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.
Alice sends Blizzard, the first chapter of Palo Duro Mustangs. The rest of the chapter is after the break. Remember to focus on writing craft regardless of genre. This might not be a genre for you, but you can surely judge the strengths of the opening page.
A dark blur faded in and out of a scattering of bare-branched cottonwoods along a dry snow-filled stream bed. Two Feathers squinted through the wind-swirled sea of white that burned his cheeks and stung his eyes, but the dark shape was gone. Was it his missing bull? No, he was almost sure he had seen the upright shape of a man. Yellow Hawk? Pinpricks raced down his back. A flutter settled in his empty stomach. How much longer would his uncle stalk him and Will?
Forcing thoughts of his uncle aside, Two Feathers pushed on. He had looked all day, but found no sign of the bull. He must find him. The idea of telling his brother they had lost another bull was unthinkable. Between the winter snows and Yellow Hawk’s raids, their losses were heavy.
Thoughts of the lost bull slipped away. Hatred for Yellow Hawk, his uncle, took its place. He shivered, but not from the cold. His eyes watered, but not from the wind. Memories filled his head. His own uncle had killed his father many years ago when he was very small. Will’s pa’s death a year ago during a raid by Yellow Hawk’s band left them, two young boys, to run the Pecos River Ranch. What was he supposed to do on a white man’s ranch? He was Comanche. He was supposed to hunt buffalo, not Longhorn bulls.
Will’s words that morning forced their way back into Two Feathers thoughts. “Find Big (snip)
This opening begins to edge toward a strong story question, but then sidesteps into backstory. I say “edge” because, even though we are told that he must find the bull, there are no stakes or consequences for failure. What will happen if he doesn’t find the bull? Is there a dire consequence? Then bring it on here.
There is some lovely language here, but, for me, there were times when it got in the way. Specifically, this:
the wind-swirled sea of white
While there's a lot to like here--the promise of a look inside a Native American's life--there are other issues. Here’s a brief edit:
A dark blur faded in and out of a scattering of bare-branched cottonwoods along a dry snow-filled stream bed. Two Feathers squinted through the wind-swirled sea of white that burned his cheeks and stung his eyes, but the dark shape was gone. Was it his missing bull? No, he was almost sure he had seen the upright shape of a man. Yellow Hawk? Pinpricks raced down his back. A flutter settled in his empty stomach. How much longer would his uncle stalk him and Will? The "sea of white" description is a bit of overwriting. Keep action like this simple. "would his uncle stalk him and Will" suggests that Will is there with him, but he's not.
Forcing thoughts of his uncle aside, Two Feathers pushed on. He had looked all day, but found no sign of the bull. He must find him. The idea of telling his brother they had lost another bull was unthinkable. Between the winter snows and Yellow Hawk’s raids, their losses were heavy. Why is it unthinkable? What are the consequences?
Thoughts of the lost bull slipped away. Hatred for Yellow Hawk, his uncle, took its their place. He shivered, but not from the cold. His eyes watered, but not from the wind. Memories filled his head. His own uncle had killed his father many years ago when he was very small. Will’s pa’s death a year ago during a raid by Yellow Hawk’s band left them, two young boys, to run the Pecos River Ranch. What was he supposed to do on a white man’s ranch? He was Comanche. He was supposed to hunt buffalo, not Longhorn bulls. Second reference to thoughts, an "echo" to avoid. The "slipped away" tells me that we're about to slip away from a story that you want me to be hooked by into a detour into backstory. Not a good idea. The antecedent for the "he" in this sentence is his father, not what you meant. This is a white man's ranch? I thought it was Will's pa's, who I was thinking was an Indian since Two Feathers is one and he's also running the ranch. This bit of backstory is tangled and confusing, and has nothing to do with finding a lost bull. Stick to the story, or start it in a different place.
Will’s words that morning forced their way back into Two Feathers thoughts. “Find Big (snip) More backstory.
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 Alice.
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:
. . . Tom. We need him.” He shook his head, trying to throw the weight of those words off his shoulders.
Gray Wolf, his grullo, stopped. The hours of searching stretched behind Two Feathers. Dull gray clouds ladened with snow hung low, taking away any sense of time. He could not tell how soon night would fall and that made him uneasy. The high desert swelled with drifts whose tops whipped away by wind cold enough to snap bones. The thick snow no longer came straight down but rode sideways on the wind. Gray Wolf stamped his hooves and tugged on the reins. Flakes covered his mane, increasing Two Feathers' worries. He strained to see as far as the howling storm would let him, but nothing showed.
If he did not find Big Tom soon, he would not make it home before night, and the storm would swallow him in its frigid frenzy. He had to find that bull, so quitting was not an option.
No tracks broke the bleak white surface. The wind blurred his vision. Turning Gray Wolf, so his back was to the wind, he sat for a few minutes and wiped at his tearing eyes and running nose. It is dumb to be out here, he thought. The jackrabbits are safe and warm under the ground. They have more sense than I do. Even the humps left by the bunchgrass are disappearing with the snow banked against them.
Cold seeped through his moccasins and bit his toes. His wool socks usually kept his feet warm, but as night approached, the temperature dropped.
“Gray Wolf, I am freezing. Where is that bull? I wish you would find him. I do not want to spend the night out here.” Humping his broad shoulders, he pulled the collar of his heavy wool coat tighter around his neck and loosened the braids his coat had grabbed. Gray Wolf shook his head and rattled his bit when Two Feathers nudged him into the storm.
“I know, my friend. I do not want to go either, but we must find Big Tom. This winter has already taken one bull. We cannot afford to lose another. He has to be in trouble—or dead —since he has not come up for hay in three days.”
Two Feathers headed for a narrow gully he knew branched off the larger arroyo. Maybe Big Tom had found shelter there. Several tracks, now faint and filling, showed on a trail heading into the gully. As he descended, the banks grew taller and blocked the sharp blasts of wind.
Movement on the rim caught his eye. A vague shape floated for a piece of a second and then was gone. What was it? Gray Wolf stopped and turned his head toward the rim.
“Did you see that?” Two Feathers asked.
The horse snorted
“No animal would be hunting in this weather.”
Two Feathers squinted and shielded his eyes from the heavy falling flakes but saw nothing. He tapped the horse to start him moving, muttering, “We better find Big Tom soon. We are starting to see things that are not there.” He wondered if Gray Wolf believed that any more than he did.
While following the tracks along the bottom of the gully, a sharp gust of wind dumped snow from the pinyons and junipers that grew along the rim above him. It flattened his hat and spread its cold, wet fingers down into his collar. Two Feathers yanked his hat off and beat it against his leg.
“We better find him soon. I have had enough of this snow.” Pulling his bandana over his mouth, nose, and ears, he slapped his hat back on and pulled it tight.
Gray Wolf forced his way through the deepening snow, and up ahead, Two Feathers spotted the dim form of Big Tom, his head turned in their direction as though he had been waiting for them.
“There you are.” An explosion of foggy breath and a sudden slump of his stiff shoulders released hours of held-in tension. “Do you know how much trouble you are? I have been hunting you all day.”
With his rope stiff from the cold, Two Feathers struggled to loosen it enough to build a loop, twirl it over his head, and throw it over Big Tom’s wide horns. The Longhorn bull didn’t flinch, just lifted his left front hoof, and moaned. Dallying the rope around the saddle horn, Two Feathers, his movements jerky from the cold, dismounted and followed his rope through the deepening snow to Big Tom.
“Easy. What trouble are you in now?”
Even though the bull was gentle, Two Feathers approached him with caution. He had learned the hard way gentleness was not always protection from harm. The bull’s face was crusted with snow, so he brushed it from the curly hair between the massive wide-spread horns and scratched behind his ears. “Easy ol’ boy. Does that feel good?” Only then did he run his hand down the left foreleg. He lifted the big hoof, brushed away the snow, and found a mesquite thorn embedded in the tender flesh of his foot. He pulled it out with his knife. A bellow, a wild swing of horns—Two Feathers ducked— and a gush of greenish pus followed the long thorn.
“Hey!” Two Feathers barked, stood, and brushed snow off his pants. “Be careful how you sling your head.” He cleaned the knife in the snow, dried it on his coat, and shoved it down in the scabbard. “How long have you been carrying that thorn? Your foot is all swelled up and hot as a bed of coals. We need to get to the barn so Will can fix you up.”
Big Tom set his foot on the ground and tested his weight on it. He took a timid step…then two. With Big Tom limping along, Two Feathers headed back toward home. He studied the ground as far down the gully as he could see. The cold gray sky blended into the heavy curtain of snow.
The same dim form took shape ahead of him and disappeared into the blurry distance so fast Two Feathers was not sure he had seen anything. Was it a man? Was it a buffalo? Was it even there? This was the third time he thought he had seen someone or something in the storm. Who would be out in such dangerous weather? Why did they hang back? Was it wolves hungry enough to leave their dens? The thought set his nerves humming and sharpened his senses.
He nudged Gray Wolf to keep him moving. When they made the turn into the larger arroyo, the wind slammed into them once again, and the drifts grew larger. Gray Wolf and Big Tom floundered in their depth. Two Feathers decided he would not make it back to the ranch tonight and looked for a place to camp. The idea of a fire eased his tension somewhat. He spotted an undercut cave in the windward wall deep enough for him and Gray Wolf. A tangled jumble of driftwood caught in the cave provided support for his ground cloth to close off the opening. He did not know what he wanted more, a fire for warmth, or to keep the strange shadows away.
When he hobbled Big Tom to keep him from drifting before the storm, he ran his hand up the infected leg. He felt the warmth of fever half-way to the knee. He did not like the look or the feel of that foot. He packed snow as high as he could on the leg but knew Big Tom would not stand still long enough for it to help.
Water from snow scooped into his cup with a piece of venison jerky simmered over a small fire. Two Feathers sipped the warm broth with relief. Wrapped in wool blankets from his bedroll, with a large stack of stout sticks beside him, he packed his worries into the back of his mind and settled in for a long cold night. Gray Wolf snuffled at the last bits of grain he had piled on a flat rock in the back of their shelter. But, before sleep got a firm grip, the crunch of footsteps and the soft nicker of a horse startled Two Feathers. A voice spoke to him in Comanche.
The familiar low tone stole his breath and squeezed his guts rock hard. He tried to swallow, but the muscles in his throat would not move. The ground cloth lifted, and a man, squatting low, slipped into the shelter. Two Feathers' breath slammed into the back of his throat, and he scrambled into the farthest corner of the undercut cave, his knife in one hand, his rifle in the other.
Dark leathery skin covered sharp angular cheekbones set high on the man’s broad face. Long thick braids hung low past his waist. Hawk feathers, fastened with a tight leather band around his forehead, hung with them. His chin thrust forward, almost to a point.
Yellow Hawk! His uncle hunkered down on his haunches, stretched his hands to the fire’s warmth, and looked at Two Feathers. His eyes, as always, flint-hard and black, like deep pits. Hatred flared in those eyes then faded to something Two Feathers had never seen before. Something he did not understand. Something that made his hackles rise.
“I have followed you since the sun rose. You did not conceal yourself. You have chosen to live with the white man. You must be careful to not forget the ways of the Comanche.” His voice was hard and sharp as slate.
He stared at Two Feathers for a long time. A slight twitch pulled at the corners of the thin slash of his mouth. The voice deepened even more, the words slid from between thin lips
“You are easy to find.”
Two Feathers could not answer. His uncle’s words tightened his shoulders and pulled his elbows against his ribs. The hard rocks of the cave wall pressed into his back. Kee,-No Kee, Kee, echoed over and over in his head like a pounding drum. Fear of his uncle had lived with him since he was small, before the day-of-death when the soldiers killed his Comanche mother, and Yellow Hawk killed his white father.
A shaky sigh and a sharp intake of cold air lit a flicker of courage in Two Feathers. He returned to the fire and laid his rifle across his lap.
“You are not my uncle. I am not a son to you.”
Yellow Hawk snorted. “I do not want you for a son.” He sucked air in through his bared teeth. “You are… white.” The last word slithered from his lips.
A small flicker of courage inside Two Feathers flamed into anger. “I remember the one time you took me to hunt wood for arrows. I remember trying to walk like you, trying to match my steps to yours. I remember finding a dogwood tree and the smile on your face when I showed it to you. I remember you showing me which trees would make good arrows and which ones would not. I remember you cutting the long straight branches, how we went so far into the forest I feared we would not find our way back to Weeping Woman. I remember you liking me. I remember liking the feel of your hand on my shoulder. Those memories are dead to me. Now, I remember the hate in your eyes. I remember your hands choking me, squeezing my throat so hard I thought I would die.”
For a long time, Yellow Hawk sat still. Two Feathers watched his eyes. He wanted to see something good there. He wanted to see…family. What he saw instead were flat raven-black hooded eyes that simmered with hate.
The warrior’s eyes never shifted. He slid his arm from under the buffalo robe, picked up a bent, gnarled chunk of cedar driftwood about the size of his hand, and pointed it at Two Feathers. His eyes shifted from the boy to the wood he held. He rolled it over in his hand. “Like it or not, you are my sister’s child. She wanted me to give you a strong horse. I never did.” He drew a short knife from his belt and started whittling. “The storm blows, and the wind freezes everything it touches. I ask for shelter. Tonight I would be your guest, not your enemy.” The words fell like heavy stones and filled the space between man and boy.
Two Feathers tried to shake his head. Why let him stay? He wanted to shake his head. He is the enemy. Instead, he forced his head down and back up. To refuse his uncle and turn him back out into the storm was not the Comanche way.
At Two Feathers faint nod, Yellow Hawk pulled back the ground cloth and brought his horse inside.
The hours crawled through the night. Two Feathers kept the fire burning and refused sleep—his knife in his hand, his rifle on his lap—watching the bitter smirk on the lips of the man his mother had loved. He tried to see what she saw. But, he failed. There was nothing good in the hollow core of his eyes, the hard line of his jaw, or the dull sheen of his knife.