Submissions Needed—none for next week. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.
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 (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.
A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.
Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.
Download a free PDF copy here.
Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of this list before submitting to the Flogometer. I use it on my own work.
A First-page Checklist
- It begins connecting the reader with the protagonist
- Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
- What happens is dramatized in an immediate scene with action and description plus, if it works, dialogue.
- What happens moves the story forward.
- What happens has consequences for the protagonist.
- The protagonist desires something.
- The protagonist does something.
- 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.
- What happens raises a story question—what happens next? or why did that happen?
Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn't deal with five of the things in the checklist.
Juliette sends the prologue and first chapter of a novel, title unknown. The full narrative is after the break.
Prologue:
A bump in the road jarred Francisca awake. Apart from the soldier driving, she counted four mounted soldiers in front and two following them. Four women accompanied her in the rickety cart. Yesterday there had been five.
A week ago, when the French had chased them from the Battle of Renty, there were close to a thousand Spanish soldiers and dozens of carts of women who fled along with the Emperor’s forces. After a few days retreating with the troop, her group had fallen behind and turned toward the east. Soon it was apparent they would not be rejoining the others.
A rail from the cart stabbed into her side. She turned slightly and rubbed the ropes that bound her hands on the rusted iron rail. Afraid a light of hope might shine in her eyes and betray her, she lowered her head.
A small town came into view. Francisca overheard the soldiers discussing food. “I’m starved, we could—”
“We cannot attack the whole town. There will be a house or farm on the outskirts. You can wait.”
As the group plodded along, townspeople stepped into the street to watch them pass.
Were you compelled to turn Juliette's first page?The writing is good and will get better with work, and the story questions raised here—why is Francisca bound and what will happen to her, will she escape—were good enough to get me to turn the page to see more. I do think it could be stronger if the reason for the light of hope were more clear--show us that the rope is fraying and that she's close to having her hands free.
Chapter 1:
Thirty years later
Le Petit-Courty
Vacquenoux, Salm
Catherine pushed the oil-soaked skin aside and peered out the window of the loft. The sun had not yet risen above the pines on the mountain, but promised a hot day.
“Hurry along now daughter, the birds are eating them all.”
“Coming, Mama.”
She hung her old chemise on the hook, carefully covering it with a heavy shawl, and climbed down the ladder.
“The pails are there,” her mother nodded toward the table.
“All right,” Catherine grumbled and grabbed the pails. When she turned, she stumbled over her half-naked baby sister who dashed past her with her older sister, Anne, in hot pursuit. Anne had just changed the baby’s wet clout when the child squirmed away and took off, giggling toothlessly.
“Watch where you are going!” Anne grumbled. “She is just a baby.”
“You should be minding her,” Catherine snapped.
Were you compelled to turn the chapter's first page?Well, we left Francisca in a tense situation, and I was reluctant to leave her. Now she seems to be gone and we’re with another character altogether. As for what happens in the chapter opening, well, the character gets out of bed and is told to do chores. Not a lot of tension here, this is pretty much set-up (and four valuable lines of page 1 were taken up with time and location that could have been done more efficiently). No turn on this part for me, I’d rather know what happened to Francisca.
Comments, please?
For what it’s worth.
Ray
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 © 2015 Ray Rhamey, story © 2015 Juliette
The full narrative:How It All Began
August, 1554
France
A bump in the road jarred Francisca awake. Apart from the soldier driving, she counted four mounted soldiers in front and two following them. Four women accompanied her in the rickety cart. Yesterday there had been five.
A week ago, when the French had chased them from the Battle of Renty, there were close to a thousand Spanish soldiers and dozens of carts of women who fled along with the Emperor’s forces. After a few days retreating with the troop, her group had fallen behind and turned toward the east. Soon it was apparent they would not be rejoining the others.
A rail from the cart stabbed into her side. She turned slightly and rubbed the ropes that bound her hands on the rusted iron rail. Afraid a light of hope might shine in her eyes and betray her, she lowered her head.
A small town came into view. Francisca overheard the soldiers discussing food. “I’m starved, we could—”
“We cannot attack the whole town. There will be a house or farm on the outskirts. You can wait.”
As the group plodded along, townspeople stepped into the street to watch them pass. (snip)Francisca felt the gaze of the onlookers, but no one stepped forward to help. No one ever did. She ignored the unintelligible shouts and continued fraying the rope on the rusted iron.
“I wonder what they are shouting,” Francisca asked.
“Be quiet! They will beat you,” the woman beside her whispered.
Francisca was much younger than the other women on the cart were, only fifteen. Maybe they would look out for her now that her mother... Tears filled her eyes when she recalled the prior day when her mother sat beside her on the cart. Today, that seat was empty.
Not long after leaving town, the soldiers gathered. She heard the commander say, “Up there.”
As the mounted soldiers galloped toward a farm, the cart driver cracked the whip trying to keep up. A rock wrenched the cart violently to the side, snapping Francisca’s frayed binding. She could scarcely breathe as she stared at her freed hands. Amidst the clamor of hooves and rattle of the cart, the driver did not hear the other women gasp. One whispered, “Untie me.”
Francisca tried to loosen the binding, but the ride was too rough. “I can’t get it! I’m sorry!”
“Forget it. Send someone for us. Save yourself now, run!”
“I will. I will tell them.”
Another said, “They will kill you.”
“After what happened yesterday, I have nothing to live for,” Francisca replied as she slid off the back of the wagon. She crouched down. The dust billowing from the dirt path gave her cover. Her heart pounded as she ran to the heavy underbrush behind the house and peeked around a tree. Screams swept over the mountain as two peasant boys ran for their lives with a soldier rapidly gaining on them. Two swings of his blade, a torrent of blood, and the soldier stood alone. Francisca held her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.
An old woman stepped out of the house, saw the carnage, and rushed back inside. A moment later, Francisca watched the woman drop a toddler out of the window an instant before two soldiers entered the cabin. The little girl stood, took a few wobbly steps, and fell. Her wails pierced the air. Francisca stared at the child.
When the old woman screamed, Francisca took a deep breath, sprung from her hiding place, grabbed the toddler, and flew back to the cover of the thicket. Keeping her hand over the crying child’s mouth, she folded the child inside her tunic and hid under leaves and branches.
There, she waited until nightfall.
CHAPTER 1
Thirty years later
Le Petit-Courty
Vacquenoux, Salm
Catherine pushed the oil-soaked skin aside and peered out the window of the loft. The sun had not yet risen above the pines on the mountain, but promised a hot day.
“Hurry along now daughter, the birds are eating them all.”
“Coming, Mama.”
She hung her old chemise on the hook, carefully covering it with a heavy shawl, and climbed down the ladder.
“The pails are there,” her mother nodded toward the table.
“All right,” Catherine grumbled and grabbed the pails. When she turned, she stumbled over her half-naked baby sister who dashed past her with her older sister, Anne, in hot pursuit. Anne had just changed the baby’s wet clout when the child squirmed away and took off, giggling toothlessly.
“Watch where you are going!” Anne grumbled. “She is just a baby.”
“You should be minding her,” Catherine snapped.
“Mama, Catherine is wearing her good chemise,” Anne tattled. “You will ruin it with berry stains. Change into your old one.”
“Stop minding me! That chemise is too tight and too hot to wear today. Besides, why are you staying home? You should be helping,” Catherine added with an impish smile.
“I need Anne to watch Beatrix and do some spinning,” her mother replied.
“She always has an excuse,” Catherine interrupted. “What about Joseph?”
“You are questioning your mama?” Francisca interrupted with a scornful glance.
“No, mémé,” Catherine mumbled to her grandmother. She climbed into the loft she shared with her brothers and sisters, the girls on one side and boys on the other. Each side contained one large straw mattress and a trunk the siblings shared. After removing her apron, kirtle, and bodice, Catherine ripped the shawl from the hook and threw it on the trunk. She changed into her old chemise, and hung the new one on the hook, muttering under her breath. “I am fifteen years old now. Why do I have to listen to Anne?”
She climbed down, grabbed her pails, and hurried out the door.
Catherine loved the outdoors and enjoyed picking raspberries. Rather, she loved the solitude she enjoyed while picking them. She could spend the rest of the morning and the whole afternoon by herself, without her older sister tattling on her or telling her what to do. Catherine was just the opposite of Anne, who worried about bugs and getting dirty. On second thought, she was glad to be alone.
She climbed the mountainside, following the path through the vast tracts of ancient pines and hardwood forests until she reached the clearing. Tall grass and honeysuckle covered the slope and perfumed the air. She left the path and made her way through waist-high weeds toward the berry patch. Dew still clung to the plump, ripe orbs as she picked and dropped them into her wooden pail. Many were ripe already, but this would be her task for the next several weeks as the red ones changed from purple to black. She tasted a couple, relishing the sweetness.
After picking for a couple of hours, perspiration began to creep down her armpits to her ribs. Her linen chemise prickled her flesh as the sun rose above the trees, and beat down on her. She was still angry with Anne for tattling and regretted wearing this old chemise. It was too tight and grew increasingly uncomfortable, squeezing her growing bosom. Millions of thorns tugged at her skirts and pricked her fingers. She began to detest picking berries.
Someday, she would not have to do such menial tasks. Someday, she would have children of her own who would pick the berries, do the garden work, and carry the water. She thought of a pair of emerald eyes that had been filling her dreams of late. She had noticed the young man the last time she accompanied her papa delivering goods to the inn owned by her mother’s sister, Tante Jeanne and her husband, Oncle Bastien.
Under a large wooden replica of a rearing white horse, the Auberge du Cheval Blanc stood right across the street from the stables owned by the La Goutte de Paradis family. The coach connecting Strasbourg to Lorraine’s capital city, Nancy, stopped at the stable twice a day to relay fresh horses. The inn was always lively with travelers from the coach and Catherine could occasionally hear their conversations in different dialects or sometimes even different languages. She enjoyed seeing unusual types of clothing or hairstyles, or pretending she was a traveler just passing through town.
Her Tante always brought her through the back into the kitchen, spoiling her with a cake or sweet drink. That last time they had arrived a little late, and despite her pleas, her papa ordered her to wait on the cart. There would be too many drunks in the auberge, he told her.
After her papa had taken his goods around the corner, a young man fell through the front door of the inn and crashed into the side of their horse. She grabbed the reins to keep the startled animal from bolting or sidestepping right onto his chest.
The man did not look like a peasant or even a local bourgeoisie. His thin, wiry frame appeared out of place among the strong, hearty peasants of Vacquenoux. He wore an ornate velvet doublet and leather jerkin, with matching knickers extending just below his knees, tight fitting hose, and shoes with heels. His curly, jet-black hair was longer than the local fashion. His skin, a strange golden color contrasted the brightest green eyes she had ever seen. Oh, those eyes … angelic, soft, dancing, playing with the light.
He picked himself off the ground, winked at her, and whispered, “Merci, Mademoiselle,” then he simply turned and disappeared into the auberge. She felt those eyes upon her during the day and had fallen asleep most nights dreaming of his beautiful green eyes gazing into hers.
“Ouille!” She pricked her finger on a thorn, startling her attention back to the berries. She sucked it until the bleeding stopped. The sun continued to beat down on her unmercifully. Her undersized chemise was now soaking wet with perspiration. Finally, she filled the second pail.
Instead of heading home, she carried the pails down the embankment and sat on a large piece of sandstone next to her favorite spot, a natural swimming hole. She took off her shoes and dipped her feet in the current. Le Petit-Courty, the stream that flowed through their farm, created a deep pool here, where it flowed into the larger stream, Le Grand-Courty. Sometimes, she would sit, watching the burbling brook dancing over the rocks on its way to the Framont River. In some places, the dense canopy above opened and dappled sunlight flashed on the water, cooling, inviting. So calm and clear, she could see tadpoles and minnows swimming along the edge. She closed her eyes. Enveloped in peacefulness, the only sound was the water splashing off the rocks.
Who would know if she took off her partlet and apron, rolled up her kirtle and gown, and waded out a few feet? Before she could talk herself out of it, Catherine’s clothes lay on a pile on the rock, and she wore only her cramped chemise. She tiptoed into the waist-deep stream and dunked herself under the water. Her long, dark tresses came undone, and she flung them over her shoulder, letting the cool water trickle down her back. Oh, what a relief, she sighed to herself.
After crouching in the water for a few minutes of blissful relaxation, she thought she heard something. Oh no! She had carelessly waded to the opposite side of the stream. Her clothes were out of reach. She was sure now: the sound was the pounding of hooves. Someone approached her, fast. She ran through the waist-deep pond as imaginary hands held her back and jagged rocks stabbed her feet. In her haste, she stepped on a slippery, moss-covered rock and fell awkwardly into the water.
Catherine coughed out a mouthful of water and pushed her hair from her face. Nicolas de La Goutte de Paradis, that irritating boy who lived on the mountain above the stable and forge, was laughing at her. Actually, every time Catherine saw him, he was laughing, but she could never see anything funny. He was shirtless and covered from head to toe in black dust. His shoulders and ribs appeared a size too large, as if his bones grew faster than his skin, and his dark hair was tousled and unruly.
“What in the world are you doing, sneaking up on me?”
“My papa and I went to the charcoal fields this morning. Papa continued home and said that I could take a dip to rinse all this coal dust off me. Those white clothes caught my eye, and I could not tell what they were, so I came to get a better look.”
Catherine furiously stood, pointed at him, and shouted, “You scared me half to death!” Her soaking wet, too-small chemise clung to her body. Nicolas inhaled and his expression changed immediately. He stared at her. When she realized how see-through her tight, wet linen appeared, Catherine tried to cover herself with her hands and then squatted down in the water. Fury boiled in her eyes, and she shouted, “Stop staring at me, you fool! Get out of here!”
“I was not staring! It was, uh, simply the way my eyes were pointing. You have nothing to see anyway,” Nicolas said, as he swung his horse around and trotted up the stream.
Blushing to her roots, Catherine waded across the stream and crawled out of the water, mumbling to herself. Anne is so high and mighty… she is only a few years older than I am, but she thinks she is my mother… this stupid chemise, Nicolas… so childish, ridiculous! She laughed aloud at the thought.
Her reflections shifted to the golden-skinned man she had seen in town. He was mature and sophisticated. What if he found her here, dressed like this? What would she say to him? Surely, her nearly naked figure would not embarrass him the way it had that oaf, Nicolas. She remembered the stranger’s emerald eyes, and shivers flushed down her spine. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud, a cool wind picked up, and suddenly, she was cold. She dressed and arranged her hair quickly, grabbed her pails, and hurried home.
#
Nicolas continued chuckling to himself as he trotted down the stream toward Vacquenoux. After a few minutes, the charcoal dust in his hair became itchy. He could not stand it any longer, and as soon as he found a place in the stream deep enough, he leaped into the water. Catherine had chased him out of the best swimming hole in the stream.
He put his hands behind his head and relaxed in the water, remembering Catherine’s fiery silver eyes. He could almost hear her voice again, calling him a fool, the ire adding a touch of color to her cheeks. Her dark brows furrowed together above thick black lashes. Her long dark hair shone all about her on the sunlit water, the curve of her body completely visible under her wet chemise.
She had some nerve, shouting at him. He had done nothing wrong! How could he possibly have known she was swimming almost naked? He smiled again. He liked her spirit. He had noticed those sparkling eyes before, not on Catherine but her sister.
Of all the girls in Vacquenoux, Anne was the most beautiful. The sisters looked a lot alike, but Anne’s features were more refined, her cheekbones slightly higher, her lips a little fuller, her hair the color of ripened rye. She carried herself with dignity and self-assuredness, like a fine lady. When the two girls walked together, one could not help but have his gaze drawn to Anne. He could empathize with Catherine, though, because he lived in the shadow of his brother, who was so tall nobody could see past him.
Nicolas took a deep breath, filling his lungs. It felt good. He rarely had an afternoon off, and he would not allow Catherine spoil it for him. At the forge, he shoveled the charcoal. Filthy, dirty work, but necessary for the fire to stay hot enough to shape the metal. As his papa’s apprentice, he had been shoveling for about four years, ever since he had turned twelve years old.
In a few months, he would be living with his brother in Framont and working as a journeyman blacksmith. He was not sure if he liked that prospect. He remembered when his brother had left for the forge and how he complained of the hard work and long hours. Most boys never attained the rank of master, remaining journeymen their entire lives. No matter what the future held for him, he was determined to make his papa as proud of him as he was of his brother.
Now, as he floated on the water, his thoughts drifted back to Catherine, those sparkling silver eyes and long dark hair. Her wet chemise left nothing to the imagination. He had never seen a practically naked woman before today.
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