Hey, if you’re isolating like I am, get that trunk novel out and get to writing . . . and/or submitting the first chapter to the Flogometer to get free insights into how it’s working.
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.”
- 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.
Cassie sends the prologue and first chapter for Chasing Darkness. As usual, the rest of the narrative is after the break.
Prologue
Torches flickered and the thump of boots echoed down the hallway as the Commander of the Watch Guard passed, followed by his soldiers. Castle guards and servants flattened themselves against the wall, their expressions a mixture of fear and grief. Hours before, the people of Pandaren celebrated their victory in the war against the Vastanes. Cheers of celebration shifted into wails of sorrow; the palace and city of Orilyon crumbled into chaos.
“How did he get in?” Drexus said, striding down the corridor toward the war room.
“We’re still working on that, Commander.”
Drexus stopped, slowly turning toward the guard, who winced up at him.
“Work faster.”
The guard swallowed, nodding.
Drexus continued down the corridor, clenching his jaw, trying to reign in his anger. Two soldiers saluted as he pushed open the heavy, wooden doors into a room buzzing with activity. Drexus recognized the council members arguing near the fireplace while his generals surrounded a large oval table studying a map of Pandaren. They stood to attention, saluting as Drexus approached. Kenneth Brenet, head advisor to the king, sat in a corner holding his head.
One of the council members hurried over. “Is it true? Is King Valeri dead?” “It’s true,” Drexus said, ignoring the questions yelled at him, putting a hand on Kenneth’s (snip)
First chapter
For the second time in Azrael’s life, he wished for death. But instead of receiving it, he became it. Azrael didn’t fear dying. He even welcomed it at times, which he thought fitting since his name meant Angel of Death. But this time, he had no one to blame but himself. Lust for revenge and power fueled Azrael as agony ripped through him.
Pain like he’d never known rushed through his body, the serum transforming him from a lethal assassin to something worse. Something everyone would fear. He bit down on a leather strap as another wave of pain crashed through him, his muscles contracting beneath the restraints. Azrael inhaled, focusing on his anger, clinging to the image of the Spectral and his magical black fire.
Pain is inescapable; suffering is a choice.
Azrael repeated his mantra, closing his eyes, and breathed through the torment, ignoring the tubes embedded in him. He’d chosen this path, knew the risks. With the Amplifier serum flowing through his veins, he’d have the strength and speed to battle any Spectral he faced.
If the transfusion didn’t kill him.
Large hands pressed down on Azrael’s shoulders as his back arched; the taste of leather and blood permeated his mouth.
“Hold on, Azrael,” Drexus Zoldac said, staring down at him. His dark eyes, etched with (snip)
On the prologue: the editor in me was a little put off by grammatical issues in the first paragraph, which was missing some key words:
Hours before, the people of Pandaren had celebrated their victory in the war against the Vastanes. Cheers of celebration had shifted into wails of sorrow; the palace and city of Orilyon had crumbled into chaos.
For me, this summary was too densely packed with information—do I need to know “Pandaren, Vastanes, Orilyon" at this point? Then there’s a lot of talk about something that has happened but we don’t know what. Then it’s revealed that the king is dead . . . but for whom is that a problem (other than the king)? That he’s dead creates, belatedly, a story question, but for me a weak one. I think a better start for this story came on the second page:
“Attention, please,” Kenneth said, silencing the room. “As many of you suspect, the king was murdered in his study this evening.”
Now that raises story questions and creates tension.
On the first chapter: the story elements are a lot stronger here. There’s a character in jeopardy as he undergoes something painful and deadly. Yet there are things that caught my eye that didn’t seem to fit—the thing he’s doing will transform him from assassin to “something worse.” “Worse” is a value judgement. Seems to me that something such as “even more deadly” would tell us what we need to know without the added judgement. That kind of thing signals a need for editing. But, still, story questions are stronger here. 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 © 2021 by Cassie.
My books. You can read sample chapters and learn more about the books here.
Writing Craft Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling
Mystery (coming of age) The Summer Boy
Science Fiction Gundown Free ebooks.
Continued:
(snip) bony shoulder. “They need you now, more than ever.”
Kenneth nodded, set his shoulders, and strode to the center of the room. Drexus stood at his side, arms crossed.
“Attention, please,” Kenneth said, silencing the room. “As many of you suspect, the king was murdered in his study this evening.”
Murmurs filled the room.
“How?” someone called out.
Kenneth looked up at Drexus, who inhaled, resting his large hands on the table, regarding each council member, noble, and general. “King Valeri was killed by an Air Spectral.”
Gasps, accompanied by shouts of anger, reverberated off the stone walls.
“I thought the Spectrals were on our side,” one of the council members said.
Drexus fisted his hands. “So did we.”
“What do we know about the Spectrals?” Kenneth said.
General Charlys stepped forward, her eyes darting to Drexus’s. “There are two main types of magic, physical and mental. The Spectrals with physical magic can either control an element or are Amps.”
“What are Amps?” One of the nobles asked, approaching the table.
“Amps, or Amplifiers, have unnatural speed and strength,” the general said. “The Mentals are a little trickier, but we’ve determined there are five types: Shields, Healers, Vaulters, Trackers, and Psyches.”
“Psyches?” Kenneth looked from the general to Drexus.
“They can move objects with their mind,” Drexus said.
“How do you have this information?”
“When the Spectrals joined forces with the Watch Guard, I assigned General Charlys to obtain as much information about them as possible, just in case.”
“With that kind of power, how are we going to defend ourselves? Naturals can’t fight against magic,” a councilman said.
Drexus’s eye twitched at the whining in the man’s voice. “I’m currently working on something that will neutralize their power. But first, we need strong leadership. I think Kenneth Brenet should rule as steward until the council deems it unnecessary.”
The murmurings grew, and a few council members’ faces turned red.
“What about Queen Valeri?” one of them asked.
Drexus refrained from rolling his eyes. “She’s grieving the loss of her husband, and with her diminished health, we cannot expect her to take the throne.”
Drexus sensed a shift in the room as men and women nodded their heads—a shift in his favor. “Who is in support of Kenneth Brenet becoming steward of Pandaren?” Drexus smiled as hands raised.
Brenet approached the war table. “This is an honor. I can never measure up to our great king, but I will do my best. And my first act as steward is to put into law that all Spectrals will identify themselves and their powers. We have to know who they are and what they can do.”
The room bristled with fear.
“All in favor,” Drexus said. The motion passed unanimously.
Steward Brenet turned to Drexus. “Whatever you’re working on, get it completed as soon as possible. In the meantime, our priority is to defend the kingdom.”
Drexus led Steward Brenet away from the table. “Do I have your support to do whatever is necessary?”
The thin man stared up at him with wary eyes and nodded.
Drexus kept his expression blank. “I’d like permission to create an elite group of soldiers specifically trained to fight the Spectrals.”
“What do you propose?”
“Hunters.” Drexus glanced over his shoulder, savoring the warmth of victory radiating through him. “Lethal assassins that will ensure the Spectrals comply with our new laws.”
The steward held Drexus’s gaze. “Train your assassins, Drexus. And fortify our army. Create a force with which to be reckoned.”
Chapter 1
Bastion Compound, Orilyon
Seventeen years later
#
For the second time in Azrael’s life, he wished for death. But instead of receiving it, he became it. Azrael didn’t fear dying. He even welcomed it at times, which he thought fitting since his name meant Angel of Death. But this time, he had no one to blame but himself. Lust for revenge and power fueled Azrael as agony ripped through him.
Pain like he’d never known rushed through his body, the serum transforming him from a lethal assassin to something worse. Something everyone would fear. He bit down on a leather strap as another wave of pain crashed through him, his muscles contracting beneath the restraints. Azrael inhaled, focusing on his anger, clinging to the image of the Spectral and his magical black fire.
Pain is inescapable; suffering is a choice.
Azrael repeated his mantra, closing his eyes, and breathed through the torment, ignoring the tubes embedded in him. He’d chosen this path, knew the risks. With the Amplifier serum flowing through his veins, he’d have the strength and speed to battle any Spectral he faced.
If the transfusion didn’t kill him.
Large hands pressed down on Azrael’s shoulders as his back arched; the taste of leather and blood permeated his mouth.
“Hold on, Azrael,” Drexus Zoldac said, staring down at him. His dark eyes, etched with worry, darted to someone behind the table. “This is the last vial. If he dies, you die.”
Black spots floated in Azrael’s vision; the stone ceiling blurred. His nails dug into his palms and blood dripped from his hands.
Pain is inescapable; suffering is a choice.
After what felt like hours, Azrael opened his eyes and drew in a deep breath, the pain dissipating. A humming pulsed through his muscles making his skin tingle. Drexus removed the straps and Azrael slowly sat up, peering through his wet hair; the sweat making it look like a black curtain.
“How do you feel?”
Azrael swung his long legs off the table, closing his eyes to block out the spinning room. He focused on his breathing and the magic purring inside him. He flexed his hands and looked up, cracking his neck. The corner of his mouth lifted. “Powerful.”
Drexus’s gaze narrowed as if he could see the Amplifier magic flowing through Azrael’s body. He smiled. “Finally, after so many failed experiments, my most lethal Hunter now has Spectral magic.” Drexus rested his hand on his assistant’s shoulder, who cowered by the equipment, smiling nervously. Drexus turned back to Azrael, raising his chin. “Your new speed and strength will aid our cause and end this war.”
Azrael winced, gripping the edge of the table and staggered to his feet. Drexus reached out, but Azrael instinctively pulled away. “I’m curious, Commander, why you didn’t get the serum first.”
Drexus held his gaze. “I needed to make sure it worked.”
Azrael frowned, tying back his hair. “Why me?”
“You’re the strongest of my Hunters. I knew you’d survive the procedure.” Drexus stared at the tattoos covering Azrael’s right arm. “I need you and the Hunters to bring me a Healer and more Amps to replicate the serum.”
Azrael nodded, following Drexus’s gaze. The largest tattoo—given by his mother when he was ten—depicted a dagger intersecting two triangles at their points. He remembered fighting the tears while the needle carved into his skin, his mother insisting the tattoo would protect him. From what, he didn’t know, never having the chance to ask her. The second tattoo was the Watch Guard symbol, the words Loyalty, Honor, and Obedience stark against his tan skin. The third represented his first victim—the day he became a Hunter. Tattoos decorated his left arm with every Spectral he killed, but the design would remain incomplete until he had his revenge. Until he found the Spectral with black fire.
***
Azrael strode from the Bastion Garrison toward the stables, buckling his new armored chest plate. The garrison in the royal city of Orilyon was the largest in Opax, with unparalleled training and medical facilities. Steward Brenet had wasted no expense when he and Drexus added on to the compound after the war with the Vastanes. Functional and effective, like all who trained within its stone walls. The courtyard buzzed with recruits and Watch Guard soldiers training. Azrael stopped near a group of second year recruits and adjusted a trainee’s grip on her sword.
“Remember, your weapon is an extension of you. Keep a steady hand, like this,” Azrael said, demonstrating the correct form. The young recruit nodded, her eyes wide.
Azrael’s team of Hunters waited, strapping on swords or saddling their horses. At twenty-five, he was the youngest assassin to lead such highly trained warriors. The position of Second in Command was an honor, one Azrael had paid for—physically and emotionally.
Azrael scanned the Hunters, locating Bronn, his First Lieutenant, leaning his tall frame against the wall and talking with Sabine.
“Are we ready?” Azrael said.
Bronn nodded, examining Azrael. “You don’t look any different.”
Sabine tilted her head, staring up at him. “Oh, I don’t know. His eyes look bluer,” she said, winking.
“Did the serum work then?” a Hunter named Elliot asked.
Azrael grabbed Elliot by the throat and lifted him into the air. The Hunter swore and gripped Azrael’s wrist, his eyes bulging. Azrael, six-two with two hundred pounds of solid muscle, marveled at the fact that his arm didn’t so much as quiver as he held the Hunter above him.
“You tell me.” Azrael sneered, lowering the man to the ground.
Elliot rubbed his neck while the other Hunters laughed. “A simple yes or no would’ve sufficed,” he mumbled.
Azrael addressed his assassins, twelve of the deadliest warriors in the land, and a small squadron of Watch Guard soldiers. “Our orders are to find Amps and Healers and transport them to Edgefield Prison, alive.”
“Why Healers?” asked a Hunter named Caston.
“Why alive?” Bronn said, crossing his arms.
“I didn’t ask.” Azrael turned, grabbing the reins of his horse and swung himself into the saddle, ignoring Bronn’s scowl.
The three hour ride to Havelock took his team south through grassy hillsides and sparse forests. The midday sun glimmered on the Merrigan Sea that bordered Opax, the larger of two countries in Pandaren. The smaller province, Paxton, had the Desert of Souls to the east and mountain ranges in the west.
Azrael breathed in the salty air and shuddered as adrenaline and magic coursed through his veins. He lived for the battle, relishing the clash of iron, the smell of blood. With every kill, he felt more powerful, more alive. And now with the serum, he’d be unstoppable.
He pulled up his mask, the grinning skull causing fear to those who had the misfortune of coming face to face with it. Only Hunters were awarded the skull mask after finishing a final task during their initiation. Currently, thirteen Watch Guard soldiers had achieved the honor.
Azrael had just turned eighteen when Drexus deemed him ready.
“It’s time,” Drexus had said, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Initially, Azrael felt shocked that his final test was to kill the person who had sold him to the Watch Guard when he was twelve. The shock turned to hunger, then satisfaction as Azrael embraced the fear and recognition in Barnet Farone’s eyes.
“For your wife,” Azrael had said, slashing his knife.
“For your daughter.” The dagger cut through flesh and bone. Blood splattered his face and the empty whiskey bottles covering the floor. The man screamed, holding up his bloody hands.
“And for your son.” The blade cleaved the air with a final blow. He had gazed upon the lifeless body of his father, doubting anyone would mourn his death. His father’s betrayal led the Fire Spectral to their village, to their cottage. Because of his father, his mother and sister were dead.
The day he returned to the compound, his need for revenge somewhat satiated, was the day Drexus had changed his birth name to Azrael. The day he became the Angel of Death, the most feared Hunter in all of Pandaren.
The sound of warning bells had Azrael leaning forward in his saddle, urging his horse to run faster. The Havelock raid was his first since receiving the serum and he yearned to test his new power. The orders were to take the Spectrals alive unless they resisted. He hoped they did.
The Hunters and Watch Guard soldiers arrived at the village and split off down the dirt paths between the cottages. Azrael strode along the outskirts of town, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. He removed his dagger from the sheath on his leg and rounded the last building.
A man stood at the end of the alley wearing metal contraptions on his wrist. He clicked them together and a spark of blue flame ignited. Azrael pressed his lips into a thin line. Of all the Element Spectrals, he loathed the Fires the most.
“Surrender or death, you choose,” Azrael said, his voice cold behind the mask. The man’s eyes widened, the dancing flames trembling in his palm.
“Why can’t you leave us alone? We’ve done nothing!”
“You and your kind are traitors to the crown.” Azrael stepped forward.
The Spectral’s eyes hardened, transferring fire to both hands.
Azrael smiled. “Death it is.”
His Amplifier magic pulsed and time slowed as a blue wave of fire exploded down the alley. Tapping into his speed, he used the wall as leverage, twisting in midair, easily dodging the flames. In seconds, his dagger pressed against the man’s neck.
“How did you move so fast?” The man’s voice trembled and his fire sputtered out.
“Magic,” Azrael whispered.
Azrael almost dropped his knife, a sudden dizziness making him stagger. The Spectral’s fear seized Azrael seconds before he sliced the dagger across his throat. Azrael was halfway down the alley when the body hit the ground. He rested his hand against the wall waiting for the emotion to fade.
What the hell was that, he thought? He hadn’t felt that level of fear since he was a child. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed, choking back the haunting screams and his failure to protect. Never again. He wouldn’t allow weakness to have a stranglehold on him.
He shook his head and made his way to the center of town where the villagers knelt. A soldier handed him a ledger with names of Spectrals and their magic. Azrael paced in front of the cowering people. “You are harboring unregistered Spectrals and are guilty of treason.”
A laugh echoed off the surrounding cottages. “The Watch Guard is guilty,” an older man said, standing with his hands clenched. Rocks and dirt lifted into the air circling the villagers, shielding them from the Hunters and soldiers. A combined swish of swords sliding from sheaths sounded behind Azrael as the Hunters drew their weapons.
“Do you wish to die?” Azrael said, using his speed to dart through the revolving rocks. He approached the man, removing the twin swords that lay against his back. He stopped mid-stride and frowned. Despair warred with Azrael’s lust for blood. The Spectral raised his hands and the ground trembled, a fissure separating Azrael from his prey.
Azrael homed in on his anger, extinguishing the unwanted emotion, and charged. He avoided the barrage of flying debris—his body, magic, and steel a lethal combination. His swords sliced through the air and the Spectral’s head thumped on the cobblestones. The sorrow disappeared and the ground stilled.
“Any other heroes?” Azrael scanned the villagers, muffled sobs sounding through the town square. He strode past a woman with tears streaming down her face and flinched; the grief resonating from her made Azrael clutch his chest. He stumbled out of the square, ignoring the concerned looks in a few of the Hunter’s eyes. He sighed as the emotion vanished.
“What was that about?” Bronn said, his eyebrows raised.
“Not sure.” Azrael crossed his arms to hide his trembling hands.
“Bring in the Tracker,” Bronn said to a nearby guard, giving Azrael a wary look.
A soldier led an older woman through the waiting guards, the shackles on her ankles clinking on the cobblestones. Scraggly gray hair hung to her waist. Her milky white eyes scanned Azrael, sniffing the air around him.
“Find the Spectrals,” Azrael said, avoiding her sightless gaze.
“Already found one,” the woman said, chuckling, her vacant eyes boring into Azrael. “Now you’re his slave, just like me.” He gritted his teeth as her disturbing eyes seemed to peer into his soul.
“Just do your job,” he growled.
The Tracker meandered around the square, sniffing and pointing out the Spectrals without the silver collars around their neck, telling a nearby guard what type of magic they had.
“She gives me the creeps,” Bronn said, his lip curling.
“She’s a necessary evil,” Azrael said, even though he secretly agreed with the Hunter. Drexus had kept this Tracker prisoner for as long as Azrael could remember, but her unique talents made it possible for the Watch Guard to find those with magic. The soldiers hoisted the unregistered Spectrals to their feet and placed the bands around their necks, chaining them together. The remaining villagers kept their eyes down.
“How do those collars work?” Bronn said.
Azrael suppressed a shiver, remembering when Drexus tested it on him. “The Commander uses the Brymagus plant, somehow turning it into a liquid and forging it into the collars. I guess that’s the reason for all those trips to the Desert of Souls.”
“Funny how an insignificant plant could suppress such power.”
Azrael rubbed his neck, watching Sabine approach, her brown eyes peeking over her mask. She ran her fingers through her short, mahogany hair, wiping sweat off her forehead.
“Two unregistered, the rest accounted for,” she said, staring at the retreating Spectrals.
“Any Amps?”
“One.”
“Will that be enough to recreate the serum?” Bronn said, fiddling with a loose buckle on his armguard.
“Eager, are we?” Azrael said.
Bronn looked up slowly, his jaw muscle pulsing.
Sabine edged closer to Azrael, her gaze traveling down his body. “That was impressive. I’ve never seen someone move so fast, or so powerfully.”
Azrael brushed dirt off his chest piece, ignoring Sabine’s advances, having journeyed down that road before. He mounted his horse as the Watch Guard soldiers loaded the captives into wagons to transport them to Edgefield Prison, located on the outskirts of the Desert of Souls.
During the ride back to Orilyon, Azrael thought through the raid, analyzing the unpleasant emotions he experienced.
It must be a side effect of the serum, he thought, wondering if he should tell Drexus.
The Watch Guard’s training purged emotions that made a soldier weak. Anger and rage were acceptable, but not fear, regret, or sorrow. Those were not an option, especially for a Hunter. An assassin with a conscience was a liability. He thought about the training and pain he’d endured for the past thirteen years, bearing the scars of Drexus’s discipline. Azrael would not sacrifice all he’d worked for because of a few unsettling emotions. His knuckles whitened on the reins, not wanting to contemplate what Drexus would do if he knew his Angel of Death could feel.