulled on a long sleeved t-shirt, shoved my phone cord, my toothbrush, a comb, and all the cash I had on hand, $125.00, into my jacket pockets.
I swayed in front of the Horus figure on the desk. My hand itched to grab it, but I touched the bright eye, and left it. I’d abandoned things with each of many moves. Johnny’s gift was hard to let go of, one reason I didn’t have much.
I came down the stairs, and boots sounded on the outside steps. I sprinted under the staircase.
A bang on the door, long press of the buzzer. My downstairs neighbor stomped out and flung the door open.
“What the screw?”
“You see your upstairs neighbor?”
“Go look for yourself.”
“You want to sound a little less belligerent?”
“I want to go back to bed.” His door slammed.
Boots tramping up the stairs.
The footsteps stopped, I slipped out the front door.
The short cop appeared on the front stoop the same time I made it to the pavement.
He raced down the stairs and grabbed my arm. “Well, well, See what I found.”
I tussled with him. Grip’s self defense instructions came back to me--go for the eyes or the groin. I kneed him. He groaned and doubled over.
I jogged away. Grip would be proud of me. My mother would be, too. Too bad neither of them could help me decide what to do next.
He came to them in the heart of winter, asking for his Cobweb Bride.