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.
Sherri sends the first chapter of Mission Accomplished. The rest of the chapter after the break.
“I still don’t feel right about this,” Sara said, pulling Jaine into a tight grip at the entrance to the Sea-Tac airport security line that was growing longer by the second.
Jaine patted her sister-in-law’s back with one hand while the other gripped the handle of her carry-on so hard she expected to hear it crack. Once she’d made up her mind about something, attempts by anyone to derail the plan only intensified her desire to accomplish it.
“I appreciate your concern, Sara, but I’m ready to do it or I wouldn’t be going,” she said, easing out of her grip.
Sara flipped tears from her lashes with a fingertip that showed she’d been biting her nails again. “But it’s only been nine months. It’ll be hard to see his stuff, touch it, smell it.”
“I went through his stuff at our condo and at his office. The cabin is no different.”
“Yes, but here you had friends and family around to help and to talk through the feelings that came up. You won’t have anyone at the cabin.”
Yes, her friends had been her life support through those first long, numb weeks of grief, when the ability to sleep or eat or breathe had all but vanished. But she soon grew uncomfortable with the maudlin condolences, pitiful back pats, and sad-eyed looks that had become her world since donning the ill-fitting widow’s cloak. Most of all, she grew weary with talking about her feelings.
The writing is solid and the voice inviting. But think for a moment about what happens here. Two friends talk about an upcoming trip one of them is taking. One worries her friend will be upset, the other is fine with going and not worried at all. That’s it. While there are hints of something that may or may not create tension in the future narrative, but that falls short of creating any story questions, any tension that will propel me to turning the page.
I did read the rest of the chapter, and a vague menace does rise at the end . . . but the protagonist still has yet to have to deal with a problem that has meaningful stakes. The rest of the chapter was similar in that it was primarily exposition, backstory, and setup. I’m hoping the second chapter holds the actual start of the actual story. Considering the writing, that could be good to read. 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 Sherri.
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:
So, she tasked herself with becoming so convincing that she was fine that her circle of friends soon stopped asking how her effort to sweep up the crumbs of her old life was progressing. They assumed she was handling it like she handled every task thrown at her. Focused and forward. And she did nothing to dissuade that slightly erroneous belief.
Her parents, both Doctors Without Borders physicians, were unreachable in some distant war-torn country. They hadn’t even flown home for John’s funeral, so the chance they would fly home now because she might need a hug and a supportive shoulder to cry on was nil. And while John’s family had always been accepting of her, she couldn’t turn to them for emotional comfort. Not after what she’d done.
Plus, as Sara noted, it had been nine months. Almost a year. The expiration date for needing and requesting coddling had come and gone. The melancholy still prickling her skin was nothing more than singes from the smoldering ashes of the fairytale life she thought she’d lived. She no longer believed in fairy tales and was ready to sever the last remaining elements tethering her to her lie of a past.
“I’ll be fine,” she assured Sara. “I need this trip to close that chapter in my life.”
“John has been in your life since your first day of college—nearly 15 years! It won’t be that easy to just turn the page.”
The agitation sprinting up Jaine’s spine at the conversation escalated when she glanced at the expanding check-in line. She was going to miss her flight if she didn’t end this goodbye.
“No, but it has to be done. I listed the pros and cons and thoroughly evaluated them before making this decision.”
“Like you always do,” Sara said and released a tear-filled chuckle.
“Like I always do. Now give me a last hug so I can get to my gate.”
Sara hugged her tight. “Call me if you need to. No matter what time of day or night.”
“I will,” Jaine promised, although after saying it, she knew she wouldn’t be calling anyone until she had returned to Seattle, a new woman miles down the road of her new life.
Easing out of Sara’s arms, she gave her a final smile and joined the end of the line.
In the weeks leading up to this day, she acknowledged that she might feel anxious. Surprisingly, the emotion was absent. Front and center was relief. Excitement even. A sign she had made the right decision.
She hadn’t been to the cabin in New Mexico’s Sandia Mountains in over two years, but she had always loved it and was eager to be there again, even though this trip wasn’t about fun. It was about sifting through, analyzing, and packing up her memories of John and their relationship. It was about saying goodbye to the old her and deciding who she wanted to be now. It was about resetting.
She had stockpiled nearly two months of vacation, so she was taking off the final three weeks of December and the first week of the new year. That would be plenty of time to accomplish her well-outlined tasks, which also included deciding what to do with the cabin. She didn’t need to sell it for the money. Her salary as an emergency room nurse was decent, and John had provided for her handsomely in his will. And then there was the compensation money, which sat in the bank untouched and earning interest, a growing, tangible reminder of her role in John’s death.
No, she didn’t need more money. What she needed was peace, quiet, and solitude—a cocoon that would allow metamorphosis to occur. The cabin was the one place she’d always found that cocoon. Would it still be there without John with her? Or would the memories of him obstruct its development? Only one way to find out.
Regardless what she decided about the cabin, she needed to clear out everything that no longer served her and move on. Because more than peace, quiet, and solitude—more than undergoing a personal metamorphosis—she needed to silence the guilt that raged day and night inside her.
Doc’s Quik Stop convenience store in Sandia Hills, New Mexico, a nearly comatose burg of just under 5,000 full-time residents in the 10,680-foot Sandia Mountains, was a bevy of activity when Jaine steered her rented SUV into the tiny dirt parking lot. Two Sheriff’s Department SUVs and an EMT vehicle filled most of it, but she pulled into one of the last spaces up front and climbed out, supply list at the ready.
A dozen or so people milled about at the side of the store, smoking and chatting with two deputies, and at least a dozen pairs of eyes escorted her into the store.
The cashier, a plump woman with platinum hair except for a three-inch strip of black roots bisecting the top of her head, eyed Jaine from her perch on a tall stool behind the counter. The woman, whose nametag read Pixie, called out a cool, “Hey,” punctuating the word with a muted pop of the bubblegum in her pink-stained mouth.
“Afternoon,” Jaine said with a smile and took two of the plastic grocery baskets from the stack near the counter. “Never seen you guys this busy.”
Pixie must have taken this morsel of friendly interest as her cue to drop the overt suspicion. “It’s likely to get a whole lot busier.”
“Oh, really? Why’s that?”
The cashier’s eyes darted toward the far side of the store, where a tall, lanky, broad-shouldered man wearing a coffee-brown Stetson and a matching jacket with the word Sheriff in big blocky yellow letters on the back talked in hushed tones with a grizzled bearded man sporting a “Walter White for Prez” T-shirt. Then she leaned in toward Jaine as if to whisper a secret.
“Doc found a body behind the dumpster half hour ago. Shot, execution style in the head. Sheriff Johnson said the man is a SOL gang member. He—”
“SOL?” Jaine asked.
“Apparently it stands for Sandia Outlaws, but nobody calls it that. Sol means sun in Spanish. You know. Like the center of the universe.” She rolled her eyes to show what she thought about that. Jaine smiled to acknowledge the joke.
“Anyway, sheriff thinks the gang killed the dead guy because he turned witness against them. The FBI is on their way here to help investigate, even though Sheriff Johnson told them he didn’t want their help.”
The store phone rang and as Pixie turned away to answer it, Jaine took the opportunity to get on with her shopping so she could put this chaos in her rearview mirror. Rubbing elbows with local drama wouldn’t aid her in her resetting plan.
She wandered the narrow, reasonably stocked aisles, adding items from her list into the baskets. Standing on tiptoe to reach the big bag of coffee on the highest shelf, she almost toppled forward into it when a large masculine hand grabbed the bag.
“Let me help you with that, young lady,” came a low drawl from behind her. She turned to find the sheriff, a lazy smile on his rugged face.
Jaine hated to be called young lady almost as much as she hated to be called honey and sweetie, but she bit her tongue to hold back an admonishment. She’d probably never see the small-town sheriff again after today, so she wouldn’t waste time and energy confronting him about his condescending word usage.
“Thanks,” she said and waited for him to hand her the coffee, but he didn’t.
“You’re not from around here,” he said, his question more of a statement.
“What gave me away?” she said.
The sheriff’s cat-like hazel eyes crawled down then up her body so slowly it felt like she was being frisked.
“Doc’s Qwik Stop isn’t a place people like you just stumble into.”
“People like me?”
“Strangers.”
“You’re probably right about that.” She tugged on the bag of coffee in his hand until he released it. “But this isn’t my first time here, so technically I’m not a stranger.” She added the bag and a second one to her basket and moved down the aisle to add two loaves of bread.
“What brings you here this time?” he said, right behind her. “During the coldest part of the year?”
Biting her tongue to remind her to, well, bite her tongue, she forced a small smile into play and faced him. “Sheriff, this interrogation is making me feel like I should have brought my lawyer with me.”
The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile that never broke through. “Interrogation? No ma’am, this here’s a friendly chat.”
A friendly chat usually didn’t include the person stalking her, crowding her space, and settling his palm firmly on the handle of his holstered weapon as a visible reminder of who had the greater physical power. But she’d get nowhere fast if she didn’t at least try to quell whatever suspicions he had wrongly formed about her.
“I’m here to spend the Christmas holiday at my cabin. I needed supplies, and I remembered this place from previous visits.”
The sheriff made a show of slowly pulling a little black notebook and pen from his uniform shirt pocket. “That the Anaya cabin? Number 11 off Route 5?”
“What makes you think that?” she asked.
“Well, now. It’s the only cabin in these parts not owned by locals.”
“The cabin is off Route 5 and it is Number 11, but I don’t call it the Anaya cabin.”
“What do you call it?” he asked, pen poised.
“Are you asking me my name?”
Their gazes locked in battle. He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes, where annoyance gleamed, most likely from what he considered her insolence. “If you don’t mind.”
“Jaine Smith,” she said, and almost laughed at seeing his eyes widen then narrow. She’d seen that very look hundreds of times over the years when she told people her name, looks that said they thought she was lying.
She pulled her wallet from her purse and handed him her license. He gave it the onceover—twice—before making a notation in his book.
“You’re a long way from Seattle, Jaine Smith,” he said and handed back her license. “You up here alone?”
The yes hovered on the tip of her tongue, but something about this man, about this situation, made the word melt like a snowflake, a warning that it would be wiser if he thought she was not alone.
“My husband’s with me.” In spirit, she added silently to spin the lie into a truth, and slid the license back into her wallet, which she returned to her purse.
“Let me guess…his name’s John.”
“It is.”
He gave her another squinty-eyed you’re-lying-your-ass-off stare then craned his neck to peer over the shelves and out the window toward her SUV, likely looking to see whether John occupied one of the seats. Seeing no one, of course, he zeroed his gaze back on her, one bushy eyebrow lifted.
“John’s at the cabin,” she responded before he could ask. “Probably wondering what’s taking me so long.”
Technically, John was at the cabin—in the clothes hanging in the closet, on the couch facing the massive fireplace, at the kitchen table, on the porch bench, in their bed. Everywhere. The thought swelled her heart, lifting it into her throat. Of course he was there. She swallowed hard to contain the sudden and surprising emotion bubbling up.
The lawman’s glare raked over her face, pausing on her mouth as if he had seen the lie puff out in a telling plume of purple smoke. “Why don’t you give him a call? I’ll let him know what’s going on here so he won’t worry.”
“Surely you remember there’s no cell reception at the cabin.”
“I seem to recall that, yes. City folk like you doing without cellphones more than a minute?” He shook his head. “Mighty strange, if you ask me.”
“We like being unplugged while we’re here. It’s part of the attraction.” It was the attraction for her, not so much for John. The technophile had tended to go into withdrawal whenever they were at the cabin, which was one of the reasons they hadn’t visited more often.
“Admirable, but not smart, under the circumstances.”
“What circumstances are those?”
He nodded toward the front of the store. “Pixie told you about the man killed out back.”
“Yes, but that has nothing to do with us.”
“The deceased was a member of a local drug trafficking organization that goes by the name SOL. They’re ruthless criminals who won’t think twice about killing anyone who gets in their way. Many of the suspected members reportedly live up in the area near your cabin. If they suspect you’re law enforcement trying to sniff them out, they won’t ask questions. They won’t take chances. They’ll kill you.”
Although she knew he was being overly dramatic for her benefit, a chill zipped up her spine at the potential danger, but she refused to bite at his transparent attempt to scare her away.
“If their whereabouts are so well-known, why doesn’t law enforcement swoop in and clear them out?” she asked.
“We’re working on it. But it takes time, proof, and manpower, and we’re short all three. That alone is reason enough you and John would be better off heading elsewhere for your vacation. I hear Arizona is nice this time of year.”
Now she was beyond perturbed at his attempts to make her leave. “I appreciate your concern for our safety, but we’ll be fine. Neither I nor my husband are in law enforcement or into drugs, and we plan to keep to ourselves within our own five-acre property boundaries, so there’s no need for anyone to be interested in us. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to finish my shopping.” She turned away but he grabbed her arm, stopping her.
She glared at his hand then lifted that glare to his eyes, holding firm in her best you-don’t-intimidate-me stare. “Let go of my arm, please.”
After a tense few moments, he released his hold. “Be careful, Mrs. Smith. You’re too pretty a lady to end up like that unfortunate fellow outside.” A thin vibrating strand of menace rode his low voice.
“Oh, don’t worry, sheriff. Knowing that we won’t be able to count on help from the overworked Sheriff’s Department will make us all the more cautious during our vacation.” She turned and clipped down the aisle away from him.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Smith,” he called out.
“Happy Holidays, Sheriff Johnson,” she said as she turned the corner, not even looking back.
Eager to be away from the sheriff and his small-town drama, she quickened her pace and was able to finish, unimpeded, her shopping and her departure. But she felt his eyes on her the entire time.
Something about the man gave her the creeps. And in her line of work, she had seen a lot of creeps. She was rarely wrong. It was like she had a sixth sense that enabled her to see the invisible writing on their foreheads that said danger. On this man it was written in flashing block letters.