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.
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.
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.”
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?
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.
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.
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.”
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 sends Blizzard, the first chapter of Palo Duro Mustangs. 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.
A dark blur faded in and out of a scattering of bare-branched cottonwoods along a dry snow-filled stream bed. Two Feathers squinted through the wind-swirled sea of white that burned his cheeks and stung his eyes, but the dark shape was gone. Was it his missing bull? No, he was almost sure he had seen the upright shape of a man. Yellow Hawk? Pinpricks raced down his back. A flutter settled in his empty stomach. How much longer would his uncle stalk him and Will?
Forcing thoughts of his uncle aside, Two Feathers pushed on. He had looked all day, but found no sign of the bull. He must find him. The idea of telling his brother they had lost another bull was unthinkable. Between the winter snows and Yellow Hawk’s raids, their losses were heavy.
Thoughts of the lost bull slipped away. Hatred for Yellow Hawk, his uncle, took its place. He shivered, but not from the cold. His eyes watered, but not from the wind. Memories filled his head. His own uncle had killed his father many years ago when he was very small. Will’s pa’s death a year ago during a raid by Yellow Hawk’s band left them, two young boys, to run the Pecos River Ranch. What was he supposed to do on a white man’s ranch? He was Comanche. He was supposed to hunt buffalo, not Longhorn bulls.
Will’s words that morning forced their way back into Two Feathers thoughts. “Find Big (snip)
This opening begins to edge toward a strong story question, but then sidesteps into backstory. I say “edge” because, even though we are told that he must find the bull, there are no stakes or consequences for failure. What will happen if he doesn’t find the bull? Is there a dire consequence? Then bring it on here.
There is some lovely language here, but, for me, there were times when it got in the way. Specifically, this:
the wind-swirled sea of white
While there's a lot to like here--the promise of a look inside a Native American's life--there are other issues. Here’s a brief edit:
A dark blur faded in and out of a scattering of bare-branched cottonwoods along a dry snow-filled stream bed. Two Feathers squinted through the wind-swirled sea of white that burned his cheeks and stung his eyes, but the dark shape was gone. Was it his missing bull? No, he was almost sure he had seen the upright shape of a man. Yellow Hawk? Pinpricks raced down his back. A flutter settled in his empty stomach. How much longer would his uncle stalk him and Will? The "sea of white" description is a bit of overwriting. Keep action like this simple. "would his uncle stalk him and Will" suggests that Will is there with him, but he's not.
Forcing thoughts of his uncle aside, Two Feathers pushed on. He had looked all day, but found no sign of the bull. He must find him. The idea of telling his brother they had lost another bull was unthinkable. Between the winter snows and Yellow Hawk’s raids, their losses were heavy. Why is it unthinkable? What are the consequences?
Thoughts of the lost bull slipped away. Hatred for Yellow Hawk, his uncle, took itstheir place. He shivered, but not from the cold. His eyes watered, but not from the wind. Memories filled his head.His ownuncle had killed his father many years ago when he was very small. Will’s pa’s death a year ago during a raid by Yellow Hawk’s band left them, two young boys, to run the Pecos River Ranch. What was he supposed to do on a white man’s ranch? He was Comanche. He was supposed to hunt buffalo, not Longhorn bulls. Second reference to thoughts, an "echo" to avoid.The "slipped away" tells me that we're about to slip away from a story that you want me to be hooked by into a detour into backstory. Not a good idea. The antecedent for the "he" in this sentence is his father, not what you meant. This is a white man's ranch? I thought it was Will's pa's, who I was thinking was an Indian since Two Feathers is one and he's also running the ranch. This bit of backstory is tangled and confusing, and has nothing to do with finding a lost bull. Stick to the story, or start it in a different place.
Will’s words that morning forced their way back into Two Feathers thoughts. “Find Big (snip) More backstory.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
Rex sends the first chapter of Time to Strike. 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 killed my first man before I hit my growth spurt, when frogs and turtles still excited me more than women. I remember ever’ detail o’ that night, June 2, 1855, down to the cigar smoke billowin’ from the private game room on the second deck o’ the Arkansas Princess. I stood outside the doorway, listenin’ to the so’t splashes o’ the big sidewheel churnin’ the waters o’ the wide Mississippi, and watched Moss Edmund toss a double eagle onto a loose pile o’ gold coins in the center o’ a poker table. Not one o’ the six players noticed me. Night could be a black boy’s best friend.
I eyed Edmund, one o’ Gregory Halpern’s hired thugs, his fat lips puffin’ on a thick cigar under his black, droopin’ moustache. The white bastard sat with his back at an angle to the doorway. Perfect. I fingered the butt o’ the derringer tucked in my vest pocket. One shot, up close, should do the trick.
I grew up on the Halpern Company’s paddle wheelers, servin’ customers, washin’ clothes, even playin’ a little piano, and had long since learned to balance a loaded silver tray with one hand. That night I carried a bottle o’ French cognac and six crystalline shot glasses. I stepped through the doorway, my tray held high, a white cloth draped over my arm for decoration. “Would the gentlemen care for refreshments? Compliments o’ the Arkansas Princess.” I moved toward them, a stomach-flutterin’ lightness in my step.
From a story-telling point of view, this is a pretty good opening. Even though the narrative quickly launches into backstory, it still has tension. A killing is about to happen and an action scene is in our future. So I would turn that page . . . but maybe not. Because of the extreme use of dialect.
I think you’ll get into trouble with readers using this much dialect. For me, the use of “o’" evoked an Irish brogue accent, not a southern one. And I had to stop reading—a bad thing—to figure out that “so’t” meant “soft.” Dropping the “g” from a number of gerunds is probably plenty, and I wouldn’t drop it from every one, either. I suggest you do an internet search for articles on using dialect in fiction. There’s one here that might be helpful. Ease up on the dialect and I think you’ve got something. Readers, your thoughts?
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.
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.
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.”
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.
Erica sends the first chapter of Marble. 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.
Rava woke to fire. He was a long torch streaking through space, death flying at his heels. Running feet, too close, and harsh breathing. Something after him.
His eyelids weighed a tombstone each. He cracked them apart. Faces loomed over him, distorted by fear under ceiling lights that rushed past at dizzying speed. This wasn’t space. The gasps and pounding feet were medics propelling him on something that rocked and jolted. “
He’s awake! Get him back under.” “
Doctor! The dose he’s on…” “
I know! But look at him!”
Pain chewed down on Rava. He tried to thrash away from it, but the only things answering his desperation were ghastly white club-ended limbs. Were they his? He opened his mouth — he had a mouth! Drawing breath felt like swallowing the sun. He roared in agony. “
Stop!” somebody shouted. “Check his read-outs!”
Medical terms volleyed over Rava’s head. Behind them the cool mechanical voice of a medical robot listed words he did understand.
Radiation burns.
Atmospheric burns.
Rava was on fire all right, head to toe. How? He’d been floating tethered under the Skyrover, (snip)
Talk about beginning in media res! This action opening puts us into the experience of Rava from the first sentence. We understand where he is, and we know that he has a really serious problem with deathly stakes. For me, there was no hesitation in wanting more. Your thoughts?
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.
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.
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.”
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.
Sharon sends the first chapter of A Trail of Stardust. The rest of the chapter is after the break.
Mazie was unbuttoning her blouse at a stoplight when the cell phone rang. She looked to the screen. It was August Nash, opposing counsel on a collection matter she was handling.
“I talked it over with my client, and we can go as high as five hundred thousand,” August told her.
Spin class was starting in a few minutes. She slid shorts up along calves, then tugged them as high as possible beneath a black pencil skirt.
“That’s not even a third of what they owe us,” Mazie scoffed. “We have sunk costs—already paid our vendors.”
One hand reached back to unzip along her waist, shimmied the skirt down her legs like a pro, finishing just as the light turned to green. Mazie scowled as the driver behind tapped his horn and edged closer to the intersection.
“Why don’t you talk it over with your boss—”
“I am the boss, August.” Technically speaking. At least with respect to her department. If only she could replicate that same assuredness on the rest of the world, particularly at the office.
Even as General Counsel, she’d had to sneak out that evening, evading watchful eyes in an effort to lay claim to a personal life.
Although guilt weighed heavily on tense shoulders, she knew a shift in balance was (snip)
I enjoyed the writing and voice in this, but ended up without much of a clue as to what the story is about despite learning how a woman might change clothes while in her car. :)
So far, nothing seems to be going wrong for this character. Yes, she’s getting pushback from someone about a financial transaction, but that hardly seems like jeopardy. Fundamentally, this and most of the rest of the chapter is well-written setup.
As it often turns out, I found what was a strong hook and creator of story questions at the end of the chapter, the incident that the setup was leading up to. Here, slightly modified, is how I’d look at opening the story:
Mazie opened the email from the whistleblower service.
I wish I didn’t have to write this, but corporate needs to know what’s going on in South America. To start, employees have been giving bribes to customers to win business…
Her heart stalled a beat. Bribery? In South America? If the allegation was true and it had occurred on her watch, the company was screwed. Millions in fines, news of her failure dominating the headlines, and depending on the extent of the bad acts, maybe even… jail.
I’d definitely turn the page with an opening like this. Something has gone badly wrong that could impact her, and the stakes are high. The backstory and setup material can be woven in while Mazie begins to deal with the crisis. The scene needs to be set, but if the story starts here it doesn’t have to take place in her car and the spin class won’t be a factor. I’d look for a way to start here.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
Laura sends the first chapter of Fear Not the Dragon. There’s a second poll, and the rest of the chapter is after the break.
Thaddaeus leaned forward in his rocking chair, listening to the welcome silence. Was it safe to go outside? He hadn't left his cabin while the dust storm raged, and only two thin logs remained in his woodpile, not enough to last through the night. Pushing himself off the chair, he stiffly walked to the window, stroking his hand over the backs of his wife and son's empty chairs as he passed.
He sneezed, pain squeezing his chest as he pulled back the dusty curtains. Through the narrow slats covering the windows, flakes of once-rich topsoil floated past against the gray afternoon sky. Piles of dust drifted against the doors of the empty barn.
Broken bare limbs, ready to add to his woodpile, hung from trees as if it were winter instead of summer. He'd vowed not to add to the death of the land by cutting down a tree. The unneeded picket fence around the remains of his garden had already been burned. The seeds never sprouted when the spring rains failed to arrive, and the persistent weeds struggled, then withered. He wouldn't turn over the soil and try again. He'd left his shovel next to his wife and son's grave.
Two vague forms moved through the swirling dust. Wolves? Last night howls had disturbed his sleep. He grabbed his ax and returned to the window.
No, it wasn't wolves. The shapes were too tall. Two men struggled through the haze of (snip)
The setting is clear and the character sympathetic. Character-relevant backstory is at times woven in, so that part’s fine. But what about tension? There’s a suggestion of jeopardy approaching with the two men coming, but it’s not clear. We don’t see him feeling that this is a threat (indeed, in the following narrative he welcomes them into his house). So was the story question sufficient for you? As it turns out, almost all of the remaining chapter is setup for an interesting world (but it’s still setup, not story), and the jeopardy of wolves attacking doesn’t show up until the last paragraph.
This could use some editing to tighten the narrative, so here’s a quick pass:
Thaddaeus leaned forward in his rocking chair, listening to the welcome silence. Was it safe to go outside? He hadn't left his cabin while the dust storm raged, and only two thin logs remained in his woodpile, not enough to last through the night. Pushing himself off the chair, he stiffly walked to the window, stroking his hand over the backs of his wife and son's empty chairs as he passed. "last through the night" suggests that it is now nighttime, but it's not. A clarity issue."Stiffly walked" is adverbial description, a weak approach. I'd just change this to "went" or find a stronger verb to show his action, something like "shuffled" or "limped."
He sneezed, pain squeezing his chest as he pulled back the dusty curtains. Through thenarrow slats covering the windows, flakes of once-rich topsoil floated past against the gray afternoon sky. Piles of dust drifted against the doors of the empty barn. I'm familiar with topsoil and never saw it in flake form. If the storm is over, as indicated by the silence, so why is dirt floating outside? This didn't work for me. I don't think a pile of dust can drift, but dust can drift into piles.
Broken bare limbs, ready to add to his woodpile, hung from trees as if it were winter instead of summer. He'd vowed not to add to the death of the land by cutting down a trees. The unneededpicket fence around the remains of his garden had already been burned. The sSeeds never sprouted when the spring rains failed to arrive, and thepersistent weeds struggled, then withered. He wouldn't turn over the soil and try again. He'd left his shovel next to his wife and son's grave. I think the "as if it were winter" refers to the bare limbs, but technically it means that the broken limbs are a result of winter, which doesn't seem likely. A clarity issue.
Two vague forms moved through the swirling dust. Wolves? Last night howls had disturbed his sleep. He grabbed his ax and returned to the window. The dust is swirling? I thought dirt was floating. A swirling wind/breeze would be quite different from something gentle enough to evoke floating, IMO.
No, it wasn't wolves. The shapes were too tall. Two men struggled through the haze of (snip)
Thanks for sharing your work, Laurel, it sounds like an interesting world and story.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
Jeannie sends the first chapter of an untitled novel. There’s a second poll, and the rest of the chapter is after the break.
Darien Greco was in trouble, again. This time, an “I” on his history paper. Two “I”s in fact. “Intriguing but incomplete,” Ms. Wright had written in green pen on the bottom of the page. “See me about rewrite.” It was a weird assignment, like a lot of hers were. “Discuss how the world might be different, if [historical figure] had never existed.” He thought his point was kind of genius. “If [historical figure] had never existed, then someone else would probably have done it, and the world would be about the same.”
So it was only one sentence, but he had raised his hand in class – something he rarely did – and asked about length, and all she said was “as long as necessary.” And then, “be creative. There are no wrong answers.” Yeah, right. Except in his case, apparently.
Her classroom was the last stop at the end of a long hall. Most rooms were dark – classes were out for the day – but a few cheerleaders had pushed back the desks in one room and were practicing with massive red and gold pom-poms. He watched until one of them saw him and yelled, “Perv.” He thought about yelling back, “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that good-looking.”
At the end of the hall, the “E” in the red EXIT sign over the door flickered off and on. Everyone called it the “zit” door. He crouched and walked quickly past Ms. Wright’s classroom door, taking a quick peek in the window. She was standing by her desk, doing something with (snip)
Buried lede. As they say in journalism, this opening buries the lede. Yes, there is “jeopardy,” but how much trouble could the note/grade on his paper be? This does not raise a story question significant enough—with high-enough stakes—to rouse a page-turn in this reader.
There are two much stronger openings in the following narrative. Here’s the first (slight modifications made so it makes sense as an opening):
Behind the janitor’s shed, Darien Greco kicked cigarette butts to the side, put his ear buds in, and got out his vape pen. The meeting with Ms. Wright would go a lot better if he was a little high.
He checked the time on his phone. Crap, now he was late. He buried back into school and pushed open the door to Ms. Wright’s classroom and called out, “Sorry I’m . . . .”
The word “late” didn’t make it out of his mouth. Ms. Wright was standing by her desk, and Darien could swear she had a gun in her hands. A rough-looking man stood in the back of the room. Not a kid. The man’s arm came out of nowhere, it seemed. Darien felt his whole body jerk. There was a gun, sticking out from the baggy sleeve of the man’s jacket, pointing right at him.
He heard a pop, like a shot, but nothing like the echoing blast of his dad’s duck hunting rifle. The man slid, surprisingly slowly, down the wall, until he was crumpled on the floor. He could have been resting, his head slumped to one side. The gun was still in his hand. Down the wall was a narrow red streak. Darien kept staring, wondering why there wasn’t more blood.
Or there’s this, which I like even better (needs a little editing):
Sadie Wright was standing at her desk when she heard the distinct ear-piercing shrieks of high school girls. Screams of terror, not the usual giddiness, and then the word “gun.” Adrenaline jolted her into action. She took the keys from her wrist band and unlocked the filing cabinet next to her desk. It took less than 15 seconds to open the biometric lockbox and push a magazine, 10 rounds, California’s limit, into the well of her handgun. With her left hand, she hit 911 on the phone, hanging from a lanyard around her neck.
In the lowest voice possible, she recited the necessary information to the 911 dispatcher: her exact location in the school, an intruder possibly armed with a gun. And, she was armed, wearing a rust-colored jacket and should not be mistaken for the bad guy. Had there been a panic button in the hall – which was one of her recommendations to the principal -- the student who first saw a gun would have hit it and alerted the police instantly, shaving minutes off their response time.
Footsteps in the hall stopped abruptly. Keep moving, she thought, take your gun and leave. “The person is by the outside door,” she told the 911 dispatcher. She took a long slow breath and waited, listening for the metallic clatter of the outside door. But it was her classroom door that opened and shut, then raspy, ragged breathing. She slowly rose from behind the desk, holding her gun in both hands. She did not shake. The man, 30 something, was wearing dirty (snip)
Either of these two openings raised strong story questions for me. Which do you think would be the best?
. . . her phone. She dressed like a P.E. teacher, khaki pants, fleece top, gym shoes hher hair always tied back. The school’s website made a big deal about her being an “Olympic hopeful in biathlon.” He’d had to Google biathlon. Skiing and shooting. He could picture it -- her long legs churning across snow, that determined look she could get, a big-ass rifle strapped to her back.
He eased out the zit door and wedged it open with the rubber floor mat. Behind the janitor’s shed, he kicked cigarette butts to the side, put his ear buds in, and got out his vape pen. The meeting with Ms. Wright would go a lot better if he was a little high.
He checked the time on his phone. Crap, now he was late. He put the mat back in place and let the door close. He pushed open the door to Ms. Wright’s room and called out, “Sorry I’m . . . .” The word “late” didn’t make it out of his mouth. Ms. Wright was still standing by her desk, but now, instead of her phone, Darien could swear she had a gun in her hands. A rough-looking man was standing in the back of the room. Not a kid. The man’s arm came out of nowhere, it seemed. Darien felt his whole body jerk. There was a gun, sticking out from the baggy sleeve of the man’s jacket, pointing right at him.
He heard a pop, like a shot, but nothing like the echoing blast of his dad’s duck hunting rifle. The man slid, surprisingly slowly, down the wall, until he was crumpled on the floor. He could have been resting, his head slumped to one side. The gun was still in his hand. Down the wall was a narrow red streak. He kept staring, wondering why there wasn’t more blood.
***
Sadie Wright was standing at her desk when she heard the distinct ear-piercing shrieks of high school girls. Screams of terror, not the usual giddiness, and then the word “gun.” Adrenaline jolted her into action. She took the keys from her wrist band and unlocked the filing cabinet next to her desk. It took less than 15 seconds to open the biometric lockbox and push a magazine, 10 rounds, California’s limit, into the well of her [handgun, need type]. With her left hand, she hit 911 on the phone, hanging from a lanyard around her neck.
In the lowest voice possible, she recited the necessary information to the 911 dispatcher: her exact location in the school, an intruder possibly armed with a gun. And, she was armed, wearing a rust-colored jacket and should not be mistaken for the bad guy. Had there been a panic button in the hall – which was one of her recommendations to the principal -- the student who first saw a gun would have hit it and alerted the police instantly, shaving minutes off their response time.
Footsteps in the hall stopped abruptly. Keep moving, she thought, take your gun and leave. “The person is by the outside door,” she told the 911 dispatcher. She took a long slow breath and waited, listening for the metallic clatter of the outside door. But it was her classroom door that opened and shut, then raspy, ragged breathing. She slowly rose from behind the desk, holding her gun in both hands. She did not shake. The man, 30 something, was wearing dirty jeans and workboots, and an ill-fitting navy blazer, an odd combination. The gun in his right hand was matte black, big, semi-automatic. He was holding it loosely. She couldn’t see if the safety was on. He made a whimpering sound when he saw her but kept moving along the wall toward the corner of the room.
“Sir, put the gun on the ground.” The gun stayed at his side, but his other hand gripped the eraser tray of the white board, as if he needed support to stay upright.
“Please,” she said again. “Put the gun down.” His knees started to give way, and she thought he might be lowering his hand. He didn’t take hit eyes off her.
The classroom door opened and slammed against the back wall. “Sorry I’m . . .” and there was Darien. He skidded to a halt, his tennis shoes squeaking. He looked startled, almost excited, then terrified when the man turned toward Darien and swung his arm so the gun pointing straight at Darien.
Sadie imagined a round black target on his chest, just one, not five in a row like a biathlon course, and fired. He had left her no choice.
****
It was the throbbing wail of the sirens, coming both over the phone and from outside the building, that made her look away from the man.
“I’m hanging up the phone now,” she said to the 911 dispatcher. “The man with the gun is down. I’m leaving my gun, unloaded, on the desk.”
Darien’s eyes seemed stuck on the man. He started to shake. She pulled off her jacket and wrapped it around his shoulders. “Look out there,” she said, jostling him, pointing out the window. The kids on the soccer field were staring at the back of the school, the police cars or ambulances, she realized, that were screaming across the crabgrass.
They stayed facing the window until the paramedics had left, one of them straddling the man, trying to resuscitate him. Two police officers came in. One took Sadie’s gun off the desk, and then picked up the man’s gun from the floor and carried them out. A paramedic wrapped Darien in a tin foil blanket, and he and Sadie helped him outside. The paramedic tried to pull Darien away, but he wouldn’t let go. He was crying now, snot and tears smearing his face. He choked out the words, “You saved me.”
The principal, Dr. Jensen, pushed through the crowd. He told the paramedics that Darien’s parents would meet them at the hospital, and then Darien was gone, the ambulance bumping and swaying across the crabgrass.
Her arms felt cold and empty. Oh, right, she thought, she had given Darien her jacket. She looked down at her hands, not sure what to do with them. She asked the cop beside her and said, “Don’t you want to bag my hands?” The cop seemed confused. Her head was starting to hurt. The colors -- spiraling red and blue lights, orange cones, and yellow crime scene tape the police were using to close off the area – and the sirens were making her head split apart.
One of the officers started to lead her to the back of a patrol car. Dr. Jensen was there again, yelling, “Don’t you dare handcuff her, do you hear me? Don’t you dare.”
That was nice, she thought. He was looking out for her, even after all the times they’d butted heads. He got right up in the officer’s face, shaking his finger, and another officer was trying to pull him back. “I will not have one of my teachers leaving this building in handcuffs, do you hear me?” Oh, that was it, she thought. It wouldn’t look good for his teacher to be carted away in handcuffs.
The chill she had felt became a hot sweaty flush. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her head hit something solid and then a mask came down over her nose and mouth. She felt a strange elation, a weightlessness, and her head stopped hurting so badly. Car doors slammed and she felt like she was being gently rocked. A kind voice said, “Breathe, just breathe.”
Sadie woke and a man in a navy blue shirt was hovering over her. She could see his biceps and dark armpit hair through the short sleeves of his shirt. “BP still high,” he yelled. She wished he’d keep his voice down so she doze off again. She felt a jolt, her whole body jerked up and then down with a bounce, and she thought she might be sick to her stomach. Served navy biceps right if she puked on him.
The sun was at a bad angle but she could make out Andrew, his usual dark suit but with his tie loosened. Of course he would be called. He was her brother, her next of kin. His husband Matteo was there too. It was Matt who pushed his way up to the gurney and grabbed her hand.
“Sissy, are you hurt?” he asked, holding on as they passed through automatic glass doors. Calling her Sissy, it was so funny and dear, she thought she might cry. He still had traces of Mexico in his voice and it made him seem motherly.
Another voice, bossy. “If you don’t mind, it’s my job to ask her whether she’s hurt.” She saw just enough of the embroidery on the man’s jacket to see the letters M.D.
“So is she?” Matteo spat back. He let go of her hand and took the doctor’s arm. She heard him say, “Her brother is a lawyer and no one talks to her without us, do you understand?”
“Whatever,” the doctor muttered, then, more loudly than necessary, said, “If she’s the shooter, why isn’t she handcuffed?” Sadie shook her head no. She wanted to say, the principal said no handcuffs, but she couldn’t get the words out through the mask. He thought she was the shooter?
“No, down here, last bay, doctor. We’re cracking his chest. Cardiac tamponade.” Now people were running and the rude doctor was gone. She tried to hoist herself get up on one elbow to look down the hall. There were too many people, too many voices, too much movement.
Another face hovering over her, pushing her back down. “Do you have a headache? Feeling shortness of breath? Do you know why you’re here?” One at a time, she wanted to yell.
She couldn’t breathe with people so close to her. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt her chest. She felt a cold rush in her arm and then nothing.
Sometime later, she had lost all sense of time, she was alone in a hospital room and wearing a cotton gown that was too tight around her neck. She pulled the ties loose and felt like she could breathe again.
There was talking outside her door. Andrew had one of those voices that carried. “She can’t be left alone.” Then she heard Matt’s calm, low voice. “I should stay with her.”
Then Andrew again. “Do we need security outside her door? What if that crazy brother or whoever he was tries to get to her again?”
A woman’s voice that Sadie couldn’t immediately place. “He’s in custody. Probably charged with assault. He got one of the residents pretty good. And a security guard.”
What the hell were they talking about. It was true what she had heard about hospitals. Too loud, too much commotion, hardly the best place to rest and heal. But the bed was so comfortable. She nestled her head back into the pillows.
The door opened and fluorescent light poured in. It took er a minute to recognize Matt. He pulled a chair up next to the bed. “I’m going to stay with you, at least till you’re asleep.”
She wanted to tell him it wasn’t necessary, she was fine, but the thought of someone near her till she fell asleep was so comforting.
“Is Darien okay?” Her words were thick and slurred. She barely understood herself and wondered if Matt possibly could.
“I’m sure he is. His parents took him home.”
“Oh good,” she said. She swallowed. “The man?” she asked.
“He died,” Matt said. “Probably dead instantly but they worked on him, I guess.”
“What was all the yelling for?” she asked. She wasn’t sure she was making sense.
Matt reached over and turned off the lamp by the bed. He pulled the covers up over her arms and shoulders. “Just sleep. I’ll be right here.” She tried to say thank you but didn’t know if the words actually came out.
She woke during the night, startled, not sure where she was. Her throat was dry and her lips cracked. She reached for the water she always kept beside her at night and her hand hit the railing on the bed. Oh, the hospital. She remembered, like a kick in the gut, knocking all the wind out of her. The man was dead.
Her heart was thudding, pulsing in her ears. Breathe, breathe, just breathe. She hadn’t had a spell in so long. She couldn’t remember the last one, but still, she knew what to do. Long slow breaths. She imagined herself on the biathlon course nearest her house, where they had lived before her father died. It was perfectly silent, the air was cold, clean, and the sky was a dense white gray. It was freezing cold, and she was breathing so hard she could taste blood in her throat but she was skiing so fast she couldn’t see the condensation. She leaned left with her whole body and rounded the corner by a stand of fir trees, and there just ahead was the shooting range. She reached back and in an instant the rifle was in her arms, pressed against her check, digging into her armpit. The movement was seamless, flawless, amazingly fast. She willed her heart rate down, then filled her lungs, aimed, let her breath go, and at the bottom of the exhale, she fired. Once, and the round black target, 50 meters away, the size of an egg, turned white. Then four more times, five black targets now white. In a flash, the rifle was back in the sling and she pushed off, hard, looking for her father. There he was, in the red ski vest he wore so she could find him in the crowd. His arms were folded across his chest, and his smile seemed as broad as his shoulders.
She was being shaken and she yelped. “Hey, hey, it’s just me.” It was Matt, his hair sticking up on one side. He held a plastic cup in front of her and lifted her head. Oh, a bendy straw. She sucked in the cold water till she heard the straw rattle against the ice.
The door opened. At least the lights had been turned down a bit. “Do you need something?” the nurse asked. She didn’t sound unfriendly just busy.
“Maybe some help going back to sleep?” Matt asked. The nurse came in and adjusted the IV bag hanging on the pole next to the bed.
In the morning, she woke to find Matt sitting in the armchair in the corner of the hospital room. She was so grateful it was him and not Andrew. Andrew had seemed so angry yesterday. Cold. “Fury-ice” was her word for it.
“How did you sleep, Sissy?” Matteo said. Sissy. He was such a nice man. His face was slightly scarred from acne but that only made him seem all the more loveable and genuine.
“What time is it,” she asked. Wasn’t today a school day?
“Almost 9 a.m.,” he said. She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept so late. “Andrew dropped off clothes for you, shampoo, and thank god, a thermos of café lattes from home. Sit up, and I’ll pour you some. And here. I got the papers from the gift shop.” He positioned the pulled the bed tray in front of her. She sipped the coffee. Not quite hot enough but rich ang strong
The headline was, “Armed Teacher Saves Student’s Life.” Dateline, Tehama Bay, CA. followed by Sadie Wright, teacher at Tehama Bay High School, shot and killed an armed intruder who was holding a student at gunpoint in her classroom. The 15-year-old student, Darien Greco, and his parents, were not available for comment. The gunman has been identified as . . .” She pushed the paper aside. The photo of her was at least two years old, taken after some competition. Her teammates were mostly cropped out, leaving her, a huge smile on her face, arms raised, holding an American flag. Thank God they didn’t print a photo showing her biathlon rifle strapped to her back. She barely recognized herself in the photo.
“What happens now?” she asked.
The question seemed to startle Matteo. “Now?”
“I mean like this morning,” she clarified. She wasn’t ready to think further ahead than the next couple house.
He looked relieved. “You have to be cleared by the doctor, then we can get out of here. Go meet Andrew and Laurel at the office.”
There was a rapping on the door, and Sadie and Matteo both said “Come in” at the same time. A uniformed cop stuck his head the room. He had a metal clipboard in one hand.
“Oh no,” Matteo said. “Not now. She’s been drugged to the gills, so you can’t take her statement now, if that’s what you’ve come to do.”
Sadie expected the cop to insist, but he just nodded, a concerned look on his face.
“That’s fine. No rush.” He took a couple steps into the room. “We have the whole thing on the 911 call. That was good thinking on your part, Miss Wright, to call and leave the line open.”
It was something she had recalled from all the school safety information she had reviewed. She almost smiled. And she had remembered to tell the 911 dispatcher that she was wearing a rust-colored jacket, and the cops should not mistake her for the shooter. Except of course, she had been a shooter. The paper called the man “the gunman.” Did that make her a gun woman? She drank more of the coffee and looked straight ahead at the wall. Her brain was moving slowly.
Matteo stood up and blocked the officer’s path to the hospital bed. said, “Why don’t we call you later today, let you know when Sadie is feeling better.”
“That should be okay,” the cop said. He stood there for a minute, just looking at her. She must look frightful.
“I just want to say, miss, that I’ve been on the force for 12 years, and I’ve never once had to use my service weapon. Never even had to draw it, if I’m being totally honest.”
He was looking at her with respect, or awe, even. She didn’t know what to think.
“You’ve taken out one more bad guy than I -- or most cops in this town -- ever have.” She turned to look at him, not sure he was serious. Apparently he was. “Taken out,” she thought. It sounded so much more palatable than killed. Lots of things needed to be “taken out.” Garbage, fast food. But killed?
So obviously the man had died. She had killed him. “I’ve never ever pointed a gun at a living thing before in my life,” she said, her voice breaking. “So lucky you,” she said to the police officer.
“Well, sorry it had to happen, but you’re a hero. You saved that boy’s life. I don’t need to tell you that. So lucky him. And you. You’re alive.”
She was fighting tears. She never cried. Both Matteo and the cop started to look uncomfortable.
The officer took a few steps back and put his hand on the doorknob. “Not something for you to think on too much. That man, the gunman, let’s face it, he gave up his rights when he decided to take a gun into a school full of kids. Some parents are extremely grateful to you right now. So we’ll talk later.” He nodded to Matteo and slipped out the door.
She finished reading through the papers Matt had bought, but there wasn’t much about the man. The principal was quoted as saying, “We are very grateful there were not more fatalities. Sadie Wright is a valued member of our school community.”
Typical. What a dick. Jerk, she corrected herself. Now that she was around high school students and not her teammates she had to watch her language. She wasn’t surprised her was noncommittal but she didn’t have the energy or focus to be annoyed. Maybe now he would take her recommendations seriously. He was the one who had assigned her the project, saying that the school was required to have a safety plan in writing. But then, then he was the one who put her off for months, saying they’d get to it. But then again, she was the one who had decided to keep a gun in her filing cabinet, knowing it was against the law.
By the time the hospitalist came though on rounds, Sadie was showered and dressed and felt closer to normal. But she needed to get moving, shake off the groggy feeling from whatever they’d given her last night. The hospitalist said she had been in shock and probably had a panic attack. The doctor reeled off the usual characteristics of panic attacks, and Sadie nodded, hoping she would hurry it up. She knew most of them from her online research. It wouldn’t be unusual to have more, the doctor said, given the traumatic event, and she should be on the lookout for signs of PTSD. She recommended she have a complete physical exam, find herself a qualified therapist for her situation, and in the meantime, she would prescribe anti-anxiety medication.
She nodded, although she wasn’t entirely sure she would take his advice. She’d consider getting a physical, she was overdue, but she’d take a pass on the shrink and the drugs. The anxiety was temporary. Anyone who’d gone through what she had would be anxious with all the noise and light.
“Do you have any history of migraines, panic attacks, breathing issues?” The doctor looked up from her laptop and directly at Sadie. Sadie wondered if she should tell the doctor about the breathing issues she’d had after her dad died and then from time to time. Spells, as she thought of them. There was nothing in her medical records. Because she had taught herself how to cope. Visualize the race, the five round black circles, willing her heart to slow down, then the deep, deep breathe. It hit her, she had woken during the night with a spell. But she had coped. It wasn’t a problem she needed help fixing.
The doctor was still looking at her, her hands poised over the laptop. Had the doctor asked a question she hadn’t answered?
Matteo broke in. “We’re concerned about her sleeping. Can you give her something for sleep, too?” The doctor nodded and began typing. Sadie was about to tell the doctor that sleeping had never been a problem, but then she saw Matteo standing behind the doctor, pointing to himself and mouthing the words “For me!”
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.
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.
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.”
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.
James sends the first chapter of Dog River. The rest of the chapter is after the break.
The day he paroled out of Dolph Briscoe prison, Joe Fane said goodbye to the other cons on his block, swapped his inmate whites for donated civvies, and reported to the discharge office. There, a matronly Corrections Officer motioned him to a seat; after verifying his prison ID, she dumped a cascade of paperwork from a manilla envelope onto her desk blotter.
"This is your discharge certificate," she said, pushing an official-looking document toward him, "and your civilian ID... social security card... bus voucher." On she went: drug test, gate money, until finally, as if to ensure that she'd not overlooked something, she gave the manilla envelope a shake.
Out fell a postcard. "Oh," she said. "You've got mail."
Joe glanced at the card. One side bore a touristy photo of a statue; the other a message scrawled in a shaky hand:
"Need you," it read. "Come soonest. Tell no one."
The card was signed with a capital "O," which could only mean Orrin Hauser. There was no date, and the postmark was smeared, leading Joe to wonder how much of his old mentor's "soonest" had ticked away.
The CO interrupted his thoughts: "Last thing.... Once you arrive in Houston, you have twenty-four hours to register at a parole office. Otherwise, that's a violation." She gave him a (snip)
The writing and voice are okay, and it’s kind of interesting to see someone being released from prison . . . but where’s a problem for this character to deal with? His life is getting better, right? And there’s no hint of trouble ahead, not in what happens, not in what he thinks.
This opening is setup. Much of the next few pages is that, backstory and exposition to fill the reader in . . . but no trouble. You ask me, James should open with a brief paragraph letting us know this guy is just out of prison, for example . . .
Joe Fane left the bus station behind him, free from the prison it had delivered him from. He took a deep breath and didn’t even mind the car exhaust fumes surrounding him, talking long strides to put that part of his past behind him as fast as possible. He turned the corner and smiled. Free.
. . . and then go to this narrative taken a few pages down:
A vehicle swung onto the street behind him, headlights casting his shadow on the sidewalk ahead. A junker, from the sound of its leaky muffler. It drew abreast and--Jesus, that racing stripe, the LeBaron . . .
A man hollered from an open window-- "Hey, Fane!" --and with a muted pop, a needle-sharp pain stabbed Joe's neck. A flaming-hot electric shock stunned his muscles. In soundless slow motion the sidewalk rose to meet him, and he smacked into the pavement, knowing he'd been Tasered.
It continues in a way that invites reading further. When you're assessing your first page, keep in mind the second item on the checklist: Something is wrong/goes wrong or challenges the character. That's what the current opening lacks.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
Ken sends the first chapter of Blindsided, a crime novel. The rest of the chapter is after the break.
New York City, February 1968
Nick Doyle couldn’t stop the burst of freeze-frame images of death each time he cast his eyes into the dark featureless shadows. Not the actual death but the moment—that split second that foreshadowed the end. Often it was the faint metallic click of the safety on a sniper’s rifle, the vision of his face bracketed between the marks in an unseen telescope. The distant crack of gunpowder exploding, a .50 caliber bullet screaming towards him at 940 feet per second.
As he walked down Third Street in the Lower East Village with Yasmin Abramov, officially his fiancée as of an hour ago, their footsteps echoed off the deserted brownstones. Otherwise, it was quiet, just the murmur of background noise that radiated through this part of the city at night.
This cold and desolate street was different from his memory of the Mekong Delta’s steamy air and musty vegetation. But the fear was the same. In the jungle he listened to the cacophony of birds and insects while he waited for death, wondering where the bullet would come from.
Now, as a cop, walking these dangerous streets, he was always vigilant. Even off duty, even after a romantic dinner with Yasmin, he listened for something other than the monotonous din of the city as he waited for the hushed neighborhood to turn into a shit storm.
There’s a lot to be said for this opening. Good voice and good writing—except for casting his eyes into the dark. The misuse of eyes being thrown here and there is a pet peeve of mine. Use gaze, or stare, or anything that doesn’t require the removal of eyeballs from eye sockets.
The opening does a good job of foreshadowing trouble to come . . . but, when you get to it, this is primarily backstory and setup—sometimes called throat-clearing. Get to something happening in the first page rather than an elaborate tease to snare a reader’s interest. The whole chapter is basically setup, and nothing but hand-holding, a kiss, and trepidation happen. Set the scene as you have, cold and dangerous, no cabbies, etc., bring us in with the woman’s happiness, and then get to something happening to her or him or them. The first page is your best, and often only, opportunity to hook a reader. Don’t spend it all on a non-event. That’s my view. What is yours?
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.
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.
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.”
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.
Renee sends the first chapter of Blurred Dreams. The rest of the chapter is after the break.
“I know I hit her.”
“We wouldn’t be hunting her if you had, Andros. You probably just clipped her.”
The cold air of Stromli Four carried the brusque voice Jem Wilmont assumed was the head ambusher all the way to the fat statue she was hiding behind. Irritated, she risked a peak at the five figures standing just this side of the intersection. They couldn’t be Kurzvall’s people; he would have warned them stunners were ineffective. Beckett and his pirate-rogues were either in prison or dead.
Which of the wannabe-my-boss not liking no sent them after her? How’d they track her?
“She disappeared too fast to be far,” the brusque voice said. A hand motion sent two figures darting across the street. Quick flashes of lights into doorways and under the few vehicles lining this side street marked their progress.
Jem drew back. Shit, damn, crap. It wouldn’t take the miscreants long to reach this spot. She didn’t dare shift here, some security cam might catch it. She needed—halleluiah! An alley about twenty meters down and on her side of the street. Good thing this planet’s gravity was Earth-like, giving her heavier muscles an edge over the locals. Otherwise she wouldn’t have made the fast sprint to this hiding place.
The crunch of footsteps on frozen snow drew closer. She bolted out of her hiding spot.
Full disclosure: Renee is an editing client of mine, and I’ll link to her published novel in a moment—I recommend it highly for a fine science fiction tale.
This opening has all it needs—a likeable person (I have empathy for someone being hunted by killers, not that I ever have been). Good action, the character is in definite peril. So, good strong “what happens next” story question.
Two little edits—you mean “peek” instead of “peak” (a mountain top). And I would italicize “shift” to let the owner the meaning is not the common one. I’ve had to deal with this in my own work in progress when a copy shifts into coyote form. Your thoughts?
Here’s the novel I edited for Renee, Blurring Reality. It’s a good read, I promise. And this new one looks promising.