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.
Kevin sends the first chapter of The Dream. The rest of the chapter follows the break.
I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold my breath. My eyes blinked open to an endless sea of black water. I could taste the ocean salt in my mouth, feel it burning my nose. I kicked upwards, reaching towards the light. Breaking the surface, I gasped for air. I wasn't alone. Other people were bobbing to the surface, sucking in the warm sea breeze on what would ordinarily have been a lovely day for a swim. I spun around. There were people all around me, as far as the eye could see in every direction. Elderly folk, children; people of every shape and size, but nobody I recognized. Everyone looked confused and bewildered.
“I must be dreaming,” an old man's voice could be heard behind me. All around, similar murmurs could be heard.
I was pretty sure I must be, too. The last thing I remembered was putting my head on my pillow. This didn't feel like a dream, but, spoiler alert, it was. Roughly three billion of us, all bobbing in the ocean, all fast asleep, and all sharing the same dream.
A voice boomed across the water, echoing all around us.
“The search for a new Basileus has begun. One of you will be given power. Unbelievable power, beyond that of any other human. If you wish to enter the search, write your name on a piece of paper and place it under your pillow before midnight tomorrow. Then the games shall begin.”
With that, the water disappeared beneath me and I was falling. Falling. I could feel my stomach (snip)
Opening with a dream, as you may have read before, is generally considered not a good thing, even if the narrative says it’s a dream. This one is important in that, as we learn later, the whole world also had it.
But later might be too late. I suggest that you get to that as soon as possible, on the first page. For example, a very quick edit:
I tasted ocean salt in my mouth. Other people were bobbing all around me, as far as the eye could see in every direction. Elderly folk, children; people of every shape and size, but nobody I recognized. Everyone looked confused and bewildered.
A voice boomed across the water, echoing all around us.
“The search for a new Basileus has begun. One of you will be given power. Unbelievable power, beyond that of any other human. If you wish to enter the search, write your name on a piece of paper and place it under your pillow before midnight tomorrow. Then the games shall begin.”
With that, I sat up in bed, panting. Trying to shake off the dream, I went about my morning routine and was soon walking to school with Clay.
“Hey, happy belated birthday,” he said as I fell into step beside him.
“Thanks, dude.” And then, after a long pause, I said, “I had a crazy dream last night.”
“Me too!” His eyes got wide and he stopped. “I was surrounded by all of these people, floating around me, and then there was this voice, and it said-”
“The search for a new Basileus has begun.”
He rounded on me. “That's exactly what it said. How did you-”
“Me too,” I explained. “I had exactly the same dream.”
This opening, at least, presents the mystery of what the dream means and that more than he had it. While there is no conflict yet, there is at least a story question raised and important setup has been accomplished.
However, I would also try to see if I could find a way to open with a hint of some kind of jeopardy to come for the protagonist and add in the exposition about the universal dream as that happens. I have a feeling that the true opening is in the next chapter. For what it’s worth.
Your thoughts?
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 Kevin.
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:
. . . rising up into my chest.
I sat up in bed, panting. That was the first time I’d ever remembered any dream. Little did I know, three billion other people had just snapped awake, remembering the same scene. Some of them remembering me.
My name is Reichen Nightwing. I lived a pretty boring life. I'm a drama kid from a dramatic family with a melodramatic last name, but life was pretty typical before the dream. The biggest thing I had going on was the play coming up at school. I actually helped write it this year. Kind of cool, but nothing exceptional. It was nice, while it lasted.
I live with my Dad and my older sister, Rebekah. I went about my morning routine, as usual, trying to shake off the dream. Rebekah and I each ate a bowl of Cocoa Puffs in silence. She packed us both a lunch and hopped on the city bus. She’s taking college classes on the south side of the city. I started walking to school. It was a warm and pleasant day, and the smell of pretzels from a nearby bakery hung in the air. Tossing my backpack up onto a small concrete wall outside the skate park, I sat and waited for my friend Clay. We usually walked to school together. Before too long, I saw his tall gangly frame and dark hair slink around the corner, dragging his backpack behind him on the ground by the strap.
“Hey, happy belated birthday,” he said as I leapt leapt down from the wall and fell into step beside him on the cracked sidewalk.
“Thanks, dude.” We've been friends since we were little, and we still walk to school together, although it feels like we have less and less in common.
Clay asked me if I had seen the trailer for some video game I had definitely never heard of. “Looked great,” I lied. And then, after a long pause, I said, “I had a crazy dream last night.”
“Me too!” His eyes got wide and he stopped, dropping his backpack so he could talk with both hands. He was really excited. “I was surrounded by all of these people, floating around me, and then there was this voice, and it said-”
“The search for a new Basileus has begun,” I cut him off.
“Wait, what?” He rounded on me. “That's exactly what it said. How did you-”
“Me too,” I explained. “I had exactly the same dream.”
By the time we got to school, word was already out. Everyone had experienced the same dream. Every single person. I could hear people talking about it as I walked to my locker.
“I thought I was drowning.”
“You heard it in Spanish?”
“What kind of power, do you think?”
“What's a basileus, anyway?”By lunch it was on the news. In math class, Mrs. Nelson had clearly stopped caring about algebra. She was watching YouTube videos about the 'Collective Dream' on the screen at the front while half the class stared at their phones, occasionally discussing theories they had found. The entire western hemisphere had all shared the dream – Africa, Europe , and both Americas, while Australia and Asia had been awake and missed out on everything. It seemed to only affect people who were sleeping; we watched an interview with a security guard who worked the night shift, and he hadn't noticed anything.
In this class, I sit at the desk next to Anna – a cute girl with dark hair, who always wears skirts and only drinks kombucha. “I googled Basileus,” she whispered, trying to be discreet even though nobody else seemed to care. “Do you know what it means?”
I shook my head no.
“It's Greek for king,” she said, showing me her phone screen.
I've had a crush on Anna for months, but I haven't had the guts to do anything about it. I'm pretty sure she sees us as just friends, but we do hang out a lot. She's a theatre nerd like me, so we do improv. She got the lead role in the school play I wrote. Totally unbiased casting, I promise.
“Are you going to write your name down?” Anna asked.
I shrugged. I hadn't really thought about it yet. “I don't know why not.” And, frankly, I wanted to see what happened. I mean, people would be talking about this for years, right? No point in living with regret.
Clay leaned forward from his seat behind us and announced, “I don't sleep with a pillow.” We both turned to look at him. Now it was his turn to shrug. “What? He said to put the name under your pillow.”
“I'm not going to,” Anna shook her head, “Whatever this is, I don't want to be part of it.”
By the time school was finished the UN had declared this dream a 'national phenomenon.' The Pope had denounced it, the prime minister had called a press conference and answered no questions at all, and eight different countries had threatened war. Walking home, I saw doomsday preachers wearing sandwich boards, which up until then I thought was just something in movies. “This is the end!” yelled a man on one street corner. “This is the beginning!” yelled a different man on the next. Everyone seemed to have a different explanation. It was because of a chemical in the air. Today was the date of some Babylonian ritual, or Aztec, or Scandanavian. It was magic. It was Satan. It had to do with the Pyramids, with Stonehenge, with none of the above. Everyone seemed to have an answer, but all the answers were different.
I unlocked the squeaky front door of our three-storey walk-up apartment building. The hallway inside and its threadbare carpet reeked of old cigars and pot. I made my way up the staircase, careful to avoid the sliver-laden bannister to the third floor, past the room below us with the married couple that never stops arguing. Across the hall from my front door , I could hear old-timey tunes belting from the radio of our neighbor Mr. Carlyle. There are six families that live in our building. Most of them change pretty often, but I’ve gotten to know the ones that stay.
Dad was gone on a business trip, so it was just Rebekah and me for supper. She made spaghetti with tomato sauce. I like it better when there's ground beef, but we didn't have any. Rebekah's a pretty good cook, but even though Dad works hard, he doesn't always have money for groceries. Sometimes she uses her own money to buy food, especially when there isn't enough for school lunches. But tonight was just simple spaghetti.
“Are you going to write your name on a paper?” I asked.
She shook her head, “I don't want any part of that nonsense. It's weird and it’s creepy.”
“What do you think these games will be?”
“I don't know. I don't want to know. I hope nothing like this happens again. It freaks me right out.”
That night after I put on my pyjamas, I tore a page from an old notebook, scrawled out 'Reichen Nightwing' with a ballpoint pen, and put it under my pillow.