Submissions Welcome. 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 character
- 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 character desires something.
- The character 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.
Also, if you think about it, the same checklist should apply to the page where you introduce an antagonist.
Fran sends a revised first chapter of Low Flying Dirtbags. An earlier version was submitted here. The remainder is after the break.
Please vote. It helps the writer.
Daggett woke screaming. He felt like thousands of fire ants were crawling along the length of his body… biting and gnawing on his flesh! He screamed again and shivered. He was cold. He tried to lift a hand to his mouth but discovered he couldn't move his arms or legs. He slowly opened his eyes, trying to focus. He realized he was naked and strapped to a metal table. He felt the cold metal on his back. He screamed again as the pain exploded throughout his body. He could feel the beat of his pulse like a hammer banging into an open wound. He closed watery eyes as the fear rose. He willed himself to wrestle down the panic and told himself not to struggle knowing it would only intensify his burning agony.
Dim light filtered through a small grimy window set high on the wall above his head. He smelled mold and mildew. It was quiet as a graveyard except for the sound of water slowly dripping.
"Help me!" He howled. His throat was sore. He needed water.
No answer, in agony he hoarsely screamed again, "Please, someone, help me!" He coughed and tried to wet his lips. Hearing the water trickle made his thirst worse.
Daggett caught movement from the corner of his eye and turned his head too quickly. The room spun, and his stomach threatened to spew. He gulped and forced himself to calm down. Tears filled his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. God, the pain was almost unbearable. (snip)
Were you compelled to turn Fran's first page?My feeling about this opening is that it tries too hard, that it piles the torment on until this reader wished the narrative would get on with the story. There’s a bit of overwriting, and the use of filters gets in the way of the narrative delivering a strong impact. The length of the suffering also kept a really strong story-question line from being on the first page. You’ll see at the end of the notes.
Daggett woke screaming. He felt to pain like thousands of fire ants were crawling along the length of his body,… biting and gnawing on his flesh.! He screamed again and shivered. He was cold. He tried to lift a hand to his mouth but discovered he couldn't move his arms or legs. He slowly opened his eyes, trying to focus. He realized he was naked and strapped to a metal table. He felt the cold metal on his back. He screamed again as the pain exploded throughout his body. He could feel the beat of his His pulse beat like a hammer banging into an open wound. He closed watery eyes as the fear rose. He willed himself to wrestle down the panic and told himself not to struggle, knowing it would only intensify his burning agony. Several uses of “filters” diminish the reader’s ability to get into the character’s experience (though I’m not sure I want to get much deeper into this one). Filters include: he felt, he realized, he discovered . . . This opening paragraph could be crisper IMO, as the edits suggest.
Dim light filtered through a small grimy window set high on the wall above his head. He smelled mold and mildew. It was quiet as a graveyard except for the sound of water slowly dripping.
"Help me!" He howled. His throat was sore. He needed water.
No answer, in agony he hoarsely screamed again, "Please, someone, help me!" He coughed and tried to wet his lips. Hearing the water trickle made his thirst worse.
Daggett caught movement from the corner of his eye and turned his head too quickly. The room spun, and his stomach threatened to spew. He gulped and forced himself to calm down. Tears filled his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. God, the pain was almost unbearable. (snip) I cut the above material because we’ve got it, no need to keep torturing the reader with terrible things. More than that, cutting this lets the following sentence appear on the first page and raises the story questions to a compelling level:
A soft chuckle snaked through the gloom.
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 Fran
Continued:
It would be so easy to surrender.
A soft chuckle snaked through the gloom.
"Please, help me!" he pled while sobbing in agony.
He heard the clip-clop of hard-soled shoes on concrete. Overhead florescent bulbs clicked on, flooding the room with light and forcing him to wince from the burning glare. Carefully he cracked his lids allowing the light to leak into his pupils. When his eyes finally focused on his captor, he saw nothing but a pair of blue eyes looking at him with curiosity, draped in a loose-fitting, long sleeved, blue hospital gown. Its face, obscured by a surgical mask and cap covering its brows and hair made it impossible to distinguish any feature or tell if it was male or female. Its hands encased in surgical gloves. Height average.
"Do I know you?" Daggett whispered painfully as he struggled to swallow.
"Doesn't matter," the voice whispered back.
The lightness of his tormentor's voice told Daggett his monster was truly enjoying this moment. It chuckled again and said, "We are far from anyone who might hear your screams of agony or your pleas for help." His tormentor whispered.
Daggett started to tremble. He couldn't control it. The panic returned and the adrenaline flowed as he desperately struggled to free himself.
"Where am I?" He stuttered with a painful rasp.
"This is where I do some of my best work, my art." The willowy whisper continued.
"What kind of art?"
"Body art… Just look at yourself."
The whisperer's gloved hands came up holding a long-bladed straight razor with a bloody blade and a small portable table torch. Daggett winced and cried out as he realized why his legs burned and his arms had long, deep cuts and blistered, seared skin. His face burned too.
"You're demented." Daggett whispered.
The blue eyes blazed with anger as the voice whispered. "To each his own."
"Please don't do this to me."
"Too late now."
"It's never too late. I won't tell anyone."
"Shhh," it whispered. "I'm going to make the pain go away. This won't take long." The killer lowered the flame from the portable torch to the inside of one thigh.
Daggett screamed as the pain raced through his body. He embraced it. The pain was proof of life. Without the pain, he feared he'd be lost.
"I want to live." Daggett sobbed in agony.
Gently, his tormentor smoothed it's fingertips over his forehead. "Shhh…we can't do that." The gentle touch set off an explosion of tremors. His body shook uncontrollably. His eyes widened in horror as he watched the lit portable torch held over his genitals. He felt heat then searing pain as he screamed in horror while the smell of scorched flesh reached his nostrils. His tormentor gleefully whispered, "My blade might accidently slide… like this… and slice right through your manhood. Oops! Look what you've made me do, Daggett!"
The pain was agonizing. Daggett's scream brought a glazed look of delight to his tormentor. Daggett tasted blood as he bit through his tongue trying to halt his screams, knowing they encouraged his tormentor. The monster stared at him as if he was some kind of lab experiment that required evaluation while performing a preordained response.
A camera magically appeared, snapping photos of Daggett's reaction. "Almost done. It won't be long now. Too bad… So sad." The monster whispered while dragging the sharp blade over the tender flesh of Daggett's neck.
Again, the pain was sudden and searing. Daggett inhaled to scream, but his lungs refused to respond. He tried to pull in another breath… Nothing! He was unable to inhale. Panic exploded as he directed his energy inward towards his lungs.
Breathe! Air!
A gurgling sound rose in his chest as the air already in his lungs seeped out through the wound. More blood began to pool around his shoulders. He struggled to cling to his final hold on life, convulsing in agony.
The killer kept smoothing its fingers through his hair. "Don't fight this. Fighting only makes it worse. It won't be much longer, it'll be over, and I'll return you to the world of the living. Another work of art, completed."
Daggett's vision blurred. His lungs and body burned as he realized who his tormentor was. His eyes widened in horror as he tried to breathe.
"So pretty, I think you are my best work yet, Daggett." Delight danced in its blue eyes as it realized Daggett had put the puzzle pieces together. How fun!
Blackness leaked into the edges of Daggett's vision, and as the seconds counted down, his constricting pupils seeped out more light, leaving only darkness behind.
Daggett couldn't scream. Daggett couldn't point a finger. The darkness won.
Daggett's killer stared lustfully at his empty shell. The killing was such a treat, a well-deserved reward. The fact that Daggett recognized his killer, at the end, was even better. It was always enjoyable to bring the narcissistic, know-it-alls down a peg.
As the killer gazed at Daggett's remains, there was no remorse, just a feeling of being unfulfilled. Daggett's killer was tired of living in the shadows, tired of hiding behind someone's protection, weary of denying it's true self. It was anxious to up the ante. Wanting the cops to know what it could do. It wanted to be feared and to be that terrifying bedtime story the kids told each other when they needed to feel dread.
The killer thought about the cops running around in circles like rabid dogs trying to figure out which end was up. They'd growl and foam at the mouth, but in the end they'd find nothing but their own tails. The notion that the detectives assigned would have another unsolved case – another blot on their records – had some appeal. In fact, the killer gained great pleasure from the mere thought. Later, the killer would add Daggett's pictures to the ever-growing album. The stories the album provided were something to reminisce about while sitting in a cozy chair, in front of a warm fire, on a cold winter's night.
Add a Comment