I've long been AWOL from FtQ--life matters and editing and book design work just took over. But I'm determined to resume. So here is the flogging of the opening page of a novel. See if you're moved to want more, and please comment.
Flogometer 1177 for Ben—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.
Ben sent the first pages of Before the Fall. 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.
The morning sun grazed the mountaintop, casting shadows to the western edge of the valley, before later fixing itself in the sky where it gamboled about, unaware of those of us below, and where it remained, unblocked, for all of that long summer day. After a light breakfast, our group of thirty-five began splintering. Some heading to the lake, others to the hill trails, a few remaining behind, with no goal save to bake in the sun, before searching near fruitlessly for the dribbles of shade.
My son Teagan and I chose to visit the lake. Teagan is thirty-five, going on ten. Or perhaps more accurate to say that you never knew each day whether he would be a forty-five-year-old man or a ten-year old boy. So goes the world of Down Syndrome. That day, he was a bit of both - a man making choices about what he would like to do and yet almost childlike in his enthusiasm for a morning at the beach, shovels and bucket along for the ride, a wobbly castle, to his great delight, soon rising at water’s edge.
Goose bumps rose as soon as we made contact with the cold mountain water, despite every effort of the sun to warm the lake. The cold water didn’t seem to affect him as much as it did me; it never had. He insisted on riding the water on my back, arms around my neck, as he had done since he was a small child. It always seemed odd that he loved the water, but refused to swim on his own.
While nicely written, this opening lacks one vital ingredient: a story question created by something happening to a character in the narrative. I wasn’t moved to want more by this leisurely setup exposition.
I looked further into the chapter and soon found this:
The first inkling that our lives were about to change came from our friend Franklin. Long back from the beach, Rose and I were in the outdoor camp kitchen. She prepping the evening meal for thirty-five, while I was mixing my special batch of beer-based margaritas in anticipation of cocktail hour. We saw Franklin walking toward us with his usual languid stride. I assumed he was stopping by to seek relief from the sun under the kitchen canopy. He brought his always understated tone with him.
“Could I speak to you for a moment,” he said, motioning us out from under the roof though no one else was nearby. We stepped into the sun as he went on, “It appears Teagan has toppled over down under the shade tent.”
“Toppled over? What does that mean? Did he fall?”
At that moment, Wendy, wife of Franklin and Rose’s long time best friend, came running our way, her ear-piercing scream preceding her.
“Teagan’s having a seizure! You need to come. Right now!”
You ask me, that’s where this story begins. 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 Ben.
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:
Later that morning, we found our hint of shade beneath the few lakeside trees and proceeded to do much of nothing. We sat beside the towering evergreens while kayaks, canoes and other small craft called our attention as they glided back and forth across the inlet. We played hide and seek with the sun as we moved our chairs to follow the shade, though our efforts provided small relief from the heat of the day. We walked the shoreline in front of the lodge, people watching, looking for anyone we might know. We stopped for ice cream. And then lunch. That felt a bit out of sequence, so after lunch, we ordered another ice cream which, of course, we ate in secret and agreed to say nothing about to Rose, who wouldn’t approve. Nor should she.
It was a wonderful day. The lake and its gentle waves touching the shore, laughing, splashing children, pregnant mothers ankle deep in the chilly water pretending or perhaps actually enjoying their day at the beach. There was a man sweeping and smoothing the dirt pathways, despite the crowds ambling to and fro. There was a monkey on a string led by a sad faced clown. Or perhaps it was the sad faced clown being led on the string by the smiling monkey. Either way, we couldn’t help but laugh. Teagan was especially entertained by the monkey and stopped to feed him some popcorn for which the monkey did a tumbling routine in appreciation. We laughed a great deal that day as we sat watching those boats and the people in and on the water, moving our chairs every little while, hiding from the sun as best we could. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen Teagan that happy, so content, so willing to sit in one place and simply enjoy the passing parade of whoever made an appearance on the beachfront. It’s hard to believe now that, unknown to us both, this would be his last free day of unrestrained joy.
The first inkling that our lives were about to change came from our friend Franklin. Long back from the beach, Rose and I were in the outdoor camp kitchen. She prepping the evening meal for thirty-five, while I was mixing my special batch of beer-based margaritas in anticipation of cocktail hour. We saw Franklin walking toward us with his usual languid stride. I assumed he was stopping by to seek relief from the sun under the kitchen canopy. He brought his always understated tone with him.
“Could I speak to you for a moment,” he said, motioning us out from under the roof though no one else was nearby. We stepped into the sun as he went on, “It appears Teagan has toppled over down under the shade tent.”
“Toppled over? What does that mean? Did he fall?”
At that moment, Wendy, wife of Franklin and Rose’s long time best friend, came running our way, her ear-piercing scream preceding her.
“Teagan’s having a seizure! You need to come. Right now!”
It was a hundred yards to the odd tapestry of canopies and canvas sails that constituted our group shelter, shade rooms merged together in a crazy-quilt pattern, and just large enough for most of the group to get out of the unrelenting sun. I don’t recall running, but I know I did. Suddenly, I was there. Teagan was shaking uncontrollably, lying in the dirt. I remember first, how hard he was shaking. And that he was unresponsive, then foaming at the mouth. “Let me have him,” I shouted as I cradled him loosely, turning him on his side, trying, to no avail, to get a response from him. A reaction. Some recognition. Anything.
He kept shaking, foaming and gasping for breath. His face slowly went gray. His lips blue. I talked to him, but he couldn’t hear. He didn’t react. As the minutes ticked by, or were they merely seconds, he was drifting farther away. There was nothing I could do, at least nothing I could think to do. I spoke to him quietly. Reassuringly. Could he hear me? It didn’t appear so. His airway was positioned the best I could get it. A seizure? We would have to wait it out.
What I remember was suddenly becoming aware of the crowd closing in around us.
“Sit him up,” someone suggested.
“Put a pillow under his head,” cried another.
“Put a stick in his mouth. Won’t they bite their tongue. I’ll get a stick.”
“It’s a seizure. It has to be a seizure.”
“He hasn't had enough to drink today.”
“I think he needs a drink!”
“That’s right. It’s so goddamn hot. Yes. Has he had enough to drink today?”
What don’t I remember about that moment? I don’t remember who was speaking to me. Nor do I remember what was going through my head as people were shouting advice, except that I just wanted everyone to shut the fuck up. Screw dehydration, I thought. It’s hot, but I've been with him almost continuously since he woke up this morning and he's been guzzling water. Whatever caused this, I can’t believe it would be dehydration. I made furtive eye contact with Rose; I felt like we’re losing him; this had gone on for too long. “Shit! Please shut the fuck up,” I said to no one in particular.
“Back up! Please,” I went on, “Give us some air.” I thought for a moment that I had betrayed my own fear when I said, ‘give us some air.’ Shit, again.
“Yeah, back up.”
“Right. Everyone get back.”
“What can we do?”
“Give him a glass of water. He’s gotta be dehydrated.”
“Please. Everybody just shut the fuck up. Has someone called 911? He can’t take a drink of water while he’s seizing. I've been with him all day. I don’t believe he’s dehydrated. Someone call 911.”
“I already tried.”
“I can’t get a signal.”
“Me neither.”
“I think we're out of cell range. We’re too far into the wilderness.”
“Someone drive out to the highway until you get a signal,” shouted Rose.
“I have a signal,” Franklin cried in his best monotone. “It's one bar, but it seems to be holding. How can this be?"
“Who cares! Call 911!”
“I did. It’s ringing.”
“Give me the phone,” Rose shouted.
She got through to the operator and help was soon on the way or so the operator said. Minutes went by; the 911 operator stayed on the line. More minutes went by.
“In ten minutes,” the operator said, but the ambulance didn’t arrive.
“Yes. I hear you.” Rose was still on the line with 911. She turned to me, “The operator says the location we’re giving them is not on their GPS. They went down some other road. A similar name or something.”
“Shit. Somebody head out to the main highway and flag them down.”
We could hear the ambulance now; they were somewhere on the other side of the tree line. Close, but not here.
I stayed focused on Teagan, though I could hear Rose, still talking to 911. She was right next to me, but sounded far away. I wanted to reach for her. I’m a nurse. I think I know what to do for a seizure, except, it’s my own child. I did remember to note the time. It was 5:05 PM when Franklin first reached us. I remembered that because the ambulance showed up at 6:05 PM. Exactly one hour. The seizure had longed stopped. Teagan was slowly coming around. His lips and skin were less gray, more pink. Sort of. He was able to tell me his name and where he was, but had no idea what happened. Naturally, he wanted no part of an ambulance. Thirty surgeries and a lifetime of medical admissions had long convinced him to never get in an ambulance if he had anything to say about it. Of course, he didn’t realize that he had no say about it this time. The crew asked if we wanted to stay in the campground, a ludicrous suggestion that seemed to come from way beyond left field. We did in theory, but we didn't feel comfortable not having further evaluation even though it meant an 85-mile trip over the mountain to the nearest hospital. After the requisite amount of pissing and moaning, Teagan agreed to go. Off they roared, lights flashing, siren piercing the quiet of the wilderness. Rose went with him.
There might have been forty people in the campground when all this came down. We were stunned. It happened so fast and now Teagan and Rose were racing down the highway. I had to step it up and get on the road, follow in their wake. No one knew what to say as I busied myself getting organized for the drive over the mountain. It wasn't like we hadn't been through this before – medical and surgical emergencies of one kind or another - though not seizures. People were telling me to just go, but I knew this drill. I needed cash, water, phone, extra clothes, warmer clothes. A plan for all our stuff if I didn’t come back to the campground. A way to get our gear and the camper home if need be. As quickly as I could manage, I was on my way.
We organized this week ostensibly for Rose’s birthday, but it was really just an excuse to get a lot of people in the wilderness and go wild for a few days. We love camping. We go out as often as we can. Teagan also loves camping, though not as much as us. Or, I might say he loves camping just as much as us, but he doesn’t love it as often as we do. He likes hiking as well, but prefers a smooth trail. He doesn’t like rocks, ruts, tree roots and general unevenness. If we force him onto a rocky or root ridden trail, he’ll whine and moan the entire time. And he won’t wear shorts in the wilderness either, no matter what. It’s always long pants for him as he doesn’t like the grass and branches touching his legs. Not at all. Grass and branches touching his legs are the worst part of camping for Teagan. He would much prefer a rocky, root ridden trail with no grass and branches, than a smooth sailing trail that featured even a light feather dusting of grasses grazing his legs as he passed by. We learned early on to seek smooth trails and never travel without his long pants along for the ride.
He was sitting up in bed when I arrived at the hospital.
“Daaad,” he cried, “I’m all better. No more zeizures (sic).” I shot a quick look at Rose who gave me her best ‘I don’t know what in the hell is going on here’ shrug.
“You’re feeling okay, Teag?”
“I am. I am. When can I eat?”
To describe Teagan as obsessed with food would be to engage in misleading understatement. As a small child with an endless array of bowel surgeries, he began fixating on food during his many long days of NPO (nothing by mouth), a frequent companion of GI surgery. The obsession had only gotten worse after his diabetes diagnosis three years ago. As it turned out, he wasn’t all that crazy for foods low in salt, fat, sugar and oil. And he didn’t like portion control, measuring food, or calorie counts. Most of all, he was unhappy with the sudden disappearance of soda, sugar drinks of unknown provenance, Devil Dogs, Ring Dang Doos and other such human dog treats that were his preferred appetite suppressants. He used to carry cash with him which we one day learned provided him a steady supply of all the above when out of view of Rose and I, as well as his care staff. Not that his staff were much help in the matter. Only the rare staff member had verifiable understanding of elemental nutrition and fewer still had the motivation to do anything about their own waistline, let alone Teagan’s.
“So far the labs have looked okay,” offered Rose, as she began to update me regarding the last few hours. “They are thinking very hot day, dehydration, not enough fluid, that kind of stuff.”
“But I was with him all day. He was drinking so much. Way more than he usually . . .”
“I know. I know. I told the doctor, but he seems pretty confident that’s what we’re dealing with.”
“I had a SCAT scan, dad. Just now. It didn’t hurt, but I don’t like it.”
“We just got back from the scan . . . haven’t heard about it yet,” added Rose.
“I have to pee,” he said. “And I want some food. I’m mungery (sic).”
“He went just before the scan, and again when we got back to the room. I guess it’s the IV. It’s running pretty fast.”
A doctor stopped by. “Things are looking good,” he said. “He’s perked up nicely. We’re waiting for a read on the CT scan and we’ll be good to go. All things being equal, we should be able to discharge him in an hour or so.”
I was taken aback by the discharge comment. “How can we discharge him? We don’t really know why this happened. Or if it will happen again.”
“ I understand . . .”
“I’m not so sure your do . . .”
“I . . . “
“We’re camping. In the wilderness. What if he seizes? We’re more than 80 miles from here.“
“He’s had a loading dose of Dilantin. We’ll give you a prescription for some oral follow-up.”
“You don’t understand. We’re in a tent. In the Sawtooth wilderness. You can’t discharge someone with new seizures to a tent. Jesus . . . “
“Let me talk to my attending,’ he said, as he made way for the door. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Jesus, Rose, what the fuck can this guy be thinking. We get back to the tent, he seizes again, we call 911. Again? That’s a plan?”
“If someone can get a cell signal, of course, which - who knows. What are we gonna do? We can’t drive home tonight, it’s 160 miles to home, we’re exhausted. How would we get help on that road – there won’t be a cell signal out there. Hell, there won’t even be traffic out there this time of night.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said offering a smidge of false reassurance. ”Teagan’s not going anywhere. He’s staying right here for the night. We just won’t leave. At least you two won’t. Later, I’ll go back to camp, pack us up, and come back for you first thing in the morning.”
“What about my car?”
“Somebody can drive your car home when they break camp tomorrow afternoon.”
“What if they say we can’t stay. Whadda we do then?”
“I’m a nurse. I know how this game is played. It won’t be an issue.” I sounded more confident than I felt, but it settled Rose down. ”This guy reminds of that kid doctor in Ohio.”
“Ohhhh. I liked him.”
“Sure, I did too. At least by the end. But remember, it was decades ago. . . Teagan was three. He examined him for a long time, left the room, came back 15 minutes later to breathlessly report that Teagan had - hold the drum roll, please – Down Syndrome.”
“That was a classic, I know. Of course, you had to say your– ‘No shit Sherlock. Great deduction,’ thing”
“He took it well. And eventually, he turned out to be a halfway decent doc.”
“No thanks to yourself,” she said, smiling for the first time since I got to the ER.
Another call of, “I have to pee, again,” brought us back to the moment. “I wanna to stand up,” Teagan said.
Just then, ‘discharge to the tent guy’ returned. “The aide can help him if you like. Maybe we could talk out in the hallway while the aide is in here with him.” I assumed we were moving the discharge argument away from Teagan’s bedside. Fair enough.
“I looked at the scan, but radiology makes the call on these things, so I waited to hear from them. Brain scans are pretty complex. Can be hard to read. You want to be careful.”
He was looking everywhere but at us. Did I detect a hint of moisture in his eyes? Christ Almighty, I thought – get on with what you have to say.
“I haven’t read that many of them since I took this night job in the ER. You wanna get these things right . . . you know what I mean.” Eye contact was missing in action and there was a hitch in his voice around that ‘you know’ comment that was left hanging in the air between us, a ripe melon just waiting to be waxed.
“I’m sure,” said Rose impatiently, “so what are you seeing . . .”
“There’s an area of concern . . . “
“What’s that mean?”
“Actually, there are three areas of concern. Three lesions.”
“What does lesion mean,” asked Rose.
“It’s a tumor, Rose,“ I cut in. “A brain tumor. And maybe more than one.”
“Teagan has brain cancer? How can that be?”
“He’ll need more tests. And a biopsy to determine if it’s cancer,” said the doctor. Rose seemed heartened to think that it might be a benign growth. I fancy myself a pretty good nurse, at least most of the time. I wouldn’t be a pretty good one if I couldn’t read a doctor’s face and body language and know when he knew or suspected more than he was willing to let on. Our lives were about to run off the rails.