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 The Union Laundress, historical fiction. The rest of the chapter is after the break.
A different approach today. I’m going to give you the first page of the manuscript and then a different way to open the story from later in the manuscript. The poll is about which makes the strongest opening. Thanks for helping this writer.
Alternative #1
By the second spring of the War of Northern Aggression, I’d not yet learned that he who controlled Winchester controlled the course of the war. It was a lesson I would come to know well.
In the beginning, General Jackson, quartering nearby, had protected us – shielding us from hostilities and enabling the patina of civility to endure. But in the winter of 1861 an immense enemy army under General Banks began to arrive, and by March Stonewall had been forced to leave. Left defenseless, we were occupied by the enemy for the first of what would be many times, and the patina began to wear away.
It was a benign experience as such things go. Confident they'd chased General Jackson from the Valley, the Yanks had kept mostly to themselves, spending every moment in vigilance in the forts, and other than the occasional jarring sight of Federals in the streets we hardly knew they were about. But General Jackson had not been chased away, and when he at last grew tired of the stench of bluecoats he attacked, driving the larger force to Kernstown, four miles south, where they finally stopped and turned to face him.
“There’s been a battle!” In time, we wouldn’t even need to hear the words; the distant heat-thunder rumble of artillery, the pealing of church bells announcement enough. In time, we would know that the mangled debris of that bloodletting was on its way to us, to Winchester. But (snip)
Alternative #2
“You there, dutchman!”
My heart started pounding. Irma’s grip on my hand tightened. My father looked at me. “Say nothing.” We turned to face a menacing group of soldiers arrayed on the plank sidewalk. Pa stepped forward, between the Yankee ruffians and us. “Well, hello! Sergeant Taylor, isn't it?”
“You owe me for that cookstove!” The speaker was short, not much taller than my father, but, red-faced with venom and surrounded by his henchmen, infinitely deadly.
A crowd was gathering. Pa turned to me. “Agatha, take Irma—”
“Shut up! I'm talking to you!” Stinking with alcohol, the Yank weaved as he scowled at my father. “You charged me ten dollars! The way I figure it that's five dollars too much!”
Pa nodded genially. “Why don't you come by later and we'll talk. We’ll have a drink or two…” He reached for Irma’s hand. “Come along, girls.”
“I'm done talking! Overcharging the army is a Federal offense. You're under arrest!” The soldiers seized my father, pushing Irma and me aside and sending our packages flying. Irma fled to safety behind a lady’s skirts as one of them, just a boy, shoved me. I tripped and fell, scraping my hands painfully. Furious, I scrambled to my feet and went after him, striking him with all my might. Surprised and uncertain what to do, he grabbed my arms and held them, dodging my kicks, as the others laughed. I couldn’t see Pa, hidden from my view by the protesting crowd, but (snip)
I think you can guess which opening I think is the strongest. While the historical part of historical fiction is a critical element, setting it all up on the first page doesn’t yield a grabber. The historical information that’s necessary can be taken from the exposition in alternative #1 and woven into the story that starts with alternative #2 as things happen. I’ve done the same kind of thing with one of my novels, and I know you can do it. Comments, anyone? It would help the writer to hear why you made the choice you did.
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 Jan.
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:
. . . in March of 1862 we still needed the words to know, and the words still shocked and frightened.
In time, all the wounded from the Valley battles were brought to us to be healed, or to die, but it was First Kernstown that taught me how to take care of them. The experience, shocking to the senses, drove the last vestiges of childhood from me.
General Banks came back after Kernstown puffed with conceit for having defeated the great Stonewall, and determined to regain his pride lost in the race south. His blue-uniformed soldiers swaggered through the streets now, enforcing new and humiliating laws with relish. Unauthorized gatherings were forbidden. Food and firewood were withheld on whim. Curfew was imposed and entire families were punished for the wrongdoings of one member.
The menfolk learned quickly that any display of antagonism won them only swift imprisonment and the loss of their homes and so could do nothing about this shameful treatment, but we loyal Southern ladies labored under no such constraints. We went out of our way to show them what we thought of them. None of us would pass under the striped banner, often turning on our heels if our path was to cross it. If we happened upon a soldier on the sidewalk we would cross the street or step down into the mud rather than brush by, and if one dared touch his hat or essay polite conversation we rebuffed him rudely, staring him in the eye with a heart of stone. In that first angry spring of occupation we'd thought we were well within our rights to protest such savage behavior.
I’d yet to learn what savage behavior was, as well.
* * *
“You there, dutchman!”
My heart started pounding. Irma’s grip on my hand tightened. My father looked at me. “Say nothing.” We turned to face a menacing group of soldiers arrayed on the plank sidewalk. Pa stepped forward, between the Yankee ruffians and us. “Well, hello! Sergeant Taylor, isn't it?”
“You owe me for that cookstove!” The speaker was short, not much taller than my father, but, red-faced with venom and surrounded by his henchmen, infinitely deadly.
A crowd was gathering. Pa turned to me. “Agatha, take Irma—”
“Shut up! I'm talking to you!” Stinking with alcohol, the Yank weaved as he scowled at my father. “You charged me ten dollars! The way I figure it that's five dollars too much!”
Pa nodded genially. “Why don't you come by later and we'll talk. We’ll have a drink or two…” He reached for Irma’s hand. “Come along, girls.”
“I'm done talking! Overcharging the army is a Federal offense. You're under arrest!” The soldiers seized my father, pushing Irma and me aside and sending our packages flying. Irma fled to safety behind a lady’s skirts as one of them, just a boy, shoved me. I tripped and fell, scraping my hands painfully. Furious, I scrambled to my feet and went after him, striking him with all my might. Surprised and uncertain what to do, he grabbed my arms and held them, dodging my kicks, as the others laughed. I couldn’t see Pa, hidden from my view by the protesting crowd, but I could hear the thudding blows, his grunts and cries of pain, and the soldiers’ taunts.
Bad news travels fast. My mother came running up, Sissie in arms. She cast one black look at the soldier restraining me. “Get your hands off her!” And the boy obeyed, reminded, perhaps, of his own mother. “Take Sissie!” She thrust her in my arms and plunged into the crowd. “Henry!” The horror in her voice could not be mistaken.
I followed her. “Pa!” Shackled, his face bruised and bleeding, his nose broken and his eyes swelling shut, I hardly recognized him. Unable to stand on his own, two of them were holding him up as the villainous sergeant stood by, rubbing his knuckles and breathing heavily. Sissie, that eternal infant who knew nothing of fear or hate, reached out for her father, wailing.
“Agnes, don't let them see this,” Pa gasped.
I forced my way next to him. “Please, Sergeant,” I implored, “he's done nothing wrong! We were just walking home from market!”
“Get back!” He hefted his billy club threateningly.
“Agatha, get away!”
“No! You didn't do anything! You didn't break any law! They can't do this!” I cried.
“Agnes!” Pa turned to my mother in desperation. “Take them home!”
A man on horseback cantered up, a Yankee captain. “What goes on here?” He surveyed the scene, scowling. “What are you doing with this man?”
The sergeant saluted. “Arresting him! Cheatin’ the army!”
The rider peered at my father. “You're the dutchman, the blacksmith.” Pa nodded. “I know this man. He signed the oath of loyalty.”
“Can’t help it, Captain. He overcharged me and by God he's going to pay!”
The captain looked at my father. “Did you overcharge this man?”
“Nein! I had to cast the entire door, forge a new handle, repair the draft... I charged him ten dollars for it. It would have been six but I had to pay more for the iron. I made only one dollar, I swear!” He coughed and spat. A piece of tooth flew out with the blood.
The Yank sat silently as Pa pled his case, taking in his injuries, his wooden leg, his tearful wife and daughters. He turned to the sergeant. “Release him.”
“But—”
“I said release him! Take those manacles off!” His knees buckled as they sullenly complied. Ma ran to his side to hold him up. “Go home, blacksmith.”
“But what about my ten dollars?” the sergeant demanded. “And what about her?” He pointed at me.
“I don't give a damn about your ten dollars, and what about her?”
“She interfered! And I know she ain't signed no oath – she’s one of them spiteful ones!” It was true. I'd refused all along.
The captain sighed, resting on the pommel. “Have you signed the oath, miss?”
I dropped my eyes. “No, sir.”
“Don't you think it’s about time?” I remained stubbornly silent. He sighed again, straightening. “Don’t be foolish, young lady. Go to the courthouse and sign the papers.” That night torches were hurled against our woodshed and the flames spread to the empty stables, consuming everything.
I signed the papers in the morning.
* * *
Pa was honest with his customers and understanding when things were bad, and, at one time, a busy man. Until the war put a stop to that. But at least he had work when the armies were around. They had their own blacksmiths and forges but were always in need of a smithy.
He prided himself on his neutrality and took pains to treat the Yanks as fairly as he did our boys. This gained him a good name in certain circles, a bad name in others. We were fortunate to still have him with us; most of my friends weren’t so lucky. His wooden leg had saved him. It was locust, turned from an old fence post that Ma had dug out of the dirt herself.
He felt bad that he was home while the other men were away and wouldn't turn down any lady who asked for his help. Dark-haired and dark-eyed with a temper to match, my mother was not one to trifle with, and that was one of the things that got her dander up. She was tall for a woman, and Pa, although barrel-chested and brawny, stood just eye to eye with her. They stood eye to eye, toe to toe, quite often. “Where were you, Henry?” she'd ask if he were gone for an hour or two. His name was Heinrich but everyone called him Henry, Heinrich von Schumann just too foreign. “So and So's gate rusted off,” he'd say in his thick accent. “Fixed her up a new one.” And she would stew. She wouldn't say anything, of course... what could she say? But she would get madder every time and sooner or later the petcock would fly off.
He would promise, then, to attend to affairs at home before attending to affairs otherwise and he would try, but that would last just a while and then he would be off again, splitting a cord, repairing a window or mending a wheel, while our own house cried for attention.
* * *
In May, General Jackson and his men returned to liberate us again. Fifteen thousand strong now and fresh from their victory in Front Royal, they stormed the ramparts on a cold, foggy Sunday and swept down upon the surprised bluebellies like a mountain blizzard. It was our first experience with gunfire in our yards and homes, artillery no longer distant summer thunder but raining down in full-throated fury upon us. The battle would become known as First Winchester.
Staggered by the sudden hellstorm engulfing them, the trapped bluecoats lost all semblance of organization and fought each on his own hook. They fled the forts and broke into homes and shops, seeking to hide in cellars and attics. Outbuildings and pigpens became killing grounds and alleyways became deathtraps as cannon greeted the stampeding bluebellies, the fire making the earth tremble and shaking houses loose from their foundations.
We hid in the cellar for hours, enduring the unceasing sounds of slaughter: men shouting and cursing, the terrible screams of wounded horses, the clatter of musketry and roar of cannon, devilish shells shrieking overhead – whush-shish-shish-shish-shish – while Ma tried to calm Irma and Sissie and shield them from the dirt and dust raining down. Pa stood with shotgun cocked and ready, watching the barricaded door above us, while I held my own fearful vigil on the small, barred window, catching an occasional fleeting glimpse of blue-trousered legs and every second expecting a seeking shell to find us.
But eventually the firing slowed and the tenor of battle moved away, and, like Lazarus from the tomb, we rose from the cellar. Stoic and calm during the battle, Ma wept at the sight of her house. They’d entered while we cowered below, the noise of the battle hiding them entirely. They’d taken what they could – not much, as there wasn’t much to share – and destroyed what was left.
I cautiously peered out the parlor window. All fight driven from them, the bluecoats were sprinting down the street as fast as their legs could carry them. I grabbed the shotgun from my father and ran up the stairs to the attic and threw open the window commanding the street. Without even bothering to aim, I let loose with both barrels, so angry the shots went wild.
Surprisingly agile for a one-legged man, my father burst in after me and wrested the gun away. “Gottverdammt, Agatha! Have you lost your mind? They’ll hang me for that!”
“They’re gone, Pa!”
“Stupid girl! They’ll be back!”
He’d already seen the truth that I was blind to. A month later Jackson was gone again, finding great glory in the battles of Port Republic and Cross Keys, and once again we were left to nurse the wounded. Once again our boys were captured when the bluecoats swept back into town, and once again it was General Banks.
At first I imagined every squad going about their business on their way to burn our house, but it seemed that the parting shot wasn’t noticed or, more likely, that so many were taken that none in particular were memorable. One thing was memorable to them, though, and that was the humiliation they'd suffered in their second inglorious rout, and they came back determined this time to exact their own sweet revenge.
Already nursing a full measure of resentment over his shameful defeat and the scornful treatment of his troops, Banks let his men have full sway over the town now. They rampaged through the cratered streets like the criminals they were, breaking windows of those known to be anti-Union, looting stores and houses, mobbing innocent citizens and insulting decent women. Men were accused of being guerillas without proof and taken away to prison. They searched our houses for weapons, ammunition and powder – turning them upside-down in the process – and all the citizens' arms were seized, Pa's included. We were defenseless.
We prayed for a miracle as we endured week after week of cruel oppression, but God had abandoned us. The days of open defiance were gone and the days of fear were upon us now. But the nights were worse. Whisky and darkness fanning the flames of malice, every night we fearfully awaited the pounding on the door and the rough, drunken voices demanding entry. Few things in life are as terrifying as being awakened like that, knowing the men outside have evil on their minds. We would hide, Ma and Irma and I, cloistered away upstairs as Pa, Sissie in arms, calmly reasoned with the fiends, his German accent – so different from the soft drawl of our friends and neighbors – working to his benefit, and his littlest daughter shielding him by her very fragility.
Affairs grew so dire that General Banks, finally realizing the extent of the brutality he’d unleashed, confined the men to their camps. But then the Yankee artillery, tiring of several widow ladies who’d remained bravely outspoken, turned their guns toward town and reduced their houses to rubble. Target practice gone awry, they said. And General Banks said that they should have been grateful it wasn’t live ammunition.
Too wearied, too sick of the horrible conditions, people began leaving. Banks denied no one passage if they wished to go south. None were permitted to travel north. The Yanks whooped it up every time they found an abandoned house and the treasured belongings left behind were quickly stolen or destroyed.
We stayed, and my hatred for the bluebellies grew with every minute. But still I took their money. When their filthy britches needed patched or their stinking sack coats needed a button, they dropped them off at the smithy or knocked on our door. And I smiled and accepted their repellant, vermin-infested rags and sewed them up. When flour costs 12 dollars a barrel, one sews.