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.
Chris sends the first pages of Little Mountain, Big Trouble. 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.
I don’t know if there’s an official definition of “bad start to seventh grade,” but getting beat up for the third time in the first six weeks works for me. It started that morning when I walked into science class. As I headed down the aisle to my seat, Tommy Soukup blocked my path. When I tried to slide past, he hip-checked me into a desk. One of the ways he messes with smaller kids. That or stuff someone into a locker for laughs.
Soukup’s way bigger than me and the best athlete in school. His jock friends think he’s a god. But he’s not perfect. He’s an ugly zitface who’s dumb as a rock. He usually has armpit stains on his shirt and smells like BO. As I caught my balance, he folded his arms and smirked.
“Whatsa matter, Melonhead, too fat to fit in the aisle?” His smirk grew into a lop-sided grin, revealing his crooked yellow teeth.
My legs wanted to jet me out of the room, but something snapped in my brain. Maybe I was fed up with his crap. Maybe I had nothing to lose. Soukup was five inches taller and thirty pounds heavier. If he beat me up and I spent a week in the hospital, I’d at least get a vacation from school. I glared at him and said what I’d dreamed up weeks ago but never dared say to his face: “If your brain was dynamite, Suckup, there wouldn’t be enough to blow your hat off your head.”
The other kids in the room let out a collective gasp. Two girls giggled.
Good writing and voice. This reminded me of a similar thing that happened to me in junior high—I was the little kid, and there was a big bully. I handled it differently though, and the bully ended up a friend.
That’s neither here nor there, though. This opening satisfies the checklist in many ways, including something going wrong for the protagonist and an expectation of more trouble ahead, and those things raise good story questions. I will say, however, that this short chapter ends pretty much tension free, with no story questions popping up. 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 © 2023 Ray Rhamey, excerpt © 202c by Chris.
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:
Soukup whipped around to see who they were, then turned back to me. He hated being called Suckup, but hey, he started it. His crooked, yellow smile morphed into a butt-ugly snarl. I thought he might throw me across the room.
Then Ms. Bird walked in and said, “Seats please, everyone.”
As Soukup walked backward to his seat in the last row, I flashed on him transmogrifying into Cyclops from the X-Men and vaporizing me with his laser beam eyes. He didn’t, so I exhaled my held breath and sat at my desk. I expected him to pelt me with spitballs for the rest of class. He would surely deliver some sort of payback. The question was where and when.
After pretending to read the chapter on worms and other annelids, I risked a glance across the room at my crush, Nala Hassan. Unfortunately, Nala is one of the tallest girls in seventh grade, and I’m the shortest boy. Not cool. She’s really cute and nice. Although I rarely talk to her, she’s one of the few kids who doesn’t tease me or laugh when others do.
Nala must’ve felt my stare. She looked up from her reading, held my gaze, and gave me a barely visible smile before turning back to her book.
My heart sped up and I got tingly all over. I was on a roll. Two bright spots for the day if you count firing my zinger at Soukup and not getting killed.
If I managed to avoid Soukup the rest of the day, I could get a third highlight if I got a B or better on my math quiz. Turns out I didn’t study hard enough and got a B-minus. Oh well. Two outta three ain’t bad.
At least Soukup waited until after school to get me so we wouldn’t get in trouble with any teachers or the principal. He muscled me to the far side of the athletic storage shed and said, “Gimme your best shot, you little puke.”
I didn’t deserve to get beat up for mouthing off to him, but Soukup the Suckup obviously disagreed. I might be a wuss, but I got in a few good licks. One gut punch surprised the heck out of him. A kick in the shin should keep him limping for a week. Then he slapped me upside the head, which hurt like crazy and made me dizzy. As I staggered and rubbed my ear, he tackled me so hard I flew backward and banged my head on the ground. After bloodying my nose with a quick right, Soukup declared victory to the small crowd that had followed us out to the shed. The fight was over so fast no one missed their bus.
“Ya got guts, Melonhead,” Soukup said as he glared at me sprawled on the dirt. “But you’ll always be a loser.”
My name is Eduardo Jamal Mellencamp, so naturally, I get called Melonhead a lot. That plus Smellytramp and Edweirdo. My teachers call me Eduardo, which opens me up for that Edweirdo dis in school. My family and the few friends I have call me EJ. Eduardo sounds like an over-emoting actor on one of those Mexican soap operas Mom watches. EJ sounds like a regular kid. Someone you want to hang out with. The kind of kid I wish I were.
Mom’s half Mexican, so she named me after her grandfather—Eduardo Garcia. My middle name is Jamal because Dad’s half Black and decided to become a Muslim shortly before I was born. Mom says a friend of his converted and talked Dad into doing it too. He started calling himself Ali instead of Alex. He thought his kids should also be Muslim. Mom, a good Catholic, drew the line at allowing a Muslim middle name. But after I was born, Dad suddenly got tired of studying the Quran and praying five times a day. So much for that great idea.
As I rode the bus home, using my shirt to stop my nosebleed, I decided to explain it away to Mom by saying I was fake Ninja fighting with another kid and got too close to his fist. She’d only be upset for a few minutes, which is good because she has much bigger concerns than my wimpy little kid problems.