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.
Cage sends the first chapter of Blackened Rose. The rest of the chapter is after the break.
Dull streetlight backlit the scene, and the low wattage wall sconces presented Black as a silhouette, a shade within the darkness, a deeper shadow. Something to fear. He liked to let people know who they were dealing with, and the light play was a clear reminder of what he represented.
This time, the lack of light annoyed him and revealed nothing of his visitor’s features.
Petite. A touch of belligerence in the stiff neck and clenched hands. Cotton gloves. A skin condition?
What she wanted was a little thing, specific. Find who ratted on her dad. Which was not what Black did. People called Black in to fix problems, not investigate. He was the last stage in the game. Not a player, an end-game move to wipe the board clean.
What would this young woman know of his world, the underbelly of society?
Black nodded as she spoke, observed her with all his senses. He created a gentle probe, an unseen representation of an open-palmed hand to caress the edges of her energy field, and floated it toward her. It ground to a halt at the outer shell, a long way from the physical outline.
She presented like a real person, but the lack of affect was an anomaly. The external presentation of a warm and sensual being was less substantial than the shadows from the play (snip)
The writing is fine (except for the repetition of “presented”). The narrative subtly lets us know that Black has some sort of extrasensory ability, perhaps telepathy. For a scifi reader like me, that’s a good thing.
But what about story questions? There’s no real tension here, no action that jeopardizes anyone. The narrator isn’t called upon to do something to prevent trouble to himself. Perhaps his thinking that this isn’t his usual gig is a low-key promise of complications ahead, but it’s pretty low. I think that the taste of extrasensory powers and a solid voice could be enough to get a page turn . . . or not. As I write this, I’m not sure where I come out. I do wish there was a clear story question that concerned trouble for Black. 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:
. . . of deepening sunset as the daylight faded. And a block on her mind as solid as his double-steel office door.
Why he’d let her get the interview was beyond him. Even the way she dressed was out of place. Well-worn jeans, cracked full-face helmet, and a chip on the shoulder. She didn’t belong in the rarefied air of Kooyong, Melbourne’s most elite suburb, where Black met his clients at night, standard business hours in his trade. The deep cellars wafted cold air into the large room through hidden vents. As cold as death. Just how Black liked it.
The voice intrigued Black. It held the allure of secrets. He loved secrets. The person, though, he could do without. The way she paid attention reminded him of a rat-dog on guard at a hole, ready to bite any who dared get too close. It was unlikely Ms Liana Benit could afford to do business with him, but she’d got this far, so he’d hear her out and let her down easy.
She stopped speaking.
Black tapped his notes. “You could do far better for much less outlay if you went to the usual investigators.” He slid three business cards across the wide mahogany desk and inhaled the rich aroma of the non-standard bike leathers she wore like armour.
Not colourful, not for visibility. Black, brown, muddied yellows. Like her hair, like her eyes. Ms Benit sat so still she almost faded into the back of the large visitor’s chair. A chameleon whose boot oil tingled at the back of Black’s throat.
“Robertson the Rogue, Reggie the Rotten, and Powers the Ponce?” She flicked the cards back and sneered as she spoke the names and personalities.
The descriptions were apt. That was them to a capital T, no need for dots.
The surrounding air hazed, diluted the outline until the effect of the light shimmered her edges. If Black wasn’t sure she sat in his chair, he’d question whether it was real. The external streetlight bloomed, hit her, splintered. A refraction like multiple mirrors slanted at various angles. It messed with how he saw her shape and colours. Camo? Maybe, but if it was, it was new to Black. His ability to see into the depths of people didn’t always work as expected, and maybe he was working too hard on the election business to get a good read.
The eyes held him. Eyes the colour of bush-honey, skin like a good single malt scotch. Black bit his lip to deny the urge to smile.
The determination was applaudable, but Black had other business waiting for his attention. Toast and Vegemite. Bread and lead.
“How did they not suit your purpose?” He loomed over the desk. Would she shrink back? Everyone had a tell, a point where they’d get up and go. What was hers?
“They did the bare minimum.” She leaned forward and placed her hands on the table, mirroring his stance. “Checked the databases, did the documentary search. Found nothing. Not even the original case file number, which I have. Which got me further than they did. The court record is there, and I have a copy of the tape, or I would, if the last half wasn’t deleted. The only reference labelled him Witness A, but he wasn’t on the recording.”
“Let me get this straight.” Black leaned back and tapped his fingers on the blotter. “Your father was charged and convicted in the rape and murder of Karen Goodman. She was the young woman who left a show in her honour, alone, and was found by an off-duty cop who arrested a suspect at the scene.” It was in the news for months. A local girl who made it to the big-time, newly minted as the face and body for Chanel or Gucci or Prada or some big international name.
“That’s the case, but my father didn’t do it. He left the house at the same time every day. Rode his bike to the fishing co-op to stock up for the restaurant, and …” Ms Benit sputtered to a stop.
The first falter. Or a manipulation. Black watched for micro-expressions. She stared back, her eyes flickered, and a subtle penetration wormed under his skin. A shudder ran up his spine, sharp points pricked his skull. He put his hand to his head, massaged the scar over his third eye, and blocked the attempted intrusion. This little lady was trouble, despite her innocuous façade.
“Ms Benit, what result do you want?” Why did he say that?
“I want justice. I want to clear my father’s name. I want the truth.” Her breathing increased. “The police stonewall me. Stuff goes missing, either lost, tossed, or otherwise disposed of.” Her hand gripped the bike jacket as if she wanted to strangle someone.
Black rubbed his neck, flattened the hairs.
“How old were you when it happened?”
The eyebrow twitched. The first tell.
“It was fifteen years ago. I was fourteen.”
It was worth digging to see why that made her uncomfortable. “Were you there?” he asked. “Did you see your father leave that day?”
The twitch spread to both temples.
“I was at boarding school. In Perth.”
“So how do you know what time he left?”
A tremor in the throat muscles.
“My mother gave a statement. It wasn’t in the case notes, but the date and time of lodgement is in the file.”
Black’s head weighed heavily on his shoulders. He wanted to rest it on the desk. Why the reluctance to speak about this?
“Where is your mother now?”
There, in the eyes. From wide pupils to cold and still, the centre black shrinking to a dot. Her outer shell sharpened to the calmness of thick ice over a lump of granite.
“She died.”
Wow. Talk about a woman of two words. She’d been eloquent when talking about her father, but her mother gets an ice-pick response.
“How?”
“Suicide.”
Down to one word.
“When and why might help.” This was a sore point, a scab. Black had to pick at it to see what it hid.
“Help what?”
“Why I might consider taking your case. Consider, mind, because I don’t do this type of case unless the … let’s just say the stakes aren’t usually a historical truth.” Others did that. People contacted Black when they wanted a nasty problem dealt with fast and silent, no consequences or mess. Black’s business wasn’t for the ordinary Bill or Mac or Joe. His hours fitted his clients. Night people, shadows. This woman wasn’t one of them.
Why hadn’t he asked where her father was – he’d assumed the man was still in prison. “And your father?”
“A police report filed his death as self-harm. Suicide!” The word ricocheted around the room like a high-velocity .22 bullet. “He was broken, I’ll admit that. I talked him round until he agreed to help me … to find …” her mouth closed. She swallowed and lifted her chin. “Three years ago, they let him out on parole. Two weeks later … gone. There wasn’t much left of him, but he told me everything he knew. He got a copy of his case file. And he lodged an application for review.”
Black’s antennae shot up. Why would a man commit suicide if he had evidence for a review?
“Who said suicide? Did anyone dispute it?” Another question remained unanswered. He’d let her answer this first and see if the other one popped out.
“The head coroner. That’s what he is now. It’s been a long time since he was the medical tech in the morgue who testified that my father’s DNA was all over Karen Goodman. The rape kit …” Her face reddened, her hands clenched into fists.
“Keep going. I need to know.” Black pulled his chair close to the desk and kept his focus on her brow and forehead. “Do you want a drink?”
“I’m fine.” She shook her head. “It’s just raw. I’m angry. Tired. I’ve spent all my time trying to find the truth. The witness said dad was there much earlier, that he saw dad punching her.” Light hit the wetness of her eyes. She blinked. “When dad was in prison … it wasn’t good. After he came out, he …:” she gulped, clenched her jaw. “From the time he was charged, I put all my effort into finding the truth, getting him out. Each parole hearing, I presented character references. Eventually, they granted him early release. Early!” she snorted. “Since his death … since then, access to information, files, records …” she faltered to a silence that hung over her like a mourner’s veil.
“We call them facts.”
“Are you a lawyer?” she asked. “That’s how they say it, too. And the cops. They’re worse. Evidence, facts, nothing about truth. I want the truth.”
“What makes you question whether it was suicide?” Would she say anything about her mother?
“We were working together. I’m good with admin and gathering info. We had a pile of papers to go through. All in a box at his place. It wasn’t there when I cleared the place.”
Which meant she didn’t know what her father found. “Did you ask about it? Was that the only thing that concerned you?” The other question festered in the back of his mind.
“Of course, I asked about it. Everything in there came from my efforts. He couldn’t go outside without being spat on, abused. He got beaten up three times in the first week out.”
Ah, now comes the real anger. “And your mother’s suicide?” Time to dig at the infection, the thing she wouldn’t talk about.
“She killed herself before the trial. Couldn’t cope. People were nasty. Set the house on fire, scratched messages on her car. She went into a tailspin, killed herself.”
“Was there a note?”
“No.”
The body language wasn’t right. The face still as a rock, the neck muscles tense to the point of rigid, the eyes dark. She hadn’t liked her mother. Or hadn’t trusted her.
“I need to know about your mother,” Black said. “You say your father didn’t kill himself, but you’re sure she did.” With the father charged, why didn’t the wife and child form a support team? In Black’s world, it showed a lack of trust and belief.
“I wasn’t allowed to leave school to go home. All I needed was her permission. She wouldn’t give it. Then she’s dead, and I’m made a ward of the state. Locked up at Wanslea.”
There. She’d been angry at her mother, said things that couldn’t be unsaid. Ms Benit carried around a tonne of guilt and shame and slathered it with a thick layer of determination. He admired her grit, but he had his own concerns. This wasn’t a matter for Black. He chewed his lip, lowered his eyebrows for a good puppy-dog look, and prepared to let her down.
One breath, two.
What did her father find, and why did he die for it? Black’s interest piqued. His curiosity gave him an edge over his world. He liked to dig. Even with a termination contract on the table, Black wanted to know why. It made his business so much more gratifying, and sometimes, it gave him worthwhile leverage.
Power wasn’t money or politics, it was knowledge of a person’s deepest secrets and fears, the reasons that underlay their desperate actions. This story involved a lack of legit, and a smart man hunted out the treasure within a secret.
If Black took this case, it would be to see what it dug up, where it led, what he could glean from it for future reference. Secrets were currency of the highest value in his world.
“Even though it sounds interesting,” he said, “I’m wondering why you’re here. Why me, Ms Benit?” He’d give her a last chance to back out. “I don’t work with the law or within it. Quite the opposite.” That should make her think twice.
“That’s exactly why I’m here.” Her back straightened and her eyes glowed the colour of a well-aged Semillon botrytis, the honey of wines, the favourite in his well-stocked cellar.
“It would take time, and that means cost.” Black’s sense of alarm bit at his neck. Why was he considering this? Put her off, use the info he already had to get what he wanted. He didn’t have to take it on as a job. Off the books, a little delving for personal interest only.
“How much?” The squirm along her thighs spread up to her abdomen.
Ah, she didn’t have scratch. Easier to give her an out.
“Fifty grand all up.” He didn’t want it to sound like he was deliberately over-pricing. And fifty wasn’t much in his world. “Ten grand deposit on signing the contract, or within 24 hours.” He watched the facial tic, slid his gaze to the gloved hands resting on her thighs, raised his head to see what happened with her face. No twitch, no physical movement except her lips squashed into a straight line. And dilated pupils.
“And monthly payments of ten grand until paid in full. End stage is two years, however it flies.”
The tight lips moved. A grim, determined smile. The eyes held him.
A vision floated before his eyes. He was a fish who’d taken the bait. Hooked. He shook his head to clear it. Not a comfortable feeling. He squeezed his core muscles to fight the urge to squirm.
What was it that intrigued him? Or was it the need to keep dangerous things within his purview? She reminded him of the most vulnerable part of his life, before he became Morden Black, the man who fixed any problem, large or small.
This empathy for Ms Benit’s plight wasn’t good for business.
“Fifty thousand, even if there’s no result?”
“I get paid for my time and resources.” Black relaxed. She’d back off now. “I like to produce something, so you’d know at the end whether he did it or not –”
“I already know that.”
“Or details of how he got mired in the swill.”
The skin on her face paled. Red splotches marked her cheeks. Black’s gut churned. Should have said a hundred.
“Deal.” She pulled the glove tight on her right hand and extended it across the desk.
Damn. Black blinked, breathed in and out, opened his drawer. The contract was a few pages, not much to most people, except for the final clause.
“Sign this, and it starts.” He needed an out. Fast. “That’s all I need, but consider this contract with caution and due diligence. You sign with me, and this is more than a simple legality. Sign this, and it’s your promise to me, and mine to you, as good as blood on that dotted line.”
The pen didn’t waver as Ms Benit signed with a flourish. Black kept a wide gap between them as he ushered her out.
Whether or not he wanted the job, the contract was in his hand.
He’d deal with it. Who to put on the case? Only one choice. Langar, an ex-cop with enough shady friends, contacts in the silo, quick and thorough. Get it done, and she’d be gone.
A tremor started in his toes. The physical tell that indicated it was time to run. Black trusted his instincts, but the deal was made. He never went back on a deal, a promise, or a contract. His word was his honour.
A motorbike roared. Black stood behind his desk, watched through the ripples of the triple-plate bulletproof glass, listened to the gear change, the weaving pattern of noise until her sounds faded into the traffic on the freeway.
A klaxon went off in his head. He put her paperwork in a folder, tapped it. His instincts said to watch that woman, and this job needed a Mouse.