Flogometer 1174 for Roberta —will you be moved to turn the page?
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.
Roberta sends the first pages of The Counterfeiter. 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.
Amsterdam 1944 – 1945, The Hongerwinter
Once there had been beds of tulips, purple, red and yellow flowers in Vondelpark bowing on sturdy stems in the breeze. Now the pockmarked soil was bare with shallow holes where someone had dug up the bulbs, and taken them home, and dropped them in the soup kettle.
Lotte unwrapped the sandwich Bento had made for her and not having the heart to lift a corner of the bread to inspect the contents. She took a bite, anticipating a lot of chewing. Flour was as dear as gold dust. The bread was half sawdust. Between her teeth, like tooth powder, was the grit of it. She stifled a gag remembering the article in the newspaper about how the zoo creatures had been butchered, their flesh distributed to the poor. Lotte forced herself to swallow, refusing to complete her speculation. Since the Germans had occupied Holland five years ago, she’d grown accustomed to ersatz bread and coffee. Meat, really more gristle, than meat, was more difficult to ignore.
She chided herself for her squeamishness. Food should be the last thing on her mind. She had much more important things to worry about.
There was the crunch of gravel on the footpath. A man appeared and sat down on the bench opposite her, a metal lunch box tucked under his arm. An office worker? A school teacher? A store clerk? The important thing was he wasn’t German. He was far too skinny to be (snip)
There’s a little copyediting needed here, but that’s not a dealbreaker if the story is strong enough. This page introduces us to a world that most of us don’t know, and that’s appealing. The writing is sound, and the voice is good. We’re introduced to a sympathetic character and the setting is clear. So what are we missing?
The tension of a strong story question, the story tension of something gone wrong or clearly about to go wrong. That tension appears in this chapter, but not until the end. Until then, it’s exposition and establishment of the world and character. The tension comes from this stranger seeing the yellow star in her bag and her fear that he could report her and her husband. If there’s a way to get that on the first page, and I think there is, then this would earn a yes from me rather than an almost. It would be even stronger if the stranger appears to be a German/Nazi. 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 Roberta.
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:
. . . one of the soldiers that occupied the city. And not a Jew either. No yellow five pointed star declaring him to be a Jood, appeared on the lapel of his shabby coat. His shirt was white, blindingly white, in the pale silvery light of winter. A careful wife, Lotte surmised, a diligent huisvrouw, who by God’s grace, still had bleach and bluing powder.
However, it was his lunchbox that interested her. She tried not to lean forward to peer in as he unlatched the buckle and lifted the lid, as slowly and carefully as a sapper defusing a bomb. There must be something wonderful inside, judging by the look of anticipation on his face. He lifted out a glass dish with a fitted cover. When he removed the cover, she saw it was pickled beets, as crimson and shiny as the tulips in the park had been before the war. Her mouth watered. Rich, plump beets, round as a baby’s head. He must have relatives in the countryside who had somehow managed to evade the German blockade cutting off food and fuel from farm towns into Amsterdam.
Lotte couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a beet. He balanced the dish on his lap, the beet swimming in juice. He carefully cut the fat globes into pieces with a fork and his pocket knife. Finally, he speared a slice with his knife and popped it into his mouth. My God, the texture and the smell. Even ten feet away she could catch the aroma of vinegar and pickling spice, and imagine the tartness, and the very crimsonness of the colour. She could tell by the way he chewed with a dreamy half-smile how lovely it tasted, how fleshy and perfect. Was there a touch of cinnamon along with the vinegar? She felt her nose twitching. How her girls would enjoy such a treat.
Into his mouth disappeared another piece, and then another. Lotte nibbled at her sandwich. The bread was like eating flannel and she hadn't brought anything to drink, not even water. If she had been alone, she would have scooped up a handful of snow and shoved it in her mouth.
Just then the man glanced up and looked at her. She quickly looked away, embarrassed. He smiled, displaying showing a full set of teeth. Good for him. So many people had lost teeth from malnutrition.
He stood and walked over to her bench, carrying a bowl of beets. I t was swimming in juice. Two plump slices remained. “Please,” he said, “have a piece.” He held the dish out to her, which contained two glistening triangles of pure joy. Her mouth watered, until she was afraid she would start drooling like a St. Bernard. He had a peculiar way of talking, not the soft, but precise Dutch of an Amsterdammer. He came down too hard on the ‘Ts, and ‘Gs’ and ‘Hs’. Maybe Delft or Rotterdam?
Even though he was only a few feet from her, she could not catch his scent. It was too cold and, besides, he was bundled up in an overcoat. Lotte noticed how people smelled. She tried to guess what they had eaten last, hoping for a whiff of bacon or fried sausage.
“I insist.” He bowed in front of her like a waiter, holding his dish.
Her need must have been so obvious. Humiliated, she looked at her lap. “No, thank you, I have more than enough.” She held up her sandwich as proof. How prim, she sounded, rude even. She was sorry for that, but she had nothing to offer in exchange. He shrugged and popped a slice in his mouth, giving a moan of pleasure to tease her. “Come on, last chance.” He speared the remaining piece and held it out to her. As he did so, a large splat of juice landed on his shirt. “Oh, Christ, my only decent shirt.”
“T.S.P.,” Lotte said, taking the dish. She was tempted to lower his head, and drink the juice then tip the last piece into her mouth, but she didn’t.
He looked blank.
“Trisodium phosphate. Do you have some? It works to remove ink. It will probably work on beet juice. Or bleach? You might try that.”
“You’re very knowledgeable.”
He was tall. Blond, about forty. Probably had been good looking before this winter they were calling the Hongerwinter. This winter of hunger had stripped the flesh from everyone, and turned the country into a nation of walking skeletons.
“I work in a dry cleaners shop on Keisersgracht. The minute the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. It was not wise to disclose personal information to a stranger. To be polite, yes, but no more. The city was filled with informants, spies, and collaborators. This stranger might well be one of them.
For some reason this seemed to interest him. His face assumed an odd expression. He raised his eyebrows, and tilted his head like an alert bird.
She handed him her hanky. It was the least she could do. He probably wouldn’t have stained his shirt if he hadn't gotten up to offer her a slice. He dabbed at the beet juice, which only made it worse. The stain spread to the left side of his shirt where it was impossible to conceal with a tie.
“Bring it to my shop. I’ll see what I can do. If you bring it in the morning, I can have it back to you by later afternoon.”
“But I have an important meeting this afternoon.”
“That’s the best I can do.”
“You know about removing stains?”
“That’s my job.”
For a moment, she wondered if this was truly a chance meeting. Perhaps he had orchestrated this, followed her, and ingratiated himself to her. And he was charming. No doubt about it. The wide smile. The guileless look. No one anymore, not even children, had such innocent open faces. But that was nonsense. She had nothing to interest this man unless he was an informant, one of those who traded the addresses of the onkerduikers, those in hiding, to the Nazis for reward. She, with her blond hair and blue eyes, could hide in plain sight, but Bento, no, never.
“May I?” He gestured to the space on her park bench.
“My lunch break is over. I must get back to work.” She pushed up the sleeve of her coat to check the time, forgetting her Universal, a birthday gift from Bento was long gone. The pawnbroker had given her barely enough to buy a pound of cheese, a dozen eggs, and a loaf of bread the Royal Canadian Air Force airlifted in from Sweden.
“My name is Willem. I work in the Stadsarchief, the city archives, a few blocks away. I am meeting with my boss this afternoon to discuss the new regulations the Nazis have passed.”
“I am Lotte.” Just first names. She was comfortable with that. But no more. “Give me your shirt. I have in my bag a shirt of my husband’s I just cleaned. Put it on, then tomorrow I’ll have your shirt ready for you.” She didn’t know why she offered him Bento’s shirt. Before the war, yes, she wouldn’t have hesitated, but now, she had grown suspicious of everyone. She had to be. Because of Bernard, because of the girls. So why did she trust this stranger with beet juice on his shirt? She had no answer.
“That’s very kind but―. “
“―It looks like blood.”
He shrugged off his overcoat, then his jacket, and then held out his wrists like a prisoner offering his hands to a jailor to be handcuffed. From his frayed cuffs, Lotte removed his cufflinks, gold with an intricately engraved ‘W.S’. Some Nazi officer would love these.
Willem didn’t duck behind her to remove his shirt, but unbuttoned it quickly and handed it to her, revealing a much patched undershirt. Lotte opened her bag, and pulled out Bento’s freshly laundered shirt. She handed it to Willem. Then she tucked Willem’s stained one into the bag. As she was stuffing it in, a square of yellow cloth caught on the zipper. She yanked it loose and quickly shoved it to the bottom.
“Meet me here tomorrow at 1:00.”
From the street running along the border of the Park came the sound of tramping feet. A group of about twenty German soldiers marched past, goose-stepping in their hateful, perfectly parallel lines. Some looked so young, barely sixteen. Germany’s strength was ebbing. Their soldiers were getting younger and younger.
“So you are an expert in stain removal?”
She laughed. “A minor but undervalued talent.” She felt like telling him before the war she had been a graphic designer, employed in one of the best printing shops in the city. She had loved her job designing advertising posters, book covers, bill boards, packaging, and logos. But when the war came, she was laid off. Her job as a clerk in the dry cleaners, a business owned by a distant cousin, was the best she could manage. “I can tackle anything―grease, ink, wine, blood.”
“Could you, for example, remove ink from paper as well as cloth?”
“I’ve never tried, but I suppose I could.” A strange question. “If the rag content of the paper was high enough it could be done without tearing a hole in the paper.”
Willem seemed about to say something more, but just nodded. He packed away his glass dish, closed his lunchbox, and snapped closed the clasps. As he folded his pocket knife and thrust it in his hip pocket, he said, “I must be getting back to my dusty archives. “
“It sounds as dull as my job.”
“There is nothing dull about the archives if you have imagination. Reimaging the past through statistics is fascinating. We Dutch are very good at this business of gathering statistics.”
Bento’s shirt flapped in the cold air, as Willem unbuckled his belt and tucked it in the shirttails. “Perhaps you can help me with something more important than my shirt. Let’s talk tomorrow. Perhaps, in turn, I can help you.”
So he had seen it. Of course he had. The small yellow patch in her bag that she should have sewn onto Bento’s clothing, the yellow star with the letters JOOD, the patch that all Jews were required to wear on their clothing.
He waved goodbye. “I have another jar of pickled beets.”