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.
Sharon sends the first chapter of A Trail of Stardust. The rest of the chapter is after the break.
Mazie was unbuttoning her blouse at a stoplight when the cell phone rang. She looked to the screen. It was August Nash, opposing counsel on a collection matter she was handling.
“I talked it over with my client, and we can go as high as five hundred thousand,” August told her.
Spin class was starting in a few minutes. She slid shorts up along calves, then tugged them as high as possible beneath a black pencil skirt.
“That’s not even a third of what they owe us,” Mazie scoffed. “We have sunk costs—already paid our vendors.”
One hand reached back to unzip along her waist, shimmied the skirt down her legs like a pro, finishing just as the light turned to green. Mazie scowled as the driver behind tapped his horn and edged closer to the intersection.
“Why don’t you talk it over with your boss—”
“I am the boss, August.” Technically speaking. At least with respect to her department. If only she could replicate that same assuredness on the rest of the world, particularly at the office.
Even as General Counsel, she’d had to sneak out that evening, evading watchful eyes in an effort to lay claim to a personal life.
Although guilt weighed heavily on tense shoulders, she knew a shift in balance was (snip)
I enjoyed the writing and voice in this, but ended up without much of a clue as to what the story is about despite learning how a woman might change clothes while in her car. :)
So far, nothing seems to be going wrong for this character. Yes, she’s getting pushback from someone about a financial transaction, but that hardly seems like jeopardy. Fundamentally, this and most of the rest of the chapter is well-written setup.
As it often turns out, I found what was a strong hook and creator of story questions at the end of the chapter, the incident that the setup was leading up to. Here, slightly modified, is how I’d look at opening the story:
Mazie opened the email from the whistleblower service.
I wish I didn’t have to write this, but corporate needs to know what’s going on in South America. To start, employees have been giving bribes to customers to win business…
Her heart stalled a beat. Bribery? In South America? If the allegation was true and it had occurred on her watch, the company was screwed. Millions in fines, news of her failure dominating the headlines, and depending on the extent of the bad acts, maybe even… jail.
I’d definitely turn the page with an opening like this. Something has gone badly wrong that could impact her, and the stakes are high. The backstory and setup material can be woven in while Mazie begins to deal with the crisis. The scene needs to be set, but if the story starts here it doesn’t have to take place in her car and the spin class won’t be a factor. I’d look for a way to start here.
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 © 2022 Ray Rhamey, excerpt © 2022 by Sharon.
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:
. . . necessary. Night after night of sitting at a desk like a burned-out zombie helped no one. Long, sedentary, sleep-deprived hours weren’t just hell on well-being, but on competence, too. Tired eyes might misread a contract. A weary mind could commit malpractice. She might even become ill…
The others could work themselves into a coma that evening. Time away from the office was vital in the marathon of practicing law, and she was finally going to take hold of what was deserved.
August back-pedaled, “What I meant was, talk to the business folks. We need some sort of compromise.”
“And we need some sort of payment.” Mazie glared at the traffic that had pushed her along to the final light. Stepping on the brake, arms slipped into a sports top, accidentally leaning an elbow onto the passenger window button while pinching the clasp of her bra. The window lowered, and she squinted at the red glare of sunset that flooded the car, bringing into focus the face of Leo Hernández, Bateman-Star’s IT manager. His horrified gaze transfixed hers and he offered a tentative wave from a crowd of road bicyclists coasting into the lane next to her.
She looked to the sports top now barely covering her nipples and bra that hung upside down just below. Can’t wait for that HR meeting on Monday.
“Mazie?” August was saying. “Can you hear me?”
“I’ll call you later,” she said, a little staggered.
Mazie cast a wistful glance at the cyclists as they sped off. On the surface, road cycling seemed like a good idea—a group of cyclists gracefully coasting in each other’s wake in mutually beneficial fashion, not unlike the beauty of birds flying in formation. In reality, it had taken exactly three quarters of one rally and one crack in the road for her to crash-somersault into the realization that this activity, like traffic, was a brand of natural selection that favored the selfish, not unlike corporate America. This was something she understood all too well.
The safer bet, she’d found, was to ditch the race bike and take up spin, with its dark room, loud music, and no cars. They were their own kind of elegant flock. Same sweat slinging, grunting type, still competing—via leaderboard—but importantly, no crashes.
Mazie arrived at the gym with exactly two minutes to spare. She dashed into class just in time to grab one of the last empty bikes next to her friend. Caroline’s lips curved up with a knowing smile.
Her calves pounded as she climbed out of the saddle, pedals pressed downward with each pump of bass. Fifteen minutes in, she was sucking air hard, speeding to catch up with thoughts that always surfaced with too much velocity.
Jake, the instructor, quit lip-synching long enough to call out, “Y’all still breathing?”
Barely. “He’s a beast,” Mazie looked to the resister dial, then back to her friend, who seemed suspiciously rested after their last climbing drill. Busted, Caroline smiled and shrugged, speeding up leg rotation for show as the music’s tempo picked up. Her dark, side-swept bangs were perfectly positioned, not an ounce of perspiration to weigh them down.
Mazie grabbed a towel and mopped up the sweat raining down on the handlebars. Music blasted, urging them to pedal faster. She checked the leaderboard again, determined not to fall behind.
“Love this guy,” Mazie whispered, “Gets me to push my limits.”
“You need him in your life,” Caroline winked.
Mazie shook her head and chugged water like a rehydrating camel. “Just for spin. He’s like 25—a decade younger than me.”
“Some of you seem fully recovered,” Jake glowered at them in mock indignation, then cracked a smile. Rippling muscles were held back by the thinnest of tanks. After looking at nothing but contracts for months, the visual was compelling.
“Pick up the pace. Pump a little harder,” he added.
“Oh, it’s on, Jake,” Caroline said, reaching over to dial up Mazie’s resistance so far her legs slogged through concrete.
“What the—??!” Mazie grabbed the water bottle and pointed the nozzle in Caroline’s direction, but didn’t squeeze. Given all the sweat she’d been slinging every drop was a precious commodity. Also not worth another menacing look from Jake.
A flash of platinum hair caught Mazie’s attention. Eyes narrowed as a rounded shape came into focus weaving through the bikes in their direction. The hair that bobbed through darkness was stretched back into a high ponytail so tight that the face attached pulled back as well.
Mazie turned as the figure still wearing office attire climbed onto a bike behind them and began to spin.
“Joy?”
“Hi, Mazie.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nic wants you to call him.”
“Now?” Mazie shot over an incredulous stare.
Spin mates, growing tired of their chatter, distributed death glares.
“Flight leaves soon. Won’t be available ‘til morning.”
Indecision slowed cadence to a crawl. Should have been named Kill-Joy instead. She looked at Caroline apologetically, who mouthed the word “boundaries,” and glared at Mazie’s colleague.
Mazie hesitated, then turned back toward Joy. “Something on fire?”
“No.”
“In jail?”
“No. It’s about Dalcorp.”
He wants me to leave spin class to talk about a contract?
“Take it outside,” crowed a man in his seventies decked out in cycling bibs beside them.
“Sorry,” she responded, to nearby oglers and Caroline, who’d turned away, resigned to fate. Mazie sighed and climbed off the bike. She motioned for Joy to stay—someone from work should get to take the class—then gathered belongings and tiptoed toward the door as quietly as cleats would allow.
The message indicator on her phone noted that in the last thirty minutes, Nic had called four times and sent a half-dozen texts. She returned the call, only to hear a recorded voice in the receiver.
“Voicemail? Seriously?” She lifted an arm to hurl the phone before squeezing it so tightly it nearly crumbled. Breathe. Lowering it, she texted her availability.
Mazie slid the gym bag over her shoulders and walked briskly toward the car. Reclining in the driver’s seat, she gave another glance toward the gym, then waited. And waited. No response. So typical.
She plucked at a sweaty shirt to keep it from sticking to her belly and her stomach replied with a light growl, signaling that a grocery stop was warranted. Working until sundown most nights didn’t allow much time for shopping and the leftover salad at home had little appeal.
Despite long hours, no life, and a bare fridge, the arduous climb to being General Counsel for a global manufacturing company like Bateman-Star was worth it. Three years of grisly jobs to pay her way through law school. An eighth of her life dedicated to a patriarchal law firm, routinely overlooked for partnership. Two of those years spent in the basement of a hospital classifying documents for litigation until her eyes nearly bled. In each instance working from sunrise to sunset just to prove herself worthy. But all of that didn’t matter any longer. She’d finally landed the job of her dreams.
Being the top lawyer for a company provided moments of great satisfaction. Like serving a well drafted complaint to a thieving ex-employee. Penning a non-disclosure agreement so comprehensive her law professors would cheer. Even setting up a third-party whistleblower reporting service after a night of googling “How to be a Compliance Officer” when tasked with the dual role.
Still, these driblets of satisfaction, where the taste of success lingered like bubbles in a Dom Pérignon, never lasted. And when they left, a part of her sank, leaving hollowness in its wake. So much so, that even when things were going reasonably well, she could never seem to escape the feeling that she was due for something tragic.
Perusing emails, Mazie waited for Nic to call. A ping from the whistleblower service caught her attention. Never a dull moment. As the first actual complaint ever sent through a reporting system she’d spent months establishing, she didn’t know whether to be anxious or excited, then felt guilty for feeling both. She clicked on it, holding onto a giant breath as it she navigated through the complaint.
I wish I didn’t have to write this, but corporate needs to know what’s going on in South America. To start, employees have been giving bribes to customers to win business…
Her heart stalled a beat, half-regretting the implementation of a system that she’d begged for, even touted as a process that would wow regulators and ixnay wrongdoing before they bloomed into major events. But bribery? In South America? If the allegation was true and it occurred on her watch—a giant failure under a compliance program she personally developed—the company was screwed. Millions in fines, news of her failure dominating the headlines, and depending on the extent of the bad acts, maybe even… jail. She opened the car door and leaned out, needing air.
Stress coiled around Mazie like a corset on fire as she looked to her wrist, where some guard would wrap a cuff so tightly it’d cut into the skin. Her water bottle slipped from her hands and clanked across the pavement, the sound like a baton sliding across the steel bars of a prison cell.