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.
Sheila sends the first pages of Nina Back in Time, a middle-grade time travel mystery. 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 thought I was a pretty good sleuth (British word for detective), but after my summer at Silver Lake, the camp I didn’t want to go to, I’m sure of it. If you want to hear the whole story, read on. But it's long and involves some flying. If that makes you airsick, fasten your seatbelt. I’ll start at the beginning, so you don’t have to buckle up yet.
Back in March, I didn’t want to go to camp. I didn’t want to meet new people. “You can’t just sit around all summer reading,” Mom had said. SO annoying. She found a camp “in the middle of history,” her words, in the middle of nowhere, my words. It turned out okay, because I met Elkie, who became a better friend to me than Stacey, my oldest friend, who came with me to camp because our moms still think we are best friends.
Oh, I should warn you, Elkie’s got all kinds of super powers. I didn’t know what that meant at first, so I’m telling you for your own good. If you don’t like super powers, stop reading. But if you like surprises, read on. I’m not really giving anything away. Just warning you, like a hot sauce label does.
The big day arrived. After a hundred good-byes to Dad, my brother Benjie, my sister Bree, and most sadly, my bed, Mom drove me to the bus. “Bye, Mom.” I don’t like mushy good-byes. Mom pulled me into a big hug. Ugh. But I meant it when I said, “I’ll miss you, Mom.”
“Remember, Camp North Star Lake is in Seneca Falls, home of the early women’s rights…”
“I know, Mom. You’ve told me like 1,000 times.” She can’t help it, she’s a history professor.
I like the writing and the voice, especially the touches of humor. But . . .
While this opening page aims to tease me into a page turn with hints about super powers and more, it is basically all setup. There’s no actual story here and, thus, no story questions. This character doesn’t have a mystery to solve. We don’t, at this point, even know his/her name nor his/her gender (or should I say “their” gender?). The character has no troubling problem to deal with, nothing is threatening their peaceful middle-grade existence.
I read on, looking for something to make me wonder what happens next (not finding it) and was even more engaged by the writing . . . but there was still no story. Hints of one, perhaps a haunting, but nothing really happens to the character other than meeting people and talking about things. I suggest you look deeper into your manuscript for something happening that matters, that the character has to deal with or suffer consequences. Or, at the least, what most mysteries start with, a body. It may be that the teases will draw in your intended audience, but why not make it stronger? You’ve got the writing chops, put them to work with dramatic happenings.
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 © 2023 by Sheila.
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:
“Who knows, you might even find a mystery in that history.”
“Thanks, Mom, I’d like that. Love you,” I said.
Buses are on the don’t like list too, but I went for my favorite seat, third row. I know from experience it’s the least nauseous row. I got there the same time as Stacey. My mom convinced her mom about the greatness of Camp North Star Lake.
“I can’t believe we’re going to an all girl’s camp. Not that it’s your fault,” Stacey said loudly, loud as her orang-y red hair. “We’ll meet new people.”
That again. “Okay.” She’ll meet new people. I scrunched down in my seat. It smelled of old tuna sandwiches. Mom was sure I’d like camp. It will be good for you, she kept saying, meaning I will make friends. Away from Mom, Dad would whisper, If you don’t like it after two weeks, I’ll come and get you. It didn’t sound like a real plan.
Stacey sat in the exact middle, the most popular seat, on the bus. “Hey, Nina,” she waved, then turned to greet three girls, total strangers, in her chirpiest voice. We’ve been friends since kindergarten, but we’re so opposite. Stacey’s into fashion. I’m not. Once she tricked me into going book shopping. It turned out to be a bookless shopping spree. Still, Stacey’s fun and I help her with book reports. I guess that’s why we’re still friends.
Stacey waved girls down the aisle as they got on the bus. One girl plunked down next to me. She looked unusual, not just because she was wearing purple instead of the camp colors, blue and white. She had the striking kind of looks that made me feel like I had no looks at all. Her hair stood to all sides like electrocuted cotton candy. Her eyes were shiny, like marbles, with golden glints.
“Hi, pleased to meet you. I’m Elkie. Royal. Sparks.” She dragged out her name, like she was talking to someone who didn’t speak English.
In my family, everyone talked fast. Sentences ran all over the place. No one finished one before starting another. “Hi, Elkie.” What kind of name was Elkie Royal Sparks? Was she royalty or something? “I’m Nina Hoffman.” My name’s plain vanilla next to hers. She stared at me, marble eyes wide open.
“Just so you know, I’m psychic. Not 100%. But I’m working on it. My grandma Violet, some people would call her a witch, but I call her an Enchanter, because that’s what her books are about.”
“Books?” Now, this was interesting. “What’s an Enchanter?”
“It’s in her Books of Enchantment, spells and things. I’ll show you the first book later.”
“That’s great.” I glanced at Stacey, chatting away. “Do you like purple because your grandma’s name is Violet? I’m sorry, I’m studying to be a detective, so I ask a lot of questions.” Bree says I don’t even know how to have a conversation without asking a zillion questions.
Elkie smiled. “I like questions. Purple’s a royal color, royal, like my name.” She kept talking, which was fine because I didn’t have to. I couldn’t interrupt her even if I wanted to.
The bus got strangely quiet after a turn onto a wide highway that lulled everyone to sleep, including Elkie. Her head rolled to one side.
I was thinking too much about camp to sleep. Would I have to play sports that involved catching balls? Singing out loud? And what about the ecumenical thing? I spelled it in my mind, which is how I remember hard words. Mom wanted a camp with all kinds of people, different races and religions. She calls it diversity. Dad wanted a camp like he went to as a kid, strictly Jewish and Hebrew speaking. It didn’t know what I wanted because I’d never been to sleepaway camp, but I liked how much Dad liked his camp.
Mom had said, “Oh, they have everything, the highest ratings. And they have kosher food and vegan food. And a Shabbat option on Friday nights.” Mom had a strong case. As usual, she got her way.
I took out my going away present, the Advanced Junior Sleuth Kit, Deluxe Edition. It was better than hair products. Bree convinced Mom it would be a waste on me. I checked the multi-color pen flashlight and audio recording device, took out the journal, magnifying glass, fingerprint kit, and stickers. I was about to put it all back in my backpack, when the bus swerved. My stuff fell out and rolled down the aisle.
Elkie’s eyes popped open. Stacey stopped my pen roll with her foot and announced, “Nina’s learning to be a detective.” She thinks mouth first. I liked the British word “sleuth” better than detective, but no one here knows it. I learned it from the Fiona Figg book series, which is set in England. I’m always the first person at my library to take out the latest one.
A few girls turned toward me, and my ears burned. I was saved by a sudden lurch. The bus had stopped at the top of a hill. Below was Camp Silver Lake. It was an un-spectacular sight.
“Drab, isn’t it?” Elkie said.
“Yes.” The front entrance opened to a square building the color of mud.
Stacey said everyone’s name as we got off the bus. Being popular is her super power.
“Nina, I want you to meet Zeena, your names rhyme,” she said.
“It’s Zinnia,” a girl with wispy, long hair said.
“The flower? Do you like flowers?” I asked, ignoring Stacey’s rhyming mistake.
“My mom does.” Zinnia’s voice sounded flowery, like her name.
““I’m Penelope Wang. You can call me Po, with a P. Flower Girl and I are third year campers. And her.” She waved at Elkie like she was a pesky fly.
“Hi. I’m Nina, with N’s.”
Zinnia gushed, “Do you know about the haunted house and ghosts at the lake?”
“Ghosts? Really?” I asked.
Zinnia went on. “There’s a legend about…”
“Don’t spook her,” Po interrupted. “There’s never been exact proof.”
“And there won’t be. Everyone’s too scared to investigate,” Zinnia said.
Not me. But I kept quiet. Good sleuths don’t talk about their investigations.
“On Ghost Night, some people saw a girl ghost dressed in long skirts and a bonnet. She floated across the lake,” Zinnia said.
Po snorted, “Right, that’s just a story from someone’s imagination. Unless Elkie has proof.”
“I have proof.” Elkie said. “But it would take too long to explain to you.”
Po frowned and turned away. We walked on, past buildings with paint peeling off. One looked worse than the rest. “What’s that?” I asked.
“That’s Gable Hall. Some people think it’s haunted,” Po hissed at Elkie. “I wish they’d fix it up. It’s so ugly.”
Elkie said, “I’ll tell you about Gable Hall. There was a famous church behind it that got condemned knocked down a few years ago. They held ceremonies there celebrating its famousness.”
“What was the church famous for?” I asked.
“Something to do with the Civil War.”
No wonder Mom picked this camp. History. Even if it was awful, like the Civil War. “Like what?”
“I’m not sure, but we could investigate, right?” Elkie asked.
“I’d like that,” I agreed.
We walked up and down a gravelly road until we got to the Gathering Place. Campers shoved their way in, cheering loudly. Glomming into each other, they squeezed through an entrance way into the dining room. I hung back in the entrance. It was dark from oil paintings, flowered wallpaper, tall bookshelves and all. A lady in a white bonnet stared out from the first painting, scowling. Her nameplate read Lucretia. She looked like someone who shushed children making noise.
In the next painting, a friendlier looking lady seated at a small desk seemed to be staring right at me. I almost stared. Her nameplate read Katie. Eliza, next, was holding a bunch of flowers. Her eyes were wide and they also stared at me. It was freaky. She looked familiar, like she could be famous. I almost said goodbye to her. By the look of their clothes, these ladies seemed like they had lived a long time ago.
I was the last one to enter the dining room. The air felt sucked out of it by the crowd. The ceiling sagged and a few giant fans whirred overhead. I stood back for some air and stared at the portraits again. Would anyone care if I spent a few minutes getting to know the ladies on the wall?