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 had sent the first chapter of Get Up Eight, but then she emailed me because a nighttime inspiration led her to a rewrite. She told me to select the best one. I’d rather you did the work, so what follows are the two opening pages and then a poll.
The rest of the chapter from version 1 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.
Version 1
Strange time to remember this, on the slippery edge of a deadly cliff, but suddenly I’m back on my first day at the Crystal Creek School of Benevolent Leadership.
All sixteen of us are hefting our backpacks into the Boys Dorm to choose a bunk partner and settle in. I enter last, trying not to draw attention, but it makes no difference. The chatter dies and the faces turn my way.
It’s pretty clear everyone knows who I am or, more to the point, who my dad is. But right now the air is more uncertain than negative. I sense they’re waiting for me to say 'Yeah, my dad's an asshole' so they can all smile and welcome me into their circle.
But I don't. Because he's not.
The silence turns ominous. Benevolence is a distant concept.
Back at my high school, I was a relatively proficient class clown but humor can’t help me here. It couldn’t even help me there at the end.
Then a thin but muscular guy unloading his pack to my right turns around, reads the room in a second and smiles: “Rhino Rodgers, dude, if you’re not too famous to hang out with a nobody, we could share a bunk.” And that’s as good an explanation as any for why, nine months later, I’m about to risk my life to save Tracker.
Because right now Tracker is wobbling. We’re lined up along a ledge with six (snip)
Version 2
Blame it on our fathers.
Sesh and I were doomed to tension and heartbreak before we ever met. Her father, the amazing, beloved political comedian Andy Sessions, was brutally murdered last year. My father, defense attorney Daniel Rodgers, set the murderer free.
Or blame it on a cosmic sadist that we ended up here together at the Crystal Creek School of Benevolent Leadership. Specifically, out here right now next to each other on this slippery ledge in one-legged tree pose, soaked with spray from Upper Crystal Falls.
Eight of us students share the ledge but fittingly, I’m right between the girl who hates me and the guy who loves me. The guy is Tracker, who saved my life when we first entered the Boys Dorm on opening day. I was trying not to draw attention but the chatter died and the faces turned my way, more uncertain than negative at first. They wanted me to say 'Yeah, my dad's an asshole' so they could smile and welcome me into their circle.
But I didn't. Because he's not. The silence turned ominous.
Then a thin but muscular guy unloading his pack to my right turned around, read the room in a second and smiled: “Rhino Rodgers, dude, if you’re not too famous to hang out with a nobody, we could share a bunk.” Which is as good an explanation as any for why, nine months later, I’m about to risk my life to save Tracker.
Jill sent a second opening because she was concerned that, right off the bat, her narrative went to backstory, a flashback, and the checklist says not to do that. Well, in writing fiction, there are no rules—the checklist is a list of tools that can work for you, but not a list of rules. I’ve read opening pages that “violated” more than half of the checklist that were quite successful.
So, for Jill’s openings, I like the original one, number 1, and would give it a page turn. The flashback works because it has tension in it, it raises story questions, and it does a good job of setting the scene of the story and introducing two sympathetic characters. And, before the page ends, we’re back in the scene with jeopardy threatening. Well done.
As for opening 2, I think it tries for too much by cramming in a third character. Let the scene in opening 1 play out and then get to the girl, the murder, and whatever else awaits after that. I think Jill shows plenty of talent and that plus her willingness to rethink her narrative speaks well of her future. This sounds like a fun story. Your thoughts?
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:
. . . other students in one-legged tree pose, drenched with spray from Upper Crystal Falls and trying not to think about the rapids thirty feet below.
“You okay, Track?” I yell, wobbling myself slightly now. His black, shoulder-length hair is plastered to his neck and face by the spray. I’m two inches shorter than his six feet but if he starts to go over the edge, I know I’ll grab for him, which likely means we’ll go over together and either bash our heads on the rocks or drown in the rapids.
“Dude yeah,” he yells back. “Falling asleep!” I don’t know if he’s joking. I do know he lies awake for hours every night due to terrible dreams. And that he has no fear of thirty-foot cliffs. A few seconds later, he regains his balance.
I’d like to assume rescue divers are secretly stationed below but with Keeper Sam, you never know. The Keeper loves to talk about how our new, experimental school gives “real-world urgency” to us “pampered kids” so we’ll “actually learn something.” He’s no doubt enjoying our terror.
A sudden slap of spray douses me, tripling my goose bumps and sloshing my hair into my eyes. Normally, we practice yogatation in the Hall of Learning on our dry, safe purple mat. But this morning, Keeper Sam led us out of the tower, down the Cliff Trail to Upper Crystal Falls and onto this godforsaken rock. I’d like to assume he’ll explain everything when we get back inside like a normal teacher/headmaster would but the Keeper doesn’t exactly follow societal expectations.
The ledge can hold only eight of us at once. Ours is the last group to go. I’m sure the other twenty-four students are kissing the cliff wall behind us, praising God or Allah or the Great Whatever that they made it through this exercise alive.
I try to refocus my mind…on the moss that covers the trees like thick green fur, on Upper Crystal’s surroundsounding hiss, on the great mist cloud that boils up where the falls crash into the rapids…and then Keeper Sam finally booms “Namaste!”
By this time there are goose bumps on top of my goose bumps. On two legs now, we turn and “Namaste” back to the Keeper, then join the others on the trail carved into the cliff. It’s wide enough to fit two people or one Keeper Sam. Which might seem safe if there weren’t a sheer drop down into the Churning Rapids of Death. The Keeper leads us back single-file to the six-story, acre-wide Douglas fir tree trunk where we live.
No, it’s not a real tree. It’s Tree Tower, a realistic, Disneyesque trunk with deeply furrowed bark and moss and nest holes and woodpecker scars and a jagged top to make it look like the rest of it broke off during a storm. Inside, it’s all sleek and wired, with blinking lights and wall screens and pleasant disembodied voices announcing meetings or instructions or visitors. And instead of chipmunks and woodpeckers and squirrels, it houses us thirty-two students, plus four Keepers and twelve staff. Tree Tower was a popular wilderness resort in the Columbia River Gorge back when Oregon was still in the USA. Then last fall, the Benevolent Rulers commandeered it for their new idea: a school to teach benevolent leadership. So far, I’d say it’s had mixed results.
By the time we reach the stairway to the tower’s front deck, the whole spray-soaked, shivering lot of us is hypothermic in the cool spring air and we all just want to curl up in a blanket by the fireplace in the Hall of Rest. Instead, we head through the front doors, up to the third floor and onto our purple mat in the Hall of Learning.
Keeper Sam is up front on the knee-high stage, looming over us, radiating darkness (partly because his uniform is black and his skin is dark brown) and unpredictability. Don’t get me wrong. We love the guy like he’s our dad, if our dad also happened to be a tornado. Our superhero nickname for him is “The Black Hole.” He led the TDSA military in the war against Real America and could probably take down a small army single-handedly if it attacked the school. His hair is still shaved short, military style, and right now his squarish face radiates intensity. He paces the stage a few times while we’re all taking our places, then stops and faces us. “The three Benevolent Rulers will be flying down Sunday to select four of you for a special mission.”
Whoa. We haven’t seen The Rulers since our first day here.
“The two of you who failed to complete this morning’s exercise are disqualified for consideration. And there will be more tests and likely more disqualifications before Sunday. Because this mission will not involve handing out candy to cute little refugee kids. It will involve danger. It will require the kind of courage and focus you need to do tree pose at the edge of a cliff next to a waterfall. It may require you to talk with Real Americans or Real America sympathizers.”
Well that’s interesting, given that we seceded a year and a half ago and still have eight years to reconsider, according to our treaty.
“This mission may also increase your chance of becoming a Benevolent Ruler.”
Not that I want to be a ruler, but my mind flashes to the one thing I’d require all TDSA citizens to do if I were a ruler. One thing that could change the world.
“But first, y’all are shivering so much you’re making the room vibrate,” Keeper Sam booms. “Apparently we’re going to have to put the fate of the Temporarily Disunited States of America on hold while y’all switch into dry uniforms.” He rolls his eyes at our weakness as we rush for the door.