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.”
A First-page Checklist (PDF here)
- 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.
Cathy sends the first chapter for Old Roads. As usual, the rest of the narrative is after the break.
Theirs was a small world.
Not that the people of Tarn were aware of that. Few travelled outside their village and fewer still left Tarn, most of those only venturing into a neighbouring county. Why travel farther? The local merchants brought back anything you could possibly need from the twice yearly Wenn fair.
~*~
Outside, Brook rattled around the yard, while the birds sang sundown songs to the sky.
Inside the workshop, the only sounds were the rasp of the whetstone on my knife and an occasional crack from cooling charcoal. Dust motes drifted in the sunbeams that made it through the window. I tested the blade on my thumb. It hardly dragged against the skin, but a fine red line appeared.
Activity in the yard stilled. Except for the birds.
‘Jaywing?’
My parents only used my full name when I was out of favour.
Setting the knife aside, I slipped a silver ring onto each finger – I still had ten in those days. As I chose earrings from the silver I’d already cleaned, the inner door from the house opened and a greying head appeared.
This is nicely written and has a distinct voice that promises an enjoyable read. But what of tension? For me, there were no compelling story questions raised. The protagonist is fine and doesn’t anticipate any trouble on the horizon, nor is she dealing with a problem now. I read through the rest, and problems and story questions didn’t appear. I know most writing craft books advise including some of the world in a “normal” state before making things happen – but that can happen in a paragraph or two. In a sense, this is “throat-clearing.” I’d love to see the narrative where things go wrong for the protagonist. Start there. 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 Cathy.
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.
‘Here you are! Did you trim them lamps, like Kip asked? Hang ’em in the yard before the sun goes.’
Brook crossed the workshop to inspect the lamps assembled on Cris’s workbench by the door to the yard. ‘We’ll want most of ’em at the new door.’
The new door was at the other end of the house. The new rooms behind it were the reason for tonight’s hearthwarming party. Most of Fendle would be here.
Brook bustled outside again without waiting for a reply, leaving the yard door open. As the clattering resumed, I threaded the chosen earrings into place and turned my attention to the lamps.
A mongrel that had taken to hanging around the forge came from the barn to greet me. I bent to rub his ears, to the disgust of Marmalade, the resident mouser, who whisked his tail in disapproval from the top of a water butt.
Brook was checking the braziers, face even more flushed than usual with brow furrowed deeper than was justified by a hearthwarming party.
‘I’ll see to those, Brook. Take a break. No one’ll be here yet.’
I felt Brook’s eyes assessing each position as I hung the lamps. As Kip came out carrying a table, I hung the last and stood back. ‘Is that where you wanted them?’
Awaiting parental judgement, I felt like a tarling again, even though I was tall as Kip now and taller than Brook.
‘Aye, that’ll do.’ Brook eyed the cloudless sky. ‘We’ll ’ave the players over ’ere. Help me shift these.’
As the three of us cleared a space for the musicians, Brook muttered, ‘Have yer got that list safe, now? You won’t go wi’out it tomorrow?’
I raised my eyes to the heavens.
‘Not that again. Once – just once I forgot the list. I’ve never heard the end of it.’
Kip said, ‘Leave en be, Brookie love. We all learn by our mistakes.’
‘Hm. Listening in first place’d be a better way.’
I’d brought back everything that was on the damned list, anyway. They ought to have more faith in me by now. I’d been working the Wenn fairs on my own since the birth of Cris and Elm’s third tarling.
Kip started rearranging hay bales for the old folk to sit on, and Brook got to the point.
‘See if you can sweet-talk them Llann merchants into trimmin’ their price a bit more when you come to pay ’em.’
An image of the dark-eyed Llann I’d met at the spring fair surfaced to temper my irritation, not that much sweet-talking had been required. But then, we’d not been discussing the price of metal.
Brook was too preoccupied to notice my smile. They were worried about money. We didn’t have any.
The Cutlers had outgrown Cutler’s Forge – our home since before the Great Sickness – thanks to Cris and Elm turning out tarlings as regular as rabbits. New rooms cost more than you’d think.
Fortunately, we’d won an order that would restore our fortunes. We’d be supplying a new tavern being built just outside the village, and they wanted everything – kitchenware, lamps, candlesticks, matching tableware… in time for the midwinter festival. Merchants in Tarfen could supply everything from stock, but nobody wants to pay county-town prices when they can pay less for better quality practically on their doorstep.
It was unfortunate, though, that we had landed our biggest ever commission at a time when we had no funds to buy new metal. But none of us shared Brook’s misgivings. What could go wrong?
It was a temporary inconvenience, but I’d be bidding with borrowed money at this autumn’s fair.
Voices in the lane grew louder as Cris’s two elder tarlings crossed the track from School Lane with an escort of older cousins.
If school was over, Robin must be free for the day. Robin was their teacher, who knew me better than anyone. We had grown up together. I sent out my thoughts, but Robin’s were dark as thunder, so I withdrew.
Like Brook, Rob was turning prickly as a teasel.
The dog ran to greet the children – he was certainly making himself at home. The sprogs’ cousins trailed a group of friends who liked to take advantage of the shortcut home – our yard cut across a corner of the crossroads. While some made a fuss of the dog, two at the back slipped through the workshop door, pulling it shut behind them.
I’d recognised Kay Elver and Fenny Hartwood, who lived at the far end of the village. Fenn was a leggy crane, while Kay was a sturdy round-faced duck who aspired to crane-dom. Both were of an age to leave school soon.
I opened the workshop door as softly as they had closed it. Fenny was prowling the workbenches. Kay had found my knife and was examining it.
The handle was ornate for a working knife, but its blade was strong. It had been my apprentice task six years ago, and after forging the blade I’d amused myself carving its handle.
‘What are you two doing in here?’
‘This knife’s brill! Did you make it? How old were you?’
‘Fifteen, sixteen… a couple of summers more than you.’
‘Magic!’
Fenny had reached the bench and took the knife from Kay’s nubby hands to inspect it with an air of authority. Slender fingers tested the blade before approving it with a grunt. Its surrender to me was unhurried.
Feeling the tail of a resentful glower, I turned to meet it, but Kay’s eyes were – as ever – on Fenny.
‘Come on, you two – out!’ I slipped the knife into its sheath and glanced over the disordered bench.
‘Hold on – I’ll have those earrings back first.’
‘Earrings?’ Kay was a picture of innocence.
I doubt Fenny had looked innocent at birth.
‘There were five pairs of teardrop earrings, and now there are four.’
My jewellery was a hobby, but it sold well at the fairs, especially the teardrop earrings.
Kay’s eyes were wide. ‘Maybe they fell on the floor?’
‘A pair of them? Not one, or three? How come none of the others have fallen off the bench?’ I glanced at the floor anyway.
Fenny moved a cloth and said, ‘They’re here.’
Did I imagine the faint tap of silver landing on wood?
Fenny would say it had caught on the cloth. I checked the rest of the jewellery was still there before shepherding the pair towards the door.
‘Remember in future, the short cut is through the yard, not the workshop. Don’t get lost again.’
Not that they’d get the chance. The forge was usually occupied when the school emptied. If it wasn’t occupied, it was locked.
Only I hadn’t locked it.
‘Sorry,’ said Kay, eyes gazing up, doglike, through pale lashes. On another child it might have looked appealing. Fenny tossed long, shining hair away from expressionless eyes and nodded.
The crossbreed was lying near the door but jumped out of foot-range when Fenny stalked out with Kay paddling behind. He circled back to sit by me as we watched the pair out of sight.
The sun slipped behind the stable roof. A blackbird sang from its peak, celebrating the end of another day and the promise of tomorrow.
Tomorrow I’d be on the road.
Twice a year I got to leave Fendle. I lived for those weeks, seeing different scenery, meeting different people in a different county. Wendale was only the next county to Tarn, but that was farther than most villagers would travel in a lifetime.
~*~
Their old world had survived many catastrophes, but its former inhabitants had been less fortunate.
After each apocalypse life began again, not from where it was interrupted, but neither from its first beginnings: as if some cosmic child were practising its world-building, deciding what to retain and what to discard.
From time to time, prophets and scientists predicted various endings for the world, depending on the information available at the time (or, sometimes, on their source of funding). Alien invasion, meteor collision, solar cooling, global warming, pollution, exhaustion, fire, flood, famine, war, pestilence…
They hadn’t all been wrong.
The people of Tarn and its neighbouring counties knew nothing of their planet’s history or humanity’s fall. They knew little enough of their own recent history in this recovering landscape, and nothing at all of what their species had lost.
Or gained, depending on one’s point of view.