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 engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
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.

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.

Ellie sends the prologue and first chapter of “Absurdist/ Speculative / Philosophical Science fiction “ story, Ephemeral. The rest follows the break.

Prologue:

There was once a child; for simplicity and anonymity sake let's name this child Cas. Cas was like a lot of people, but was also unlike others at the same time. They were a quiet individual, but also quite social in some instances. Like everyone else, Cas strived to be different; they wanted to stand out and be seen as more than just another person in the vast universe. They wanted to inspire and motivate others and make an impact on life. Cas wanted to mean something.

Now you as a reader may be thinking that yes everyone thinks this at some point and everyone wants to be something; and this thought is correct. All people are amazing. All people are different. Everyone IS somebody. It is simply the fact that people often cannot see the truth in the blistering speed in that life goes by. The people who fight through the hardest fights will most often get the largest reward; seeming to everyone else the reward being small. But they know what they went through to get there. We can all be great; we can all leave our mark no matter how big or small. This is hoped to be soon understood.

Cas was quite sarcastic in conversations when they did talk; mostly because they loved to make others laugh. Cas loved making people laugh; it gave them a sort of feeling of accomplishment. That they, although a minuscule part of a vast world were able to make someone happy; to make someone exert a positive emotion just because of something they (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the prologue's first page?

Chapter 1:

The sun was shining vividly on the brisk fall evening of September 23, 2015, in Cas' hometown of Birch Falls. A very telling name since it states the towns odd abundance of birch trees. Cas liked to take walks on days like these because it made them feel quite calm; something their mind was more often than not... not. The streets were to Cas' benefit, quiet. It helped them clear their mind and to feel free from the mayhem of the world around.

"This is nice", Cas thought silently. But they couldn't get rid of the utter feeling of emptiness; the feeling of dissatisfaction with the path their life has been affixed to. I want to do something exciting and new, I want to do something that isn't of the daily cycle; I always find myself walking the streets and thinking about what I could do or thinking what can be done but I never actually get around to actually doing such actions. What's the point of living if I don't experience it myself. So many possibilities, so many paths to take yet I walk this lonely road of casualty.

Yes, life is beautiful. The world is pretty alright. Seasons, smells, people, senses, the unknown; all of these things are so beautiful and brilliant in so many ways that I cannot fathom being able to express it in a way that could describe such beauty. Technology. Science. Knowledge. Art. So many concepts and realities that can all be learnt, but simply cannot be grasped by my feeble mind. The possibilities are infinite. We could do anything (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the chapter's first page?

The writing and voice are strong in these opening pages, but these narratives aren’t meant for me. While understanding that there are experimental elements to this tale, I stumbled over and over again at the use of plural pronouns for Cas instead of singular. I could see no reason in what is here for doing that other than, perhaps, to conceal the gender of the character. But every use of “they” instead of “him” or “her” jarred me right out of the narrative because it never stopped feeling, well, wrong. And, grammatically speaking, it is wrong.

The other issue for me is that in neither the prologue or the chapter opening pages did much of anything happen and there were no story questions raised. In the prologue, we have some authorial musing and a description of a character, but nothing happens.

In the chapter opening, we soon dip into a lot more musing. For me, long introspections such as this don’t count as something happening. The character seems to want something in the chapter opening, to do something exciting and new, but that is not a pressing desire to me. There are no consequences suggested for doing something different, either positive or negative. I think it takes a different kind of reader than I am to get into this narrative approach.

Your thoughts?

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.
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.

The whole thing:

exposition / prologue

There was once a child; for simplicity and anonymity sake let's name this child Cas. Cas was like a lot of people, but was also unlike others at the same time. They were a quiet individual, but also quite social in some instances. Like everyone else, Cas strived to be different; they wanted to stand out and be seen as more than just another person in the vast universe. They wanted to inspire and motivate others and make an impact on life. Cas wanted to mean something.

Now you as a reader may be thinking that yes everyone thinks this at some point and everyone wants to be something; and this thought is correct. All people are amazing. All people are different. Everyone IS somebody. It is simply the fact that people often cannot see the truth in the blistering speed in that life goes by. The people who fight through the hardest fights will most often get the largest reward; seeming to everyone else the reward being small. But they know what they went through to get there. We can all be great; we can all leave our mark no matter how big or small. This is hoped to be soon understood.

Cas was quite sarcastic in conversations when they did talk; mostly because they loved to make others laugh. Cas loved making people laugh; it gave them a sort of feeling of accomplishment. That they, although a minuscule part of a vast world were able to make someone happy; to make someone exert a positive emotion just because of something they did. This feeling gave them a purpose to continue. They wanted to create things, help people, speak out and be a motivation but they simply were incapable of forming the phrases to paragraphs to explain these feelings and emotions; Cas wanted to do more than make people laugh.

Cas' thought process was sporadic; emotions and feelings would change in a flash, so many personalities; so much imagination. There was so much they wanted to learn and do in the short life that they were handed and they wanted to make the most of it. Little did Cas know, they already had been making an impact with every action they make; changing an infinite number of outcomes, realities and disillusions.

But Cas was more than just what was seen in reality. Their mind beginning to get corrupted with darkness; they were unknowingly included in a war that was not of reality. There was a power they held that made them able to connect their conscious into the warped realities; their mind a bridge between life and darkness. Cas is slowly beginning to be unable to distinguish which they are in anymore; the darkness seeping into their veins; beginning to take over.

CHAPTER 1 - From Humble Beginnings

The sun was shining vividly on the brisk fall evening of September 23, 2015, in Cas' hometown of Birch Falls. A very telling name since it states the towns odd abundance of birch trees. Cas liked to take walks on days like these because it made them feel quite calm; something their mind was more often than not... not. The streets were to Cas' benefit, quiet. It helped them clear their mind and to feel free from the mayhem of the world around.

"This is nice", Cas thought silently. But they couldn't get rid of the utter feeling of emptiness; the feeling of dissatisfaction with the path their life has been affixed to. I want to do something exciting and new, I want to do something that isn't of the daily cycle; I always find myself walking the streets and thinking about what I could do or thinking what can be done but I never actually get around to actually doing such actions. What's the point of living if I don't experience it myself. So many possibilities, so many paths to take yet I walk this lonely road of casualty.

Yes, life is beautiful. The world is pretty alright. Seasons, smells, people, senses, the unknown; all of these things are so beautiful and brilliant in so many ways that I cannot fathom being able to express it in a way that could describe such beauty. Technology. Science. Knowledge. Art. So many concepts and realities that can all be learnt, but simply cannot be grasped by my feeble mind. The possibilities are infinite. We could do anything with this life that has been given. I do not know how I came to be. How is it that I exist; my own mind; the ability to change what may and might happen in this world. But why now? How did I come to be now? This brain and this body, what is the possibilities of me being ME, how is it possible. This is the one thing I can never understand.

I can hardly figure myself out. One moment I feel one way and another moment is something completely different. Throughout the years of my life I have changed with blurred lines to when and how something changed. What moments of life have impacted me; and more so what have I done to make this loud life a better place. Change is certain and there is nothing that may stop it. It's not predetermined, but fluid; it can be changed based on the actions and events that happen around each and every individual. I find that beautiful. No one can predetermine what may or may not happen in the next illumination of our orbit around the sun. The sun is beautiful. How could something of such complexity exist? This uncertainty is what makes life worth living. It's what makes life beautiful. I am sure that I sound extremely philosophical and most certainly kind of weird, and that would be an accurate assumption. I am very weird, but at least, I'm not wired because that would mean that I be connected to a highly deadly amount of electricity and that would probably kill me. Good to note for future possibilities. You never know when you may get attacked by wires. With all these things I find beautiful, why am I unable to find reasons to see myself as important? why does my mind leave my grasp of control and become to torture itself like a roller coaster that has fallen off its rails? my mind has a second face; a phantom pain that I bare day in and out, asleep and awake.

My mind is the world that I am trapped in; the world inside a reality where I am numb to my surroundings. I need to regain control or I need to get out; I need to get out of this darkness. I'm starting to believe that my thoughts are turning against me; this philosophical shit is an excuse to waiver my focus on how I am feeling; the predicament I am in. I believe the world is beautiful and complex yet I can't analyse myself, my emotions, what I am doing, why I do what I do; will I pass through this time as a ghost or will I begin to live. This universe in my mind is clouded and blurred to me. what am I. this I must discover.

Cas snapped out of their deep thoughts as it started to become night; how long they had spent walking around was lost in time. It's probably about time I stopped stressing my mind too much before my head just explodes. They thought.

Cas decided to walk back home with the feeling of utter dissatisfaction. As if the walk was not enough to make them feel good - partly due to the fact that they once again had gone into deep thought and when they snapped back time had once again left the grasp of their internal clock; which they had left in the deep recesses of their mind. Cas listened to the sound of the leaves being unsettled by the wind, the cars travelling on the distant highway. They walked and inferred making their way home as the sun started to bow under the treeline, the darkness seeping through the light onto the ground and into the sky.

Cas woke up the next morning in their small apartment. it was quaint and had everything they needed. Looking around their room they saw all their posters of shows and bands they loved; covering up most of what was a blue painted wall that consumed the room. Their desktop PC they built 4 years ago sat on a wooden desk in the corner; while on another table lay a bundle of laptops that they owned and played around with. The most notable laptop they owned was their Favourite Aluminum finished laptop that laid alone nice and clean; besides the "MightyCarMods" Sticker they put on it.

"why the fuck did I put it on a computer, it's a car mod sticker and I have a truck. yet I put it on a computer." they thought.

Looking out the window beside their bed Cas looked out into the sky that was priorly dark and illuminated only by the distant stars of the universe. The light that had travelled millions of light years just to be seen for the first time; a photograph of what that star used to be and never will be again. More so than what was seen outside, Cas could see their reflection in the glass. Cas could see their hair, that went down to their shoulders, Glimmering in the sunlight they could see the lavender hue reflect in the suns rays. It reminded and made Cas think more so of space, of all the eclectic colours and facades seen in the infinite region of darkness.

What is out there, What is to be found that has not yet been uncovered.

Where is everyone. We are not alone; yet so very secluded. The time will come that we as a species will have to co-exist and will do amazing things. this planet is but starting point to where we will one day be. I just wish I could stay alive long enough to see it; but I'll merely be able to go and see what is to be seen here on this planet. oh and is there much to be seen here still. Why can't I be more than what I am? why can I not have the power to find what is truly out there? where is everyone?

Cas spent the rest of the morning looking out the window.

Oh gosh, it's 11:00 AM, Cas resonated in their head 5 times until they finally overcame the inability to move. Cas walked to the washroom the clean their face. In the mirror, they saw the body they were genetically given at birth, mystified on how they came to look the way they did. their body slender, Sort of short - but not really; depending on who was asked. Their skin was soft, their face sculpted gingerly revealing soft features.

and I wonder why people think I'm 14... it's probably due to the fact I'm 5'3".

Satisfied that their face didn't feel like complete trash, Cas walked back to their room and put on some new clothes. Disregarding what clothes went together they put on a pair of black ripped jeans, a loose, baggy Rise Against band shirt that dulled down the curves of Cas' upper torso, and a long flowery / colourful cardigan that Cas just couldn't get enough of.

Well, I have no clue what to do. All I ever do is sit in that chair staring reminiscently into that computer chair like a drugged horse that is about to be put down. I need at least some social interaction ever once in awhile, I have friends so-be-it that I neglect to have the motivation to ever go see them or make plans. I constantly am lonely and I refuse to see anyone but then I feel worse and when I do see people I end up feeling like I am annoying them; it's a vicious circle that keeps on happening. might as well continue that circle so it's not dormant in one position for too long that it becomes seized in a sense that I just begin to crumble.

Cas picked up their phone, and opened up squanch chat.

what a weird name for a texting app, how do you even make that name up, Cas thought for a moment.

They scrolled back and forth through their friends list seeing who was on and intently thinking about who they could talk to who wouldn't get totally annoyed - BZZ, “What the heck,” Cas said out loud as their phone vibrated in their hand unexpectedly, startling them. a message..? from Nate.

"I'm at your front door you goat", Nate texted. "What", Cas replied.

"I'M AT THE FRONT DOOR TO YOUR APARTMENT, WHAT IS THERE TO NOT UNDERSTAND!", Nate spammed into their inbox multiple times.

Jesus, he's getting more sassy each and every passing day, Cas thought walking to their door.

They opened their door; a large figure towered in the opening. "Hey Lil one", Nate said as he picked Cas up off their feet and carried them into their house. "Dammit, Nate!", screeched Cas protesting against the demeaning belittling that they felt from being carried around. "Fine, fine" Nate exhaled, putting Cas back down on their couch. "What's been new with you Cas? it's been awhile since we've talked; anything new and exciting in your life? have you done something that's not play on your computer or go on walks?". "I'm honestly not sure Nate, life has sort of been a blur as of late. I've been following the same mindless routine for a while now; time seems to have flowed around me like a tsunami molding around a magnetic field.", Cas echoed.

Cas closed their eyes, darkness consuming their optical nerves. They felt a large rumble under their feet; their eyes snapped back open a moment later from the shock.

A mist had engulfed their house, a dark purple glow casting in from the windows now consumed their house.

What the..? what is going on?

Cas got up and ran to the window, all they could see was a thick purple mist that unraveled into the distance. They turned, ran to the door and opened it.

What is this noise; this gritty screech - these voices in my head? am I going crazy?

The ground starts to reverberate like an elastic band that had pulled far past its limit and snapped; making it nearly impossible for Cas to stand. That's when they started to see a figure. “Hello? Can you hear me? “, Cas yelled. multiple figures darker than the horizon Cas could see, large and overbearing in the distance fading into view through the mist. The air began to pulse as if a drum was disturbing the pressure. Their ears began to ring until they heard the thunderous screech "OPEN IT" --

what is going on? open what? what are they talki---

A thunderous blow connected with their head, the force sending shock waves down throughout their skeleton - everything then fading into black.

Cas’ brain started to spark, a show of dots started to swirl behind Cas’ eyelids. They began to regain consciousness,

what happened… why am I back in my room?

“Nate?”, Cas yelled, hoping he was still there to explain what had happened.

No response… well that's just cheery. my head feels like it just got smashed with a cinder block.. what the hell.

Cas stumbled back onto their feet and looked around. Their room looking as it did when Nate had come over. Looking out the window Cas saw the heavy rain. the sky exploded with the sound of the clouds fighting, startling Cas.

oh god, why did that scare me? what day is it today, the forecast never said anything about a storm tomorrow.

Cas stumbled over to their bed and shuffled around for their phone.

where the hell is the bloody thing, why is it always such a struggle to find I---- oh there it is.

Cas picked up their phone and tossed it into the air, making it twirl a few times before gravity pulled it back down to their hand. “IT's the 26th?! “, Cas screamed internally when they saw the date on their phone.

but it just was the 24th, I was hanging out with Nate, closed my eyes then - then I was asleep? I think? how is it the 26th, how do I just sleep for two days randomly; how do I randomly black out while hanging out with someone? why not text him, the easiest way to find ou---

Cas glanced on the top bar of their phone and saw the signal indicator.

no service, nevermind. well isn't it just my lucky day today. a ton of unexplainable occurrences and no answers. in what unorthodoxy way is this even fair to happen to someone.

Regaining their composure, Cas groggily walked to the washroom to splash some water on their face - hoping it would help with the pain that was being felt. They turned on the water and eased their head down, splashing the cold water onto their face, the feeling almost refres----

OW, my arm!

Suddenly Cas’ forearm started to throb. Cas twisted their arm a bit and began to massage it, but it felt different. Looking at it cas saw what was wrong; what they could not explain.

What is this? how did I get this scar? I definitely did not drink any alcohol so I'm sure I didn't go get a drunken tattoo - so how did I get this? it's shaped like some weird symbol? could this be connected to my dream in some way. but if so, how? , Cas pondered.

Cas studied the weird scar formation on their arm for many minutes. It was shaped almost like a galaxy, and it was thicker than a normal scar. The scar was Flush white was the ends faded with bumps as if the galaxy tails were being blown away like sand on a windy day. Suddenly, the scar began to discharge pain once more, but this time, it was different - it had a slight glow that was in sync with the throbbing of pain. It was time to move on, There was nothing Cas could do about it at this point in time so it's best that it be dealt with later.

I’m going to go for a drive, not like there's anything better to do and it honestly seems like the best way to get my mind off of all this craziness Cas thought to themself.

Cas always loved to drive. Cas loved cars, and with their love for making things themselves; they had built their own car. Cas’ had a 1952 Ford Truck, Painted green and black with rather large mud tires, making it look as if it had a lift kit. It had a Standard transmission because Cas hated the thought of driving an automatic; it’s just so boring. They grabbed a coat and their keys and stormed outside into the heavy rain, making their way towards their truck which was parked on the side of the road. Cas opened the door and heaved themselves into the truck, hastily closing the door to get out of the rain.

They put the key in the ignition and turned it 2 clicks; they then moved their hand to the real ignition which was a button.

A touch of modern irony and small touches to make it my own was a great idea.

they pressed the button; the thunderous beat of the engine jolting into motion; drowning down quickly to a soft beat that continuously repeated as if it were a marching band running two groups of opposite synchronizations.

Know what, I sort of feel like going to the library. Maybe I can find out something about my dream. Or vision. Or whatever that was. Who knows maybe it's some epiphany of a coming event. Or a past event… wow, look at me getting all superstitious jeez.

They eased their foot off of the clutch and put the truck into gear; then they were off. They drove their way into town; listening to the eccentric drumbeat of the rain hitting the cab of their truck.

Wow the town's quiet, even if it's stormy out there's usually, at least, some people walking about. Almost all of the lights are off too. Gosh, why is everything have to be so dark and gloomy?

They made their way down the streets of the town, stopping at every sign to admire the old buildings that made up most of Birch Falls, blending in with nature around it like it was always meant to be there.

The finally made their way to the library, and to Cas’ luck, the lights were on, a decent sign that it was indeed open. finally, at least, one thing decides to go my way today. They turned the key of the truck and put the parking brake of the truck on; then proceeded to jump out of the truck and back into the pouring rain. “AHH WET RAIN, NOT FUN, ITS COLD, RUN NOW”, Cas yelled as they ran up the steps and into the library.

Add a Comment

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 engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
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.

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.

Peter sends the first chapter of The Belles of Nolichucky. The rest follows the break.

A spear flew through the air towards his chest as Rabaad slammed down hard onto the contraption. He had carved smooth sticks flat and curved up at the front, greased with animal fat and strung together through slots in the wood with ropes made from twisted vines. A loop of vine attached to the front to help him steer. A slippery seat to slide on and he moved away, heading downhill on the snow covered ground. High up on the mountain, untouched, smooth unbroken whiteness spread out before him into the distance, as he picked up speed. The four angry men, who had moments before believed they had caught him, disappeared into the distance behind him.

Far down below the snow line lay a green valley, and in the distance, strips of grassland between forests. He angled across the slope, controlling the pace, and the wind whipped in his face, blowing his dark hair back. A childish desire to yell "weeeee" overtook him. How strange to be so near death and then suddenly free, using this simple device. His invention. His conception that meant so much to him, and nothing yet to anyone else.

It had started so simply. Slipping over on his behind and sliding down an icy slope. Then he wondered if he could use this slide, without the soggy pants and pain in his rear end. Many months of fiddling lead him to his first attempt. This was his tenth version, and although he used it many times as a plaything, this was the first time he used it for anything useful. He needed it this time, and it worked. An excited buzz ran through his mind.

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Good writing and voice, and dramatic action starts this opening page—someone having spears thrown at them certainly faces jeopardy. However—for me there were a couple of clarity issues in the opening paragraph, not the least of which is what happened to that spear coming at his chest. Still, it was involving until the last paragraph veered off from something happening to an info dump. So I stopped reading there. Peter, save these little tidbits of information until they’re needed for story purposes or leave them out altogether. I appreciate the depth of your knowledge of this character, but it’s not good to include asides such as this. Notes:

A spear flew through the air towards his chest as Rabaad slammed down hard onto the contraption. He had carved smooth sticks flat and curved up at the front, greased with animal fat and strung together through slots in the wood with ropes made from twisted vines. A loop of vine attached to the front to help him steer. A slippery seat to slide on and he moved away, heading downhill on the snow covered ground. High up on the mountain, untouched, smooth unbroken whiteness spread out before him into the distance, as he picked up speed. The four angry men, who had moments before believed they had caught him, disappeared into the distance behind him. Clarity issues: The spear comes at his chest as he slams down, but it isn’t clear as to whether or not it missed him. Also I didn’t really understand what the part about a slippery seat meant. I would just delete it.

Far down below the snow line lay a green valley, and in the distance, strips of grassland between forests. He angled across the slope, controlling the pace, and the wind whipped in his face, blowing his dark hair back. A childish desire to yell "weeeee" overtook him. How strange to be so near death and then suddenly free, using this simple device. His invention. His conception that meant so much to him, and nothing yet to anyone else. I think it should be “wheeeee.”

It had started so simply. Slipping over on his behind and sliding down an icy slope. Then he wondered if he could use this slide, without the soggy pants and pain in his rear end. Many months of fiddling lead him to his first attempt. This was his tenth version, and although he used it many times as a plaything, this was the first time he used it for anything useful. He needed it this time, and it worked. An excited buzz ran through his mind. This is a bit of an info dump to give us backstory, and it takes us totally out of the “now” of the story. Fill this stuff in later after you’ve got us firmly hooked. It does not contribute to story here.

Your thoughts?

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.
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.

Continued:

Without this device, he would still be hiding in the forest. Kirak's warrior's might have caught him. He would not have been flying free as a bird down the snowy hill away from them. If only he could see the look on their faces.

Hunting kept the tribe alive. Only a large range provided security, for if the herds thinned out too much, there would be no food.

The men of Kirak's tribe closely guarded their territory, and killed anyone they caught trespassing.

In the old days, no one would deny him from hunting in these hills, but now Chief Kirak sought to exclude his tribe. He resented it. The challenge of eluding warrior's excited him, and he had the right.

It had been easy to elude them in the previous days, for he mastered hiding in plain sight, and without snow he could slip away unseen. But in the night it snowed, and the tree branches now hung low, laden with white crystals. A beautiful sight, but dangerous in a subtle way. Snowshoes allowed him to walk on top of it, but even those oafs could follow the tracks. Branches could be used to mask tracks, but that was slow going, and not always effective. So, after a breakfast of cold cooked venison, he had headed out onto the long sloping ground that headed down into the valley far below.

Two men waited nearby and were soon on his path, and when two other men appeared from a group of trees in front of him, they had a spring in their step, as if they would soon catch him. The thrill of the game drove him, and he loved to go where the enemy resented his trespass. The long toboggan ride led him deep into Kirak's territory and who knew what he might find there. The speed exhilarated him.

The sled steered with a simple lean and pull of the rope, left or right. With the weight of all his equipment, he maintained only tenuous control. He reduced the speed by carving across the slope. The perilous descent took him far around the mountain into enemy territory, away from his pursuers.

As trees approached he guessed the wrong path and wiped out with a spectacular flight that buried him in a snow drift. After checking for anything broken he found and packed the sled. Light and flexible, it fitted neatly on his back and did not obstruct his movement. With his snowshoes on, he proceeded into the trees. The path would be easy to follow, but they were far behind, and while they followed, he knew where they were.

The trip through the forest led over to a longer sloping run. As he walked, his mind wandered. Five summer seasons ago he had passed the rites of manhood. In the intervening years he mastered the hunting craft, and now liked to hunt alone. He enjoyed the silence, to think and plan, free from the chatter of others. The quietness offered opportunities for silent ambush, not available to those in a group.

A buck's head appeared in the quiet morning air and made him shiver with intensity, every nerve on edge. The pristine beauty of the forest caught him in the moment, as if nothing else existed. He took his sling from his pocket and a stone from his bag.

But the long slow approach could not succeed. As he took a step the snow crunched under his feet. The buck pranced away, and he walked on.

Coming to the other side of the forest, he saw another wide open slope created by a previous landslide, which led, with a gradual slope, down into the valley below. He stopped to consider his options. Moving fast took him away from danger, but it might lead him towards it. His followers would not catch up with him if he just continued walking, but in the folly of youth is any man sensible? Fun versus safety, and Rabaad was inclined towards fun.

He took to sledding again and the long run took him deep into the valley to the snow line. There he took off his snowshoes and packed his sled again. He trekked across the slope, but still descending, continuing his path away from the pursuers, and then over rocky ground which he hoped would break his trail.

Yet he knew it would not, for an experience tracker can follow trails over rocky ground. His sledding had given him a comfortable break from his pursuers. He enjoyed playing this little game with the warriors of Kirak's tribe, but the time had come to break the trail, or risk compounding his problems by some combination of unforeseen events.

Never the sole disaster or the expected mishap brought the careful hunter down. Combinations of events conspired to create the unexpected situation. He had seen a man escape a bear attack, to be skewered by the tusks of a wild boar. In the long term, chance and misfortune conspire to bring you down.

The sun shone on his back, warming him and making him happy. His pursuers would take many hours to follow the path that he had tobogganed down.

He dreamed of hunting. A patch of good throwing stones lay nestled against a rock on the ground off to the side of his path. His stone pouch hung on his belt, already full, but he could use them for practice. He aimed to be the perfect hunter, to hone his craft to the same sharpness of precision as the tip of his spear.

Selecting the base of a tree as a target, he practiced the quick silent throw, which released the stone to fly, without any warning sound to set the quarry on the run. Today, he felt the sling work with him in harmony. At the target he found all the stones within easy reach.

He continued on his path, still heading across the slope, but descending towards the valley floor. This land, so deep in enemy territory, was unknown to him. As he continued down a fast flowing river came into view. The pleasant surprise put a spring in his step. The strong flow stood in standing waves that rippled, lines written in the unmoving movement.

As he approached, the power scared him. Rabaad wanted to cross the water without getting wet, to break the trail and get him well away from his pursuers. A raft would do the job but that would take time, and time ticked with each step of the warriors feet, tracking him through the snow. He sat for a moment contemplating the risks. He needed to be well clear by the time the warrior's arrived, but that would not be till after midday. He had time.

But the crossing carried risks. The strong flow of the water could carry him under, and the cold water would suck the heat from his bones. Death came to the unwary person who did not respect the power of the flow. He could head upstream and construct a blind, making himself invisible from the pursuers, or any passing prey. This option seemed less obvious, and perhaps Kirak's warriors might believe he had crossed the river when he had not.

Ylgu, an elder of his tribe, had showed him how to construct a blind using a leather hide, and Rabaad believed that he perfected it. Markings on the hide broke the outline, and appeared as branches in dim light. Rabaad used the blind many times to elude his pursuers and catch game.

The leather had been worked supple and thin. He carried it folded up, underneath the sticks that formed the sled. He had crafted the sticks so that they fitted together, with a tongue and groove. A slot through each of the sticks allowed vines to hold them together, making a ridged sled when in use. When not in use he loosened them off so that the sticks wrapped around his body.

This day, curiosity pulled him on, to brave the crossing and see the other side of the river. Some slight nervousness twinged his mind. He had played hide and seek many times with Kirak's warriors, and the fear crept up on him that someday the oafs would get a lucky break and discover him. Or someone with true tracking skill and cunning would be in the party. They would kill him if they could. He decided to make the crossing.

The raft needed five small trees, each with width that he could fit his thumbs around, finders locked to build the upper platform. Using a stone axe he chopped one down. As he cut into the second tree, the axe broke where the stone blade fitted into the handle. He cursed. Time ticked away with the trot of warrior's feet. Still four more trees to go.

Using the blade as a hand axe he attacked the second tree and brought it down. It took time and now his hand gave him pain every time he swung the axe. Then he noticed that a corner of the hand axe had chipped away. His plan headed towards disaster.

A large wedge shaped stone with a jagged edge caught his eye. With some touching up it would make an excellent saw stone. He set it up on a level platform against the third tree. He pushed the saw stone back and forth as the jagged blade bit into the wood, relieved that this motion did not jar his hand. The remaining three trees went down, but time had passed. He imagined soldiers running through the trees towards him. How much time did he have to build this stupid raft?

Using the saw stone he cut the five trees half way along the length, and cleaned up the branches using his hand axe, to make ten poles. Then he lashed them together using vines, supple and easy to bend, now that the snow-line lay above him.

The build had taken too long.

He grouped five bundles of sticks and bound each one with vine. In his haste a bundle flopped loose and he re-tied it. Then he attached the bundles to the base, and launched the craft, tethering it to the earth by a small vine, pegged to the ground. He tied his gear, the blind, sled and oiled waterproof pack, to the raft.

He paused listening for any sound. He could hear nothing. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck.

A tree back up the path had the right thick bark to make an oar and he walked back to it, step by quiet step. He tore a long and wide section off it use as an oar.

He paused at the tree. A pigeon took to the sky, making the distinctive whir, whir sound.

He stopped. There was no sound except the trees bending in the wind.

Something was wrong. Without hearing them, he knew they were out there.

The crack of a broken stick sounded like an explosion, and he ducked, as a spear buried into the tree behind where he had been a moment before.

Without looking he grabbed the strip of thick bark and sprinted for his raft. He kicked the peg securing the raft to the shore free, and in one motion pushed the raft clear and leaped onto it, his momentum carrying it away from the shore. A warrior raced down the hill and hurled his spear. Rabaad ducked, and the spear sailed into the water beyond him. He paddled further out into the river, as another spear missed him by a hands width.

Rabaad paddled on, the current now grabbing the ungainly craft.

The flow took him quickly, surprising him with its ferocity, as the standing waves threw him. Still he paddled further out into the middle, struggling for balance.

Rapids appeared in front of him and his fragile raft poured through a narrow opening. He laid down flat, gripping the raft with his arms as it rose and fell as the current took it over a series of standing waves. He rose to his knees, but had no time to find his balance as rapid after rapid bounced him around and propelled his fragile craft forward. The river poured through a narrow gap and turned sharply to the right in front of a rock wall. He staggered for balance as the current threw him around, flushing him out into a long line of standing waves.

Clear now, the water's force raced around a long curve, then though a narrow gap and out into a shallow wide pool. The raging water disappeared into nothing. Mist obscured his view, and a moment later, the water fell from beneath him and he sailed through the air over a waterfall.

Smashing down hard he found himself deep underwater tumbling around end over end. Releasing the broken raft, he kicked free and paddled with his arms, seeking the surface. His lungs burned, and, desperate to breath, he kicked and pulled, hauling himself up.

Gasping for air, he exploded onto the surface of a clear pool. Above him rained the tall waterfall he had flown over and around him wet rock surrounded a large pool. Mist filled the air. With his head above the water, he peered out looking around for signs of people.

Crawling out, he saw a well-used path to follow. It led up, out of the canyon. His wet clothes sucked the warmth from his body.

His raft had been broken up by the fall, showing what had happened, but there was no time to hide the evidence of what had happened. His gear had come free from the raft, and he retrieved it from the water. The oiled waterproof backpack had dry furs and he put them on.

Then he packed his gear, strapped it on, and followed the track that led up. A shout from the trees behind him told him that he had been spotted. Hurrying now, the steep climb tested his muscles, and the slippery path with rocks and mud made the climb difficult. At the top he found himself in open grassy land. In the distance a forest spread out and he made for it at a run.

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Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, It seemed to me that it could be educational to take a hard look at their first pages. If you don’t know about BookBub, it’s a pretty nifty way to try to build interest in your work. The website is here.

I’m mostly sampling books that are offered for free—BookBub says that readers are 10x more likely to click on a book that’s offered for free than a discounted book. Following is the first page and a poll. Then my comments follow, along with the book cover, the author’s name, and a link so you can take a look for yourself if you wish. At Amazon you can click on the Read More feature to get more of the chapter if you’re interested. There’s a second poll concerning the need for an editor.

Should this author have hired an editor? Here’s the first chapter page from a free novel by D.D. VanDyke, the first in a series.

I’m scribbling these case files down in hopes they’ll be useful for another woman in my position, another former cop who’s had to kiss the love of her life goodbye and settle for another.

I’m not talking about some guy. I’m talking about the Force, the Thin Blue Line, the fraternity of police I’ve been barred from.

Being on the outside looking in does have its compensations, because now I’m my own boss. I have an agency, California Investigations, named for yours truly, California G. Corwin. My leftover hippie mother stuck the moniker on me, though it’s really not so bad because I go by Cal. I’ve always been a tomboy anyway.

With a clear docket and hope for a new case this Monday, I reached down to flip the drop box open, the one inside my Mission District office off of Valencia. The sounds and smells of San Francisco streets faded behind me as the door swung shut and latched automatically, a feature that said a lot about the neighborhood.

Glancing at the Golden Gate Bridge themed clock on my wall, I saw the big and little hands were just about lining up on noon. I decided I’d let myself off the hook this time for coming in late as I’d done all right at the poker table last night, picking up a couple C-notes. I’d rolled into bed some six or seven hours ago as dawn struggled to break over the Coast Range before giving up in the windy face of cold Pacific Coast rain. Coast Range before giving up in (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

I like the writing, I like the voice, but, well, yawn. This is crime fiction, but it starts out with info dump and backstory. Zero happens. Zero story questions. Too bad, as it turns out interesting things do happen a page or two later. This story starts too soon with the wrong stuff.

Did this writer need an editor? My notes and a poll follow. You can turn the page here.

Should this writer have hired an editor?

Your thoughts?

Ray

Add a Comment

Apologies for the belated post, had a business trip to Portland yesterday.

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 engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
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.

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.

Catherine sends the first chapter of The Belles of Nolichucky. The rest follows the break.

Friday, June 2, 1967

MacBeth woke up. Something didn't smell right. The half-wolf half-pitbull rose, alert, ready, the thick fur of his neck fluffing out. He slunk in predator crouch out of the kitchen pantry into the dining room.

The man packed the pieces of silverware one at a time into his duffel bag. He was careful not to make a sound. Not a clink, not a tinkle. He'd spotted this mansion on his trip through Nolichucky last week and knew it had to hold treasures untold. Silver and gold. For the taking.

MacBeth issued one short, sharp growl. The burglar turned around. MacBeth launched straight for his balls. The man didn't move as quick as the dog. MacBeth's fangs pierced the burglar's jeans at the tip of the zipper and latched onto his dick. The man screamed. MacBeth, jaws locked began a slow backstep. The man screamed, his fists pounding the dog's head. MacBeth had the thick skull of his pitbull mama and the long well-muscled neck of his wolf daddy.

***

Deputy Beau Marsh climbed out of his Chevy cruiser. The thin red-head pulled his belt out of his pants, held his cap over his precious area and belted it down tight. He been advised of the nature of MacBeth's action. The burglar had to be an outsider. No one in Nolichucky - no one in his right mind - would venture uninvited into the Gregg mansion in the dead of night for any reason whatsoever. If MacBeth didn't get you, sixty-eight year old Aunt NayNay, legally Naomi (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Well, this certainly opens in media res—there is definitely something going on. But the opening section with the dog doesn’t, it seems to me, relate to whatever the story is about. What happens here? A burglary is foiled by a dog, a cop arrives afterward. The page—and, I think, the chapter—boils down to setup. I suspect, thought I don’t know, that this story is not about the burglar with the troubled penis. He doesn’t even have a name.

It could be about the officer, but there doesn’t seem to be anything current or looming that could trouble him. So what’s this story about? I dunno. While the writing is good, there are still some things to look at in the narrative. Notes:

Friday, June 2, 1967

MacBeth woke up. Something didn't smell right. The half-wolf half-pitbull pit bull rose, alert, ready, the thick fur of his neck fluffing out. He slunk in predator crouch out of the kitchen pantry into the dining room. I think “slunk” pictures the dog’s movements just fine.

The man packed the pieces of silverware one at a time into his duffel bag. He was careful not to make a sound. Not a clink, not a tinkle. He'd spotted this mansion on his trip through Nolichucky last week and knew it had to hold treasures untold. Silver and gold. For the taking.

MacBeth issued one short, sharp growl. The burglar turned around. MacBeth launched straight for his balls. The man didn't move as quick quickly as the dog. MacBeth's fangs pierced the burglar's jeans at the tip of the zipper and latched onto his dick. The man screamed. MacBeth, jaws locked began a slow backstep. The man screamed, his fists pounding pounded the dog's head. MacBeth had the thick skull of his pitbull pit bull mama and the long, well-muscled neck of his wolf daddy. This is a little nitpicky, but accuracy affects credibility. The narrative says the dog’s fangs latch onto the man’s penis at the “tip” of the zipper. Doesn’t that mean the top? If not, where is the tip of a zipper? The bottom doesn’t seem logical. Both a man’s penis and testicles are at the bottom of the crotch in a pair of pants, not at the top of the zipper. Think through either the nature of this staging or the description. Also, no need for the repetition of "the man screamed"

***

Deputy Beau Marsh climbed out of his Chevy cruiser. The thin red-head pulled his belt out of his pants, held his cap over his precious area and belted it down tight. He been advised of the nature of MacBeth's action. The burglar had to be an outsider. No one in Nolichucky - no one in his right mind - would venture uninvited into the Gregg mansion in the dead of night for any reason whatsoever. If MacBeth didn't get you, sixty-eight year old Aunt NayNay, legally Naomi (snip) I found the detailed description of the action with the cap confusing, especially holding his cap over his parts as he belted it down tight. First, that seems difficult to do—putting a belt around your hips requires two hands, so how is he holding the cap in place? I do think it’s a funny thought. I also think this could be solved with a simple summary that doesn’t go into detail—I think the reader could buy it. For example: He used his belt to strap his cap in place over his precious area. All the detail is a bit of overwriting and lent itself to confusion rather than clarity, IMO.

Add a Comment

Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, It seemed to me that it could be educational to take a hard look at their first pages. If you don’t know about BookBub, it’s a pretty nifty way to try to build interest in your work. The website is here.

I’m mostly sampling books that are offered for free—BookBub says that readers are 10x more likely to click on a book that’s offered for free than a discounted book. Following is the first page and a poll. Then my comments follow, along with the book cover, the author’s name, and a link so you can take a look for yourself if you wish. At Amazon you can click on the Read More feature to get more of the chapter if you’re interested. There’s a second poll concerning the need for an editor.

Should this author have hired an editor? Here’s the first chapter page from a free novel by Carolyn Arnold, the first in a series of five.

NOTHING IN THE TWENTY WEEKS at Quantico prepared me for this.

A Crime Scene Investigator, who had identified himself as Earl Royster when we first arrived, came out of a room and addressed FBI Supervisory Special Agent Jack Harper. “All of the victims were buried—” He held up a finger, his eyes squeezed shut, and he sneezed. “Sorry ’bout that. My allergies don’t like it down here. They were all buried the same way.”

This was my first case with the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit, and it took us to Salt Lick, Kentucky. The discovery was made this morning, and we were briefed and flown out from Quantico to the Louisville field office where we picked up a couple of SUVs. We drove from there and got here about four in the afternoon.

We were in a bunker illuminated by portable lights brought in by the local investigative team. A series of four tunnels spread out as a root system beneath a house the size of a mobile trailer and extended under an abandoned cornfield.

A doorway in the cellar of the house led down eleven feet to a main hub from which the tunnels fed off. The walls were packed dirt and an electrical cord ran along the ceiling with pigtail fixtures attached every few feet.

We were standing in the hub which was fifteen and a quarter feet wide and arched out to a depth of seven and half feet. The tunnels were only about three feet wide, and (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Did this writer need an editor? My notes and a poll follow.

I’m happy to see good, clean writing that doesn’t need a lot of line editing for grammar and punctuation, and the voice is good as well. This is a mystery, so a certain amount of setup is expected and the story questions can relate to the mystery instead of the protagonist at this point, but how well does this opening do at that?

For my money, not all that well. The first paragraph does a good job of establishing an aspect of the crime—there are multiple victims, and they are buried. But that paragraph wastes time and pace on the investigator’s allergies. He doesn’t appear in what immediately follows and his allergies have no impact on the story. A sign of overwriting, and that’s not a good predictor for a good read.

And then we get info dump and setup with how they travelled there and extreme detail about the tunnels—tell me there’s a tunnel and that men can walk in it and I can image it. No need to tell me that they are about three feet wide, etc. More overwriting, IMO. So no page turn from this reader.

Here’s a paragraph from page 2 that would have helped ramp up my interest if it had been on page 1 instead of all that description:

“It’s believed each victim had the same cuts inflicted,” Royster said. “Although most of the remains are skeletal so it’s not as easy to know for sure, but based on burial method this guy obviously had a ritual. The most recent victim is only a few years old and was preserved by the soil. The oldest remains are estimated to date back twenty-five to thirty years. Bingham moved in twenty-six years ago.”

Should this writer have hired an editor?

You can turn the page for more here. Your thoughts?

Ray

Add a Comment

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 engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
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.

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.

Ashleigh sends the first chapter of a science fiction novel, When We Was A Child . The rest follows the break.

Flesh.

My leg slices through the air and slams into flesh. His flesh. Right in his umbilical hole, right where the shade sneaks through generation after generation. My foot goes numb from the force and he gasps and begs me to stop. But I can't.

Don’t! I scream at her.

But she does. My leg, an identical leg to my right and three more to my left pull back and shoot forward, in his thigh, in his arm, in his face. His third Vice President, a clone like I am, collapses on the ground in front of me. Each blow makes me dread her more.

"No more. Please!" he says.

He doesn’t fight back; it doesn’t seem to occur to him to even try. The corners of my mouth sag, and a tear slides down my cheek. Cold anger, and hot sadness swirl and bang inside me, they team together against the emotion that is truly mine. Fear. My arm tenses.

Calm down, President Prodida.

She can’t hear me, I’m trapped in my own mind. My sinuses burn and tears push at the sides of my eyeballs, but she won't let another tear fall. Soggy grass mixed with dark red gore lounges on the cliff of meat that used to be his brow and slides down when he looks up at me. One of his eyes squint, and the other is swollen shut. His lip trembles.

Were you compelled to turn the page?

This opening page starts out with a bang, good writing, and strong voice. There’s conflict, and a character that seems troubled. But troubled by what? For this reader, there were clarity issues. I had to read it more than once to figure out what was going on. Same went for the rest of the chapter. I understand the motive to not reveal too much, to keep mystery going, but if the narrative is too terse and lacking in clues and concrete images, there are readers you will leave behind. For me, there were too many clarity and staging issues to want to continue. That does not mean that there isn’t a compelling story here—in fact, the world interests me quite a lot. But being unable to see or understand it adequately stopped me here. Notes:

Flesh. I would delete this for a single reason—it takes up a line of next without contributing much, and it keeps what I think is a very valuable line off the first page. I’ll show that at the end.

My leg slices through the air and slams into flesh. His flesh. Right in his umbilical hole, right where the shade sneaks through generation after generation. My foot goes numb from the force and he gasps and begs me to stop. But I can't. No need for repetition that slows the narrative, the next sentence identifies the male nature of the victim. The “shade” line refers to something I don’t know and raises an information question (as opposed to a story question), but I’m willing, as a reader, to let that go for moment if it’s clarified soon—but it isn’t, not in the rest of the chapter.

Don’t! I scream at her. I assume that this is thought. Problem: I don’t know who “here” is. A later paragraph seems to identify “her” as President Prodida. I would use the name here. More than that, this is an opportunity, especially with the previous line telling us that the kicker can’t stop. If I would you, I would expand this line to include the fact that the kicker is being controlled. Thoughstarter: Don’t! I scream at President Prodida. Stop! I scream at her to stop controlling me.

But she does. My leg, an identical leg to my right and three more to my left pull back and shoot forward, in his thigh, in his arm, in his face. His third Vice President, a clone like I am, collapses on the ground in front of me. Each blow makes me dread her more. I found this confusing and difficult to parse. Expanding it would help. If there are four clones of her also kicking, please show us enough to see it. I wonder about the kicks landing “in” his thigh, arm, etc. Wouldn’t they hit, instead? How to they go into his body parts? The reference to “His” was also confusing because the reference to the controller so far has been to a female, and the later narrative also seems to say that the President is female. So who is this “his” referred to here?

"No more. Please!" he says.

He doesn’t fight back; it doesn’t seem to occur to him to even try. The corners of my mouth sag, and a tear slides down my cheek. Cold anger, and hot sadness swirl and bang inside me, they team together against the emotion that is truly mine. Fear. My arm tenses.

Calm down, President Prodida.

She can’t hear me, I’m trapped in my own mind. My sinuses burn and tears push at the sides of my eyeballs, but she won't let another tear fall. Soggy grass mixed with dark red gore lounges on the cliff of meat that used to be his brow and slides down when he looks up at me. One of his eyes squints, and the other is swollen shut. His lip trembles. How did grass get on his brow? He falls, and it seems that it must be on his back. He speaks to her, and she sees the grass on his brow, which must face up. The grass also has to be cut, otherwise it can’t slide down when he lifts his head. The staging here is not clear at all to me.

Here’s the line from the next page that I would include because it helped me understand that the character is being controlled. It was a separate paragraph of thought: Don't look at me like that. I'm not doing this, it's not me. It’s not me.

Your thoughts?

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.
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.

Continued:

. . . Don't look at me like that. I'm not doing this, it's not me. It’s not me.

Those three words repeat in my head, but I don’t feel any less responsible. I wanted him to hurt. So much. Maybe I’m just like her. My fist, aching and red with his blood – or my blood – rams into his ear, and his head snaps to the side. The grass splats on the sidewalk, crimson pooling from under it and nausea roils in my stomach.

"You deserve this. Abomination." my voice says.

He deserves something, but not this. He looks at me again, his face distorted in patterns of shadow, light, and abuse. My eyes glare at his that plead for mercy, and I’m relieved when his neck muscles give out and his head clunks to the ground. I stare at him, ashamed that I’m glad to be rid of his accusing gaze.

That’s enough, leave him alone!

Blood trickles out of his mouth, and he doesn't move. My heart pounds so loud it wobbles my eyeballs, but I move forward in the fuzzy morning, because whether I see or not doesn't matter. President Prodida controls me; she controls all four of us. My foot nudges him. Nothing. My foot nudges him harder, and his flesh moves willingly, like it fell off the bone. But still, he doesn't move.

"Gods." My voice says. "Oh, Gods."

Try again. Try. Again.

My fingers clench in and out of fists, trying to slow the adrenaline that races up and down my body.

My foot pushes him so hard he rolls on his side. Moments pass, then he coughs and groans, and tugs his over-wear up. His beneath-wear is blue with a transparent circle of fabric in the middle of his stomach. My senses freeze as I gape at the skin that has no hole.

Oh, no.

My feet trip over one another and my back crashes into a Reuse bin behind me.

"I won't tell anyone." he gasps out, crying and drooling like a liveborn. His sobbing pierces into my brain, and clouds the world until only my arm, feeling for the edge of the bin, exists.

My body moves to the left, and the world comes crashing back when I see the girl peeking out from a window.

Hurry, President Prodida!

Though it’s no use, the girl’s probably been there the entire time.

My fingers find the smooth seam of the massive bin, and as my body turns away, my eyes glance back. Into the darkness, not at him. But I see him anyway, he’s still. I feel hollow, as my hip sockets churn, and run me far away.

She'll report you.

Add a Comment

Sorry I wasn't here yesterday, I got wrapped up in doing my taxes and it slipped my mind. This is an interesting one, but could be stronger, I think.

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 engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
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.

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.

Rebecca sends the first chapter of a paranormal fantasy, Snake Safety 101. The rest follows the break.

The dreaded polygraph test. My last obstacle to becoming a police officer. I sat in the waiting room, plain tile on the floor, posters meant to educate participants displayed on the plain walls. The air conditioning blasted at me but couldn’t cool my nerves. I’d barely passed the background check. A drug dealer’s kid had a hard time joining the police force, but that’s all I’d wanted since I was sixteen and freshly rescued from my own stupidity.

I’d disclosed my drug use on the pretest. If only I hadn’t been an idiot as a teenager. I’d tried to fit in with my friends. It didn’t work. They got high. I didn’t, but not for lack of trying. I’d stagger, or laugh at the stupidest things along with my friends, but it was all an act on my part. A great big lie. Yup, and here I was lined up for a polygraph test.

“Sarah?” A middle aged man with laugh lines at the corners of his eyes called my name.

I jumped up. “Here, sir.”

He tugged at his collar as if his tie was too tight and waved me through a door, down a hall, and into a small room. The officer who monitored the proceedings sat behind a window in an adjacent room.

“Sit there.” He pointed to a chair that looked similar to one used by clinics to draw blood.

“Okay,” I said. “This is my first polygraph…”

“Then you’ll be happy to know it only bites first timers.” He winked. “Next time you’ll (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

There’s a lot to like about this opening page. Good writing, clear and likable voice, and a definitely interesting character. There is a story question—will she pass—and consequences—if she doesn’t, she won’t be a cop. But is that enough to make it compelling. I’ll confess to being ambivalent about it. Interested? Yes. Compelled?

What follows in the chapter uses the questions in the interview to give us some good backstory . . . but still, I wonder if the first page couldn’t be stronger. I’m going to cobble together narrative from later in the story to see if you think it’s stronger, but first a brief note—I wouldn’t include the man tugging at his collar. It seems to be a touch of overwriting, detail that just doesn’t matter to the story.

So here’s an alternative opening. As you’ll see, I think it should start with the polygraph test already in progress. A second poll follows.

The dreaded polygraph test. My last obstacle to becoming a police officer. A drug dealer’s kid had a hard time joining the police force, but that’s all I’d wanted since I was sixteen.

Just tell the truth. That’s what the officers I’d talked to said. Lots of them had done drugs as teenagers and passed. And I’d disclosed my drug use on the pretest. Now here I was, wired to a machine, an officer watching through a window to a room next door.

The technician finally popped the big question. “Have you ever used drugs?”

My pulse shot up. “Yes.”

“When was the last time you used anything?”

“I quit when I was sixteen. But a year ago, I was at a party and someone spiked the punch with synthetic THC. If I’d known, I would have dumped the stuff out.”

He looked at me. “The party where a dozen people were hospitalized and several died?”

“Yes.” I prayed they wouldn’t count that time against me.

He frowned at his screen. “Did you become ill?”

“No.”

His eyebrows rose. “How much punch did you drink?”

“A Solo cup.”

He shook his head. “No way. Three others drank that much and they’re dead.” He fiddled (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page with this as the opening?

For me, this opening raises stronger questions and clearly puts her in jeopardy of failing the test. I had to wonder why she didn’t die. Instead of telling the reader about not being affected by drugs up front as the original opening does, let us discover it through the grilling she’s going through.

Your thoughts?

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.
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.

Continued:

. . . be safe.”

I smiled to let him know his attempt at making me relax was appreciated.

He handed me a set of wires. “Connect these around your chest.”

I did, the pressure reminding me of Gerald and his snake. I held my breath, freezing in place like I used to. Like he’d demanded me to. They’re dead. They’re both dead. It’s only wires. I breathed deep and forced the memories from my mind, but not before a trickle of sweat dripped between my breasts.

The technician didn’t seemed to notice my almost panic. I’d been working for years to abolish them, and when one did creep up on me, I was better at hiding them.

He wrapped sensors to my fingers, and put a blood pressure cuff on my arm. I rubbed my free clammy palm on my dress slacks.

He looked at his screen and must have been satisfied. “Here we go. What is your name?”

“Sarah Anne Tierney.”

“What is your address?”

“614 Mountain View, Denver, Colorado, 80216.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

He watched his screen. “Very good. We’re all set for the important questions. Remember, answer as fully and truthfully as possible.

I nodded.

“Have you ever stolen from an employer?” All business, he looked at me through the bottom of his bifocals. The list of questions I’d answered on the pre-test lay beside him.

“No.” Employees had stolen from Mom’s restaurant. It always left me steaming mad and sometimes cost us a lot of money.

After a dozen questions relating to workplace honesty, he asked about sexual abuse and pornography. No, I’d never raped anyone. I was lucky Gerald had had a ‘favorite’, so I hadn’t been raped. Some of the older gang members had sold dirty pictures, but I didn’t. And I’d never traded sex for drugs. The pretest had given me a heads-up about the questions. So far I’d been able to keep steady.

He asked, “Have you ever used drugs?”

My pulse shot up. “Yes.” Just tell the truth. That’s what the officers I’d talked to said. Lots of them had done drugs as teenagers and passed.

“Which drugs have you taken?”

“I used marijuana lots. Cocaine, once. LSD, once. Mushrooms, once. Heroin five times.”

“When was the last time you used anything?”

“The last time I deliberately used a drug was when I was sixteen. But then, a year ago, I was at a party and someone secretly spiked the punch with synthetic THC. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have had any. If I’d known, I would have dumped the stuff out.”

The technician looked at me for the first time since he sat down. “The party where a dozen people were taken to the hospital and several died?”

“Yes.” I prayed they wouldn’t count that time against me.

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Yes.” I fidgeted, aware of the mild untruth of that particular answer. It wasn’t even a question. Why did I say anything.

He peered at his screen with a puzzled frown.

I should have kept my mouth shut. Damn, it must have registered as a lie, since I wasn’t in danger when I drank the punch.

“Did you become ill?”

“No.”

“How much punch did you drink?” he asked.

I shrugged. “A cup.”

“An eight ounce cup?”

“A Solo cup.”

He coughed. “No way. Three others drank that much and they’re dead.” His eyes widened. He fiddled with a setting, and exchanged a glance with the frowning officer behind the glass.

“I know,” I said. “It was terrible. I’d love to find the person who did it and send them to jail for a long time.”

He shifted sideways, pulled a green bandana from his pocket, and dabbed it on his forehead. “How did you survive?”

My stomach roiled. If I told the truth, he wouldn’t believe me no matter what his machine says. If I lied, he’d know that too. “Uhh…” I swallowed hard. “Drugs don’t affect me. Neither does alcohol. I don’t know why.”

“Hmmm.” He checked the wires connecting me to the machine. After re-sticking one with more gel, he said, “Please remove your shoes and socks”

“My… why?”

“Sometimes people wear tacks in their shoes to create pain and give abnormal readings.”

Not good. I slipped off my sandals and knee-length hose.

He patted the soles of my feet then sat again. “Keep both hands where I can see them.”

My right had been tied to his wires, my left on my lap—in plain sight.

“How did you use heroin?”

“Injected it.” I rubbed my forehead. Why was I so stupid back then?

“Are you completely recovered from your addiction?”

“I…I wasn’t addicted.”

His lips flattened. “Did you attend a rehabilitation facility?”

“No. I took heroin five times and it never affected me once. I know it sounds strange, but…”

“No one only takes it five times.”

His tone scraped my nerves. I wanted to slap him, but kept my hands folded nicely in my lap.

“How did you recover from the use of heroin?” He looked at me down his nose with a scowl on his face.

“I just stopped. I tried to get my friends to stop too. It was horrible how it took their minds so that all they wanted was more. It’s scary stuff.” Memories of Gerald’s gang that I was forced to become a member of flooded back and I clenched my fist to keep it from shaking. Stay in control. He’s dead.

The technician frowned. “You quit heroin without help?”

“Yes.”

“So neither heroin nor synthetic THC affect you?”

“That’s correct. But all that was before I was sixteen. I’ve straightened out since then.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you’ve never taken a polygraph test before?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

He asked a variation of the same questions dozens of times.

My hopes cascaded to the bottom of a pit. “Is it saying I’m telling the truth?”

“Yes.” He shrugged with a jerk. He didn’t look at me and his face seemed tight and pinched.

A knock sounded at the door. The officer from the window poked his head in. “That’s enough. We have what we need.”

The technician nodded.

The officer retreated and the door slammed closed.

“Disconnect yourself, Miss Tierney,” the technician said.

I took the wires off, and pulled on my nylon socks and sandals. “Did I pass?”

He glanced at his screen, then at me. “I don’t appreciate being played with. And this…” He waved at the screen. “Was a farce.”

“You’re failing me?”

“Yes.” He stared at me. His eyebrows almost met in the middle.

“Why? Everything I told you was the truth.” I’d spent too much time working toward this goal. Besides, I’d promised. And the person I’d promised to was also dead. There wasn’t any other option. “If it’s about my nonexistant reactions to drugs or alcohol, I can prove it.”

“Impossible. No one has a complete immunity to drugs.” He wiped his forehead again. “You’re a pathological liar. It’s the only explanation.”

No way I’d show him my tears. I spun and marched to the door with my chin held high. We’d see about this.

Add a Comment

Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, It seemed to me that it could be educational to take a hard look at their first pages. If you don’t know about BookBub, it’s a pretty nifty way to try to build interest in your work. The website is here.

I’m mostly sampling books that are offered for free—BookBub says that readers are 10x more likely to click on a book that’s offered for free than a discounted book. Following is the first page and a poll. Then my comments follow, along with the book cover, the author’s name, and a link so you can take a look for yourself if you wish. At Amazon you can click on the Read More feature to get more of the chapter if you’re interested. There’s a second poll concerning the need for an editor.

Should this author have hired an editor? Here’s the prologue from a novel by Liliana Hart.

My life was a disaster.

I sat in my car with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and watched the rain pound against the windshield. I was soaked to the skin, my skirt was ripped, and blood seeped from both knees. There were scratches on my arms and neck, and my face was blotchy and red from crying. Along with the external wounds, I’d lost a good deal of my sensibilities, most of my faith in mankind, and all of my underwear somewhere between a graveyard and a church parking lot.

I’ll explain later. It’s been a hell of a day.

My name is Addison Holmes, no relation to Sherlock or Katie, and if God has any mercy, he’ll strike me with lightning and end it all. I’ve had a job at the McClean Detective Agency for exactly six days. It’s been the longest six days of my life, and I’ll be lucky if I live to see another six. Unspeakable things, things you’d never imagine have happened to me in six days.

Now I faced the onerous task of telling Kate McClean, my best friend and owner of the McClean Detective Agency, how I’d botched a simple surveillance job and found a dead body. Another dead body.

I should have kept my job as a stripper.

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Did this writer need an editor? My notes and a poll follow.

I’m delighted to see another prologue that works. In fact, I downloaded this book to read. The voice is clear and likeable, the writing crisp and clean. All of which promise a pro at the wheel, but then there’s the clincher—these 16 lines of narrative are packed with story questions. This opening gets a happy Yes! from me.

Should this writer have hired an editor?

Your thoughts?

Ray

Add a Comment

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 engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
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.

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.

David sends the prologue and first chapter of a story for grade-schoolers, The Red Path. The rest follows the break.

Prologue:

The boy-with-no-name wandered alone in the wilderness for three days, waiting for the vision the elders had said would come. He was weak from fasting and his skin burned beneath the summer sun.

“I can walk no further,” said the boy-with-no-name. “I will sit and wait for my vision to come.”

He was about to sit down on a large flat rock when he heard a rattle. He looked down to see a snake, coiled on the ground in the shade of the rock.

“Watch where you’re sitting!” hissed Rattlesnake.

“I’m sorry,” said the boy-with-no-name. “I am very tired. I’m just going to sit on this rock for a while.”

“This is my rock. Go sit someplace else and don’t bother me.”

“Oh, I won’t bother you. I will just sit and wait for my vision to come.”

“Have it your way,” said Rattlesnake, and bit him on the leg.

The boy-with-no-name fell to the ground and Rattlesnake disappeared under his rock.

Once the poison reaches my heart, thought the boy-with-no-name, my body will become a corpse, then a meal for the birds and the four-leggeds.

The boy-with-no-name closed his eyes and lay completely still.

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Chapter 1:

Every house looked pretty much the same on the street where Joel Zemeckis lived. There were, after all, only four models to choose from. Despite fancy names like Casa del Sol and El Palacio, they were all one-story ranch-style houses, either three bedrooms or four, with a sliding glass door that opened to the back yard. Acres of orange groves had been bulldozed over during the nineteen-sixties to build housing tracts identical to this one, with two spindly trees planted in every front yard. Now the sixties were over, the orange groves were gone, and the seventies were just beginning.

Bonita Vista Drive was one of those streets in one of those housing tracts where everything was new but nothing new ever seemed to happen. Even the Indian attack that summer at 392 Bonita Vista did not come as a complete surprise. In fact, the Zemeckis front lawn had been the battleground for repeated skirmishes all year.

“There they are, the white devils,” Joel whispered to his war party, hiding behind the hedge that separated the Warren’s front yard from his own. His brother Bruce and his friends were divided into two teams, facing off against each other on the Zemeckis front lawn, battling for the Super Bowl Championship of the neighborhood.

They think their helmets and shoulder pads are so great, thought Joel, but they look like bobble-head dolls. They’re a joke and they don’t even know it.

Were you compelled to turn the chapter's first page?

While I’m generally not included to go for prologues, I thought this one worked well. The “legend” style of the storytelling was done well, and there is the story question of what will happen to boy-with-no-name. From our acquaintance with this kind of folk legend, we know it will be momentous.

The first chapter was well written, has a good voice, and opens with a lively scene to introduce a likable character. So far so good. There’s impending conflict, too, in the game that’s being played. Perhaps this is intended as bridging conflict to get us to the rest of the story. But it’s just play. There are no serious stakes at hand in this game as far as we can see. There is a relationship to the prologue with the Indian theme of the boys’ costumes, but that’s about it.

Also, the introductory paragraphs strongly resemble an “info dump” and are clearly not in the voice or from the point of view of the child in the story. It’s the grown-up author delivering a bit of a message along with some scene-setting. It does not, in my view, contribute to creating tension in the reader. It fails to immerse me in the experience of the character right away, and I think that would be especially necessary in a story for younger grades.

While the rest of the chapter is fun, it boils down to all setup. We end the chapter not knowing what the story is really about or how the legendary character in the prologue figures in.

Even though grade-schoolers might enjoy the way the chapter opens with play conflict, I think it would be much stronger if it was the real story. David, I suggest you take a look at starting later, much closer to the inciting event. The family moving because of the dad’s job is not the inciting incident for Joel’s story.

Your thoughts?

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.
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.

Continued from prologue:

If I never return home, the elders will know I have failed in my quest.

A shadow fell over his face and he opened his eyes.

Straight down swooped Eagle!

He grabbed the boy-with-no-name in his talons and lifted him up. He had enormous black wings with white tips and white tail feathers. Each thrust of Eagle’s powerful wings carried them higher and higher above the earth.

The boy-with-no-name shouted to Eagle, “What are you doing? I am not dead yet!”

“You were not moving,” Eagle said. “You looked dead to me.”

“Well I’m not! I’m alive, so I wish you would put me down.”

“It’s a long way down from here,” said Eagle, as he carried the boy-with-no-name far above the ground.

“What can I do up here in the sky? I am two-legged and live on the ground.”

“On the ground you cannot even see where you are going. Up here you can see clearly in every direction,” Eagle pointed out.

“I am on my vision quest, that is how we two-leggeds on the ground find our way. So please put me back down.”

“Have it your way,” said Eagle, and let go.

The boy-with-no-name fell from the sky. Spiraling towards the earth he could see his village below, the home of his family, the home of his tribe and the home his ancestors. But the river was red—teepees on fire—and the bodies of his mother and father, the bodies of his tribe lay motionless on the ground.

Suddenly the earth rose up to meet him and everything went black.

###

When the boy-with-no-name awoke the sun was low and the shadows were growing long.

I have died and come back to earth. I must return home.

The boy-with-no-name ran back across the desert, through ravines filled with greasewood trees and up along the high bluffs that led to home. When he came to the river, the river was not red; he saw the poles of teepees in the distance, beyond the manzanita, and when he finally reached camp and saw the faces of his mother and his sister and his father and his little brother, tears of happiness ran down his cheeks.

It was late when the tribal council met that night. The boy-with-no-name did not speak of what had happened or what he had seen.

“It is sacred and cannot be shared,” a voice inside him said.

The boy-with-no-name said to the elders that night, “I will be your messenger—to the world below and to the world above.”

“Ho-ka-hey!” the men in the circle shouted.

From that day on, the boy-with-no-name could travel high above the earth to see into the future, and use the medicine of the earth to heal his two-legged brothers and sisters. He was no longer the boy-with-no-name. From that day on, he was known as Snake Feather.

Ho-ka-hey!

CHAPTER ONE

A New Path

Every house looked pretty much the same on the street where Joel Zemeckis lived. There were, after all, only four models to choose from. Despite fancy names like Casa del Sol and El Palacio, they were all one-story ranch-style houses, either three bedrooms or four, with a sliding glass door that opened to the back yard. Acres of orange groves had been bulldozed over during the nineteen-sixties to build housing tracts identical to this one, with two spindly trees planted in every front yard. Now the sixties were over, the orange groves were gone, and the seventies were just beginning.

Bonita Vista Drive was one of those streets in one of those housing tracts where everything was new but nothing new ever seemed to happen. Even the Indian attack that summer at 392 Bonita Vista did not come as a complete surprise. In fact, the Zemeckis front lawn had been the battleground for repeated skirmishes all year.

“There they are, the white devils,” Joel whispered to his war party, hiding behind the hedge that separated the Warren’s front yard from his own. His brother Bruce and his friends were divided into two teams, facing off against each other on the Zemeckis front lawn, battling for the Super Bowl Championship of the neighborhood.

They think their helmets and shoulder pads are so great, thought Joel, but they look like bobble-head dolls. They’re a joke and they don’t even know it.

But their helmets made them faceless, and without faces they were soulless, and because they were soulless they could not be trusted, and because they could not be trusted it was no joke.

“They are the enemy of our people,” Joel whispered to the brave on his left.

Mikey was the oldest of the kids Joel had enlisted into his tribe, and he was only six and a half. Joel was turning nine in the fall, and many summers had passed since he first played make-believe with kids his own age. After they lost interest, a younger group joined in, but they eventually moved on to sports and other stuff, too. Now he had a new war party.

Joel was the only one with a complete Indian outfit. It was made of deerskin and had a beaded chest. His headband was also beaded, and it held in place a single feather in the back. He loved wearing moccasins, and it bugged him that Mikey and the little kids wore tennis shoes. He ordered them to go barefoot, but their moms wouldn’t let them.

Bruce didn’t care if he was the enemy of the red man; all he cared about as he stood behind center was hitting Glen on a down-and-out route to the end zone at the driveway.

“Hutt one, hutt two...” Bruce began counting. He had heard the pros do it like that. He looked at his receivers on each side and continued his count. “Hutt three… ”

Behind the hedge, Joel adjusted his black-framed glasses and then placed a rubber-tipped arrow across his bow. He fit the notched end of the arrow into the bowstring and slowly drew it back, his right hand next to the red and white stripes on his cheek. It pained Joel to wear his glasses along with war paint, but he couldn’t see a thing without them. He looked to his left and then to his right; four braves on one side and three on the other, each with a rubber-tipped arrow ready to fly. Joel looked down the shaft of his arrow and focused his sights on Bruce’s big red helmet.

“Hutt four, hutt—”

An arrow struck Bruce’s helmet and stuck. Two more bounced off his shoulder pads, others hit the ground around the players on the field.

Joel led the charge through the hedge with a whooping war cry. The pint-sized Indians rushed the field and jumped on the football players, stabbing them with rubber knives, climbing on their backs and generally messing up the final seconds of the Super Bowl Championship. The battle raged on the Zemeckis’ front lawn until Mom came out the front door and onto the porch.

“Okay, kids, break it up!” She held up a white plastic device, “Joel, you forgot your inhaler.”

Two arrows sticking up from Bruce’s helmet were waving around like feelers on an insect. He pointed at Joel and laughed.

“Hey, Pocahontas, your mom’s calling!”

Joel launched himself at Bruce, but he was no match for his big brother and quickly found himself on the ground with his glasses hanging from one ear.

“Come in and get cleaned up,” Mom said. “Dinner is ready.”

Football players and Indians scattered as Joel stood up and put back on his glasses.

Another defeat at the hands of the Whites.

###

Shoulder pads and war paint were normally not acceptable at the dinner table, but Mom had other things on her mind tonight. When Joel sat down at the table he was thinking how cool his deerskin outfit was. He loved the creamy color of the hide and the fresh sweet scent it gave off; it felt natural and alive, unlike the wrinkle-free pants and shirts that Mom bought him to wear to school; and it was soft, and felt so good against his skin that he wished he could wear it all the time.

Dad, as usual, was thinking about a math problem when he sat down at the head of the table, punching numbers into a pocket calculator he held in front of his face. Dad always wore a long-sleeved white shirt and a skinny black tie. The only variation was sometimes he wore a gray tie, and in the summer he wore a short-sleeve shirt; what never varied was the pocket protector in the front left pocket of his shirt.

Bruce sat down wishing he could replay the last thirty seconds of the Super Bowl game—or kill Joel—when Mom came in from the kitchen carrying a platter piled high with drumsticks and chicken breasts. Mom always said she was average, but a better description would be that she was medium: medium height, medium weight, medium brown hair.

Joel’s hair was black and he liked to wear it long, touching his collar in the back, which was the complete opposite of his brother whose hair was blond and always cut short in a crew cut. In fact, Joel was the only one in the family that had black hair. Sometimes, when Mom got really frustrated with him she would throw her hands up and exclaim, “I don’t know where you came from!”

Mom placed the platter in the center of the dinning room table and took her seat. As Joel and Bruce grabbed for the first drumstick she made an announcement:

“Kids, your father and I have something to tell you.”

The boys stopped mid-reach. Dad put down his calculator.

The grave tone in Mom’s voice made Joel’s stomach clench in knot.

“Your father has a new job. He’s going to be working for the Department of Energy,” Mom said proudly.

“Top secret stuff!” chirped Dad.

The knot in Joel’s stomach started to relax.

“But here’s the thing—”

Mom hesitated, and Joel’s stomach knotted up again.

“His new job is in Albuquerque—New Mexico. We’re going to be moving there.”

The boys sat with their jaws hanging slack, and then Bruce wailed, “We can’t move! I’m starting quarterback this year!”

“They have Pop Warner there too,” Mom said. “I’ve already checked into it.”

“But I won’t know anybody.”

“You always make friends. It’s a big change for all of us, but your father’s work is very important.”

Joel didn’t hear much of what Mom had just said, because all he could think about was having to go to a new school and make new friends. Fear flooded his body and he thought he was going to throw up on the platter of fried chicken.

Mom turned to Joel with a cheery look on her face.

“And I know you’ll make new friends too!”

Joel hated it when she put on a fake smile, as if he couldn’t tell what she really thought.

“There’s Serendipitous Fallout,” Dad said gleefully.

Bruce made a face. “Awww… I don’t believe in that stuff.”

There was really nothing to believe in. Serendipitous Fallout was Dad’s expression for an unexpected discovery made during an experiment—a happy accident.

“We’re taking a vacation on the way!”

Bruce lit up—but it did nothing to relieve the dread Joel was feeling.

“Hawaii?” Bruce asked.

“That’s not on the way,” said Mom.

“Disneyland?”

“No, not Disneyland.”

“We’re going to the Four Corners,” Dad broke in.

There was dumbfounded silence at the Zemeckis dinner table—so Dad continued:

“It’s the only place in the United States where four states—Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico—meet at a single point!”

Bruce groaned.

“Tell them what we’re going to do,” urged Mom.

“We’re going to visit some ancient Indian ruins—a place where Indians lived over a thousand years ago.”

Joel perked up. “Indians?”

“Give me a break,” Bruce said to no one in particular.

“Will we get to see some real Indians?” Joel asked.

“There aren’t any Indians living there anymore,” said Mom, “it’s a national park, called Mesa Verde.”

“We will be driving through Indian country,” Dad said. “It’s logical to assume we could see some in their modern habitat.”

“Which tribes?” Joel was out of his seat, fears about making new friends temporarily forgotten.

Dad had a distant look on his face while he retrieved the information…

“Navajo, Hopi, Ute —”

“Apache?”

Dad smiled at Joel. “Apache, too.”

“Don’t get too excited,” said Mom. “They live the same as we do now. They don’t live in teepees anymore.”

“I just want to see some real Indians. “Joel was jumping up and down. “Can we camp out?”

“We’ll see. We only have two days there; your dad starts work that Monday.”

Dad picked up his calculator.

“I've done some calculations: If we drive through the desert at night to beat the heat, and maintain an average speed of sixty-five miles-per-hour, allowing two hours for rest stops and refueling, we can make it to the Four Corners in fourteen hours and forty-seven minutes.”

“This is so great!” Joel shouted, bouncing around the room.

Bruce shook his head. “Serendipitous Fallout, my butt.”

It was only a matter of weeks before the movers had packed up the Zemeckis’ furniture and departed for their new home in Albuquerque. That same night, Joel and Bruce and Mom and Dad piled into the family station wagon and drove down Bonita Vista Drive for the last time. With Dad behind the wheel, Mom seated next to him in the front and the boys in the back, they all set off for the Four Corners at the exact rate of sixty-five miles-per-hour. If Dad’s calculations were right, they would arrive at Mesa Verde at 1447 hours the next day, which, for non-atomic scientists, is 2:47 p.m.

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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 engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
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.

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.

Deborah sends the prologue of Vision. The rest follows the break.

Jackhammer heavy rain was pounding the concrete moat surrounding our normally safe Brooklyn brownstone when Lara shook me out of a deep sleep.

”Jack, did you hear that? Is Shelby sleepwalking again?” As I stumbled out of bed and hurried down the hall in her wake, I tried to remember if I’d locked the gate we’d put at the top of the stairs when we first found Shelby sleepwalking.

We tiptoed into our daughter’s room and saw her in her bed, her long lashes dusting the cheeks of her cherubic face.

“Must’ve been the storm,” I said through a yawn.

I took my wife’s hand and started back to our room when a floorboard creaked downstairs. Panic tore through me as I realized an intruder was in the house.

We scrambled back into Shelby’s room to hide. As I scooped my daughter up her eyes opened wide with fear. I covered her mouth and Lara held a finger to her lips. When Shelby nodded understanding I pulled my hand back and placed her on the floor behind her canopy bed where we were huddled.

“Stay here, I’m getting my gun,” I whispered. My Glock 17 sidearm was locked in the biometric safe in the master bedroom-like always when I was off the clock.

“Jack, don’t,” Lara said grabbing my sleeve. “What if they hear you? Let them take what (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

This must be my lucky week—here’s another prologue that worked for me. Good action, strong story question, likable characters, all work. However, there are things that could make it stronger. In particular, it would have been much stronger if a paragraph or two from the next page could have been included—and it could have. I’ll show you an alternate created with judicious editing below, after my notes.

Jackhammer heavy rain was pounding the concrete moat surrounding our normally safe Brooklyn brownstone when Lara shook me out of a deep sleep. “Jackhammer” does a fine job of describing heavy, intense, loud rain, no need for “heavy.”

”Jack, did you hear that? Is Shelby sleepwalking again?” As I stumbled out of bed and hurried down the hall in her wake, I tried to remember if I’d locked the gate we’d put at the top of the stairs when we first found Shelby sleepwalking.

We tiptoed into our daughter’s room and saw her in her bed, her long lashes dusting the cheeks of her cherubic face. “Saw her” is a filter that distances the reader. Give the direct experience. Eg. We tiptoed into our daughter’s room. She slept in her bed, her long lashes etc.

“Must’ve been the storm,” I said through a yawn.

I took my wife’s hand and started back to our room when a floorboard creaked downstairs. Panic tore through me as I realized an intruder was in the house. Credibility issue here. I don’t believe you could hear a creak through “jackhammer” rain. In addition, why have the heavy rain at all? As it turns out, the rain doesn’t impact the story in any way, so it’s a waste of words, IMO. And it’s not credible. Also, I don’t know that panic tearing through him is needed, especially when it turns out that he’s a cop. Just having the reader learn that there’s an intruder will give them the fright emotion needed.

We scrambled back into Shelby’s room to hide. As I scooped my daughter up her eyes opened wide with fear. I covered her mouth and Lara held a finger to her lips. When Shelby nodded, understanding I pulled my hand back and placed her on the floor behind her canopy bed where we were huddled. Why would they go there with the intention of hiding in that particular room. It turns out there are better options. Have them go back to get the child, yes, but hide there? Why? The attic, it turns out, is very close. The highlighted "her" could be read as Shelby's lips, not the mother's--a clarity issue that should be fixed. And there’s a staging problem. You need to show them going behind the bed, not tell us after the fact. For example. When Shelby nodded understanding, we huddled behind her canopy bed and I placed her on the floor.

“Stay here, I’m getting my gun,” I whispered. My Glock 17 sidearm was locked in the biometric safe in the master bedroom-like always when I was off the clock. A bit of an info dump not needed here. Getting the gun is important, the rest is not.

“Jack, don’t,” Lara said grabbing my sleeve. “What if they hear you? Let them take what (snip) I’m against participle (“ing”) construction when simple past tense is stronger, eg. Lara whispered, “Jack, don’t.” She grabbed my sleeve. “What if they hear you . . .etc.

Here’s a reconstructed first page that includes the paragraphs from the next page that I’d like to see here. A poll follows:

Lara shook me out of a deep sleep. ”Jack, did you hear that? Is Shelby sleepwalking again?” As I stumbled out of bed and hurried down the hall in her wake, I tried to remember if I’d locked the gate we’d put at the top of the stairs when we first found Shelby sleepwalking.

We tiptoed into our daughter’s room. She slept in her bed, her long lashes dusting the cheeks of her cherubic face.

I took my wife’s hand and started back to our room when a floorboard creaked downstairs. An intruder was in the house.

We scrambled back into Shelby’s room. As I scooped my daughter up, her eyes opened wide with fear. I covered her mouth and Lara signaled silence with a finger to her lips. When Shelby nodded, I placed her on the floor behind her canopy bed.

I told Lara, “Stay here, I’m getting my gun,”

Lara whispered, “Jack, don’t.” She grabbed my sleeve. “What if they hear you? Let them take what they want and leave.”

Shelby said, “Daddy please stay here. Don’t you remember what happened when I was your mommy and you were my little boy?”

“When do you mean?” Her timing sucked, but when my gifted daughter remembered something from a past life I needed to hear it before she forgot.

Is this a stronger opening?

Your thoughts? See where this story goes after the fold.

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.
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.

Continued:

. . . they want and leave.”

Why the hell didn’t I grab my gun before I ran in here? Someone who’d break into an occupied house in the middle of the night would have no problem killing. I should’ve gone for it as soon as I realized someone was in the house.

“Daddy please stay here. Don’t you remember what happened when I was your mommy and you were my little boy?” my daughter asked.

“Shelby, not now,” Lara hissed, too scared to hide her irritation. She released my shirt and leaned back against the bed, dropping her face into her hands. A blink of lightning followed by a deafening clap of thunder made us flinch. Lara shivered in her gauzy nightgown.

“When do you mean?” Her timing sucked, but when my gifted daughter remembered something from a past life I needed to hear it before she forgot.

“It was in that big hurricane. A lady crashed into a tree along the river and her car was flooding fast. You were so brave, but while you were helping a big branch fell on your head and you got swept down the river. When we found you, you weren’t moving. Your face was all blue and your head was bleeding. They hadn’t invented CPR yet Daddy. You died.”

“This is totally different Shelby. The person downstairs is gonna hurt us if I don’t do something.”

“It’s not different. You’re a courageous soul Daddy, but you always die young. Please don’t go, I want you to live a long life this time,” A chill snaked its way up my spine.

“Shelby, what’re you talking about? Daddy fights bad guys every day and he’s never gotten hurt,” Lara said massaging her temples. As usual, she chose to ignore that Shelby wasn’t talking about who I was now, but who I was in former life.

“Okay, that’s enough. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Go through the closet into the attic. Close the door and don’t make a sound. I’m getting the gun,” I said.

“No Jack, you come too.” Lara said clutching my bicep.

“You know I can’t do that. Whoever’s downstairs expects someone to be here—both cars are out front. He’ll keep looking until he finds us. Plus, if this is work-related he’ll expect to see me. You two get to safety. Don’t make a sound and don’t open the door no matter what you hear. I’ll get the gun and we’ll be fine. I know what I’m doing.”

The first step on the staircase squeaked. Lara’s terror-filled eyes met mine and I pointed to the closet. As I squeezed them together in a quick hug that I hoped wasn’t a final goodbye, I could feel Shelby’s small body trembling.

As they made it through the closet and closed the attic door I heard the first step give again. So, there were at least two. Dammit. There was no way I’d make it to my gun.

I scanned the room looking for another weapon. There wasn’t much to choose from. Shelby wasn’t exactly an athlete, no baseball bats or lacrosse sticks here. The best I could find was a baton. I grabbed Shelby’s bedazzled phone from her desk and texted my partner Sam to send help. With no other option, I snatched up the parade baton, streamers and all seconds before the intruder came into the room with his gun drawn.

I came from behind the door and smashed him on the side of his fleshy shaved head. He howled, grabbing his temples with his meaty hands and dropping his pistol onto the shaggy fuchsia carpet. I lunged for it. Baldy grunted, and dove for it too with all the grace of an elephant tipping over.

We collided, rolling across the floor, and crashed against the dresser. Toys and awards rained down. He avoided the downpour, landing a punch to my chin that made my vision blur and I fell backwards unfortunately just missing a pillow and landing on top of a Rubix’s Cube. As I rolled off the sharp toy digging into my back a glint of metal under the bed caught my eye. It was the gun. I reached for it but Baldy grabbed my ankles and pulled me back just as my fingertips grazed the cool metal.

I picked up a trophy from the debris on the floor as I slid away from the gun and hit him hard on his ear. Blood trickled down his flabby jawline. He punched me in the gut and bounced across the bed and onto the floor where he snagged the gun. I sprang up and came at him low, my head impacting his gut.

We struggled for control and fell, rolling around until I found myself straddled on top of his hulking form, the commandeered gun in my hands. I took aim at my adversary who was bucking like a bronco, and fired, hitting him right between the eyes.

The loud crack behind me a second later sounded too close for thunder. I was confused, until I coughed and saw blood spurting from my mouth. As I tumbled forward and rolled off my victim onto my back, I looked up at the second assailant, his unmasked face familiar. His blond hair was greasy and his jeans were filthy. He smiled and kicked me. As I groaned in pain, staring into his eyes, crazed with passion, I knew I wasn’t going to see tomorrow.

“I know I’ll find you again someday,” I thought of my family, and as my assassin pulled the trigger again, it went dark.

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Apologies for not posting last Friday--my daughter and my two grandchildren came for a visit and I was happily wrapped up in family. I'm not sorry, just apologetic. Now, on to the flog!

Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, It seemed to me that it could be educational to take a hard look at their first pages. If you don’t know about BookBub, it’s a pretty nifty way to try to build interest in your work. The website is here.

I’m mostly sampling books that are offered for free—BookBub says that readers are 10x more likely to click on a book that’s offered for free than a discounted book. Following is the first page and a poll. Then my comments follow, along with the book cover, the author’s name, and a link so you can take a look for yourself if you wish. At Amazon you can click on the Read More feature to get more of the chapter if you’re interested. There’s a second poll concerning the need for an editor.

Should this author have hired an editor? Here’s the prologue for a novel by Tod Borg.

The big rotary snowblower was parked in the dark at the side of the road where the shoulder had been cleared of snow. The unusual snow removal machine was one of the huge ones, built on a double-engine chassis, designed for clearing highways.

The drive engine was idling quietly despite its size. The much larger blower engine was off. Because that engine made so much noise, the operator would fire it up at the last moment.

Three kills. Maybe four or five.

That’s all it would take to get rich.

Three people who were in the way. People who deserved to die.

The money involved was the kind no one could ignore.

Not even a priest.

Not even a saint.

There was some footwork involved, some financial maneuvering, a disguise, a little bit of persuasion. If the killings weren’t all done in the same way, there would be no consistent M.O. to track. If a victim or two couldn’t even be found, better still.

The rotary driver knew from research that most murderers aren’t that careful, yet many are never caught. Which made a careful killer almost impossible to find.

It had taken a week to prepare for the first kill.

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Did this writer need an editor? My notes and a poll follow.

I’m delighted to see a prologue that works. It works because it immerses me into the midst of something happening, a real scene, and it also takes me into the mind of a character. And this character plans to do murder. Coupled with clean, strong writing and voice, how can you resist wanting to know what happens next? I’m downloading this for my Kindle—and it’s free. One little thing—unless using the character’s name would spoil the mystery ahead, I would go ahead and name him. Even killers need to have some aspect of humanity, and names help give that. You can turn the page for more here.

Should this writer have hired an editor?

Your thoughts?

Ray

Add a Comment

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 engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
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.

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.

Shifu sends the first chapter of Cupid Proof. The rest of the chapter follows the break.

“You’re snoring.”

I ignored the words, rolled on my stomach and continued to listen to ‘Girl on Fire’.

“Eve, you can sleep until ten o’clock, but you have to move today.”

“I domnt wamma muv…” I reached out and searched the bed for my blanket. As soon as I could grab it, Mom pulled it away.

I shot a sleepy glare at her and rolled my eyes. I pulled myself off the bed and slumped backwards.

“This comfy bed… Can’t leave…” I pushed a hand under the pile of pillows I abandoned while I was asleep and moaned.

“Eve, this isn’t easy for us either.”

My eyes opened involuntarily and with such suddenness that I felt dizzy. I looked at Mom who had a solemn look on her face.

“I’ll get ready and then we’ll talk okay?” I pulled myself off the bed for a second time. Rubbing my eyes, I walked to the dresser and stared at myself in the mirror.

“Okay.” Mom walked out, closing the door behind her. I continued to stare at myself through the mirror.

“Well, Eve… This is gonna be fun…” I yawned and dragged my groggy feet towards the (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

This opening introduces a teenage girl doing what they do when a parent tries to waken them in a realistic way—though I’m not a girl, I recognize her behavior. My mother used to use a cold wash cloth to shock me out of slumber.

But that’s about it. What’s happening here? A girl gets out of bed. No notion of why, no notion of any problems ahead . . . no hint of a story question. Basically, this chapter is setup and didn’t get around to story questions until the end of the chapter. And, even then, Eve didn’t have any problems to deal with. I think the story starts later.

There were craft issues, too—clarity and overwriting, and those things showed up later in the chapter, too. Notes:

“You’re snoring.” Why not “Wake up?” Telling her she’s snoring isn’t exactly a move to get her out of bed.

I ignored the words, rolled on my stomach and continued to listen to ‘Girl on Fire’.

“Eve, you can sleep until ten o’clock, but you have to move today.” If she can sleep until ten, why is the mother insisting she get out of bed now?

“I domnt wamma muv…” I reached out and searched the bed for my blanket. As soon as I could grab it, Mom pulled it away.

I shot a sleepy glare at her and rolled my eyes. I pulled myself off the bed and slumped backwards. I didn’t understand this action. Is she off the bed or not? To make it clear, something such as . . . and then slumped backwards, back onto the bed.

“This comfy bed… Can’t leave…” I pushed a hand under the pile of pillows I had abandoned while I was asleep and moaned.

“Eve, this isn’t easy for us either.”

My eyes opened involuntarily and with such suddenness that I felt dizzy. I looked at Mom’s who had a solemn expression look on her face. All that about opening her eyes is a bit of overwriting for me—excess detail that doesn’t move story or characterization forward. Just have her open her eyes. Actually, you don't have to have her open her eyes, just saying that she looked at her mom takes care of that.

“I’ll get ready and then we’ll talk okay?” I pulled myself off the bed for a second time. Rubbing my eyes, I walked to the dresser and stared at myself in the mirror. The first time I read this I thought to myself that she hadn’t gotten out of bed—that was due to the lack of clarity in the earlier paragraph.

“Okay.” Mom walked out, closing the door behind her. I continued to stare at myself through in the mirror. No need to repeat the reference to the mirror, we already know she's staring at it.

“Well, Eve… This is gonna be fun…” I yawned and dragged my groggy feet towards the (snip)

Continued:

. . . bathroom.

“I got the freaking internship… with amazing bonuses…” I waved my almost lifeless arms in the air as I said the word “amazing”. I put some toothpaste on my brush and brought it to my mouth.

“Bbyshitta tshree yar olds gonbe fun. Shoomush… foon…”

I was a zombie weirdo in the mornings until I splashed cold water on my face. And I did just that, shuddering as I did.

I walked into the wardrobe, thinking to myself. Am I being too stingy? I was going to be away for a month or two; I should be more generous with my packing. But I was generous! Three huge suitcases were placed by the door. The only things in my dresser were all the black dresses and two gowns Mom bought for me. I stuffed them in a corner of the top cupboard yesterday, so that she wouldn’t know I didn’t bring them along.

If I was going to do this, I will be doing it my way. Woohoo!

I scanned the room, my shoulders slumped. The four blue walls, the white curtains, my comfy bed and my spongy pillows; they still looked welcoming. Nothing much, I thought, since I owned so little compared to most girls I’ve met. But I was still going to miss them. Closing the door behind me, I wiped an imaginary tear from my eyes. Goodbye room. I’ll miss you.

I grabbed a suitcase and pushed it down the staircase, a smug look on my face as the sound of it landing grabbed Mom and Dad’s attention.

“Eve!” Mom looked at me with a horrified look on her face while Dad picked up the suitcase and sighed.

“Why do you hate boys so much?” The seriousness in his voice startled both me and Mom. “I or your brothers haven’t done anything to hurt you.”

Mom sighed and looked at me, and something told me this was a topic frequently discussed between them.

“I dunno, I just don’t.” I shrugged, picking up the suitcase with ‘FRAGILE’ written on it and holding it out for Dad which he grabbed. I took the other suitcase and slid it down the stairs. Dad grabbed it before it landed properly and hoisted it up while I reached downstairs.

“Ready? Is everything set?” Dad patted his jean pockets while I watched Mom put on her designer cross body bag.

“Don’t look at me, Eve. You rejected your gift and gave it to some school kid on your own.”

“I wasn’t adoring your bag Mom. I’m glad I rejected such an expensive, but downright useless thing.” I pointed at my Nike backpack for emphasis.

“It was a gift, for God’s sake!” Mom turned away from us but there was a slight hint of red on her cheeks.

Dad ruffled my hair and chuckled. “She’ll inherit your passion for fashion someday, Hon.”

“God forbid.”

Mom ‘hmphed’, crossing her arms acros her chest and Dad laughed.

“We’ll miss you Eve.”

“I know I will.”

Edinburgh was only an hour’s drive from where we lived. And thankfully, Mom and Dad gave me time to ponder about the world and its existence while I stared outside the window.

Just kidding.

The three of us put on some exotic music and made up senseless lyrics while we sang. At one point, Dad sang something along the lines of ‘Ian and Eve are made for each other’. I decided to ignore it since fighting back would make them think of more absurd ideas.

“Dad, do you really feel that bad about me not being social with guys?”

I felt the car slowing down but an hour was not over yet.

“Not really. Eve, you’re nineteen, and I’d like to see you at least be friends with some guys. You downright reject and shame guys. I feel them, as a man, you know.”

I shrugged. “Sorry Dad.” At least, I apologized. Frankly, I didn’t bother to know why I was so antisocial around boys.

“Don’t think about it. Maybe the time hasn’t come yet.”

Mom giggled.

“Dreeeeeeeeeaam ooooonnnnn!” I sang. Dad laughed before turning up the volume and speeding up.

Whitney Houston’s ‘I will always love you’ was on the radio. I put my hands on my ears. Houston sounded so desperate, it was sickening me.

The sound of the car screeching to a halt rang in my ears as I opened my eyes. As soon as I did, my jaw dropped.

“Is this Birmingham Palace?” I stuck my face to the window glass, hoping to see more.

“Ha-ha, no, it’s the Bryans’ Mansion.”

No way. “Only three people live here?!”

“And a butler and a maid.”

“Next joke please, Dad.”

“He’s not joking.”

I gave Mom a horrified look.

“Don’t worry, love. You won’t get lost. You’ll stay with Mia, in a room close to the entrance.”

Whew.

“There you are, Arthur! Welcome!”

I turned towards the sound and saw a smiling, middle aged man opening the gates and walking towards our car. He was followed by a boy that looked my age and a small girl who clutched a teddy bear in her arms.

Dad got out of the car and the men greeted each other in a warm embrace. Mom got out and walked over to them as well, so I got out too.

“Rina! How nice to meet you!” the man said as he hugged Mom.

“And this is Eve, I presume! You look just like your mother!” He reached out to hug me as well, when I instinctively took a step backwards, putting my hands in front of me. From the corner of my eye, I saw that boy and girl gasp a little and when I looked at Mom and Dad, they were shaking their heads.

“I mean, uh,” I straightened my posture and held out a hand, “Yes, I’m Eve, and thank you, nice to meet you,” He looked slightly baffled but shook my hand anyway.

“Sorry about that, Eddy” Dad whispered to the man, but I heard it faintly. “Eve, this is Mr. Edward Bryan, CEO of BryCO Group of Companies.”

I smiled a bit and nodded my head in acknowledgment. “It’s an honour to be an intern here, Mr. Bryan.”

“Please, call me Eddy.” He smiled, which looked creepy to me.

Sweeping a bead of sweat off his forehead, he said. “Hot weather isn’t it? Jimmy!” A man in his forties rushed out the front door towards Mr. Bryan. “Get Eve’s luggage to her room! And tell Maya to prepare tea for the guests!” Then, he motioned to us. “Let’s go inside.”

As we all followed Mr. Bryan inside the building, I wondered if my time on Earth was coming to an end because something told me it was.

I felt a tug at the edge of my sweater.

It was the kid who was clutching a teddy bear in her hands. “I’m Mia. Nice to meet you.”

Ohh God of the Seven Heavens! She sounded just like little Anna from Frozen.

“Aww, I’m Eve. Nice to meet you too.” I crouched down to her level. “Are you, um, the one I’m going to babysit?”

She giggled, sending a wave of happiness inside me. Her eyes were closed as she grinned. “Mm!”

Kids were so adorable.

“You’re so pretty, Eva!” she reached out to touch my hair and giggled.

“Oh, you’re so cute Mia!” I caught her in a hug, despite my thoughts disagreeing with my statement. Cute she was, right now. Cute she won’t be, later. Kids had little devils inside them. I could already see myself chasing her around the house with a spoon, begging her to take a bite. Or with a diaper, begging her to put them on before she pooped or peed all over the house, which I’d have to clean. I don’t mind cleaning, but I hated begging. What if-

“Are you both going to stand there or are you both coming in? We need to lock the door.”

I shot an instinctive glare at the boy called Ian. He interrupted my thoughts. And he didn’t look pleased either.

“Ian!” Mia slid out of my embrace and ran towards the boy.

I rose to my feet and strode towards them.

“Ian, Eva’s gonna be the prettiest nanny I’ve ever had!” Mia jumped, her loud giggle threatening to burst my eardrums.

“Haa-haa Mia,” I blurted.

Ian shot me a glare to which I responded similarly.

What the hell was wrong with this kid?

“Ian, bring Eva in already! You have all summer to talk and bond with each other!”

I gagged. Ian had a disgusted look on his face. But the people inside were laughing heartily.

“Coming, Daddy!” I watched Mia run inside and I was going to go inside when Ian spoke.

“You’re weird and I don’t like you.”

Ha-ha! What a funny dude!

“Nobody asked for your opinion, Bryan!” I chuckled again as I walked past him into the house.

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Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, It seemed to me that it could be educational to take a hard look at their first pages. If you don’t know about BookBub, it’s a pretty nifty way to try to build interest in your work. The website is here.

I’m mostly sampling books that are offered for free—BookBub says that readers are 10x more likely to click on a book that’s offered for free than a discounted book. Following is the first page and a poll. Then my comments follow, along with the book cover, the author’s name, and a link so you can take a look for yourself if you wish. At Amazon you can click on the Read More feature to get more of the chapter if you’re interested. There’s a second poll concerning the need for an editor.

But wait, there’s more.

And then I’ll give you an alternative opening page edited from narrative later in the chapter to see if it serves better as a page-turner. A poll follows to share what you think. Enjoy.

Should this author have hired an editor? Here’s the first chapter a novel by Russell Blake.

An arid wind blew a beige dust devil down the desolate road that ran from Ramallah to Jenin. Ribbons of orange and crimson streaked the edge of the predawn sky as another long night drew to an end. The young Israeli Defense Force soldiers manning the checkpoint fidgeted near a baffle of sandbags, the final minutes of the graveyard shift fast approaching on a rural thoroughfare that saw little nocturnal traffic.

Maya rubbed a fatigued hand across her face and exchanged a glance with Sarah, her friend and confidante on the lonely duty, and the only other woman on the all-night vigil. Four soldiers, relaxing with their rifles hanging from shoulder slings, stood by the two-story tower that had been erected the prior month to afford a better view of approaching vehicles. A scraggly rooster marched along the sandy shoulder, a solitary visitor on the deserted strip of pavement, its crimson-crowned head bobbing in determination as it strutted to a destination unknown.

“Only ten more minutes,” Maya said, stifling a yawn.

“Not that you’re counting every second or anything, right?” Sarah smiled, her cherubic features and bobbed whiskey-colored hair peeking from under her helmet a stark contrast to Maya, all angles and emerald eyes and black hair.

“Am I that transparent?”

“Why don’t you hit it a little early, and I’ll cover for you? If anyone asks, I’ll say you had (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Did this writer need an editor? My notes and a poll follow.

Pretty good writing and good description to set the scene (though I wouldn’t have “a fatigued hand” in there). This opening does a good job with setup, but what else is there to draw the reader forward? In a sense, this opening relies on reader experience that creates an expectation of trouble ahead if all seems well. But is that strong enough? I suspect it might be for some readers, but it wasn’t for me.

I still want a story question of some kind, not a vague and only possible prospect of trouble ahead. So I’ll offer an alternative. Please answer the editing poll and then see what you think.

Should this writer have hired an editor?

Alternative opening:

Dim headlights approached the checkpoint from the north. The lamps flickered as an ancient red and white ambulance bounced along the rutted asphalt. The Israeli soldiers stiffened as the vehicle coasted to a stop, and Eli joined Sarah at the wooden barricade. The driver rolled the dusty window down and handed his identification papers to Eli.

Eli studied the license and registration in his flashlight’s beam, holding up the identity card and comparing the driver’s leathery countenance to that of the man in the photograph. The driver winced as the beam played across his face, and Eli lowered his flashlight.

“Where are you going?” Eli asked.

“The hospital. We have an injured boy in the back who’s in bad shape.”

“What happened?”

“He fell off a ladder. We think his back might be broken.”

Sarah stared at the passenger. Their eyes locked through the grimy glass, and after a long moment his gaze darted to a blanket on his lap. A butterfly of disquiet fluttered in her stomach, and she gripped her weapon. “I want to search the vehicle,” she said, steel in her voice.

The driver shook his head. “With all due respect, this is a critical case. Minutes count.”

A bead of sweat traced its way from the man’s hairline down his face in spite of the predawn cool. Sarah stepped back and swung the ugly snout of her rifle at the ambulance.

Were you compelled to turn the page with this as the opening?

You can read more here.

Your thoughts?

Ray

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Due to a deficiency of submissions to flog (as in the cupboard is bare), I thought I’d take this opportunity to talk about an opportunity to create story questions that arise from positive events in a story.

In critiquing submissions here on FtQ, I frequently bemoan the lack of any hint of jeopardy for the protagonist that is sufficient to raise a story question. In a sense, the motivation for the story question is fear—fear of failure. But what makes that meaningful is the protagonist’s hopes for success. Without that hope, without that desire, there’s no tension derived from potential failure.

When I talk about hope as a tool for creating tension that stimulates story questions in one of my workshops, the example I speak of is in a romance story. When the heroine meets the man of the story, if the heroine is someone the reader likes the reader immediately fosters the hope that they will get together. But the reader also knows that her hope is likely to be frustrated because of . . .

Expectations. Modern readers, those who have read at least a novel or two, are wise to the ways of storytellers. They know that events will be followed by twists and complications that upend them. The kiss can be followed by a slap. The love letter can be followed by a lawsuit. The promise can be followed by betrayal. Readers anticipate those things, and the “what will happen next” story questions pop right up.

Hidden jeopardy. A terrific way to create story questions is to conceal a threat to the protagonist’s hopes from the character but not from the reader. A character driving down a road on a foggy night isn’t tension-producing . . . unless the reader knows that the road has washed out and there’s a fifty-foot chasm awaiting her that she’ll never see in time.

In my current WIP, Gundown, Jewel has met a man that she has developed a liking for. She has just gotten a new job that she’s excited about, and invites her man, Earl, to come to a public meeting at which her new boss, a man she respects greatly, will be speaking. From the text:

“Maybe you can meet him at this newcomers meeting he wants me to come to. It’s at the park Thursday night.”

His voice sharpened. “The park? Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll take you.”

She smiled at Earl. “It’s a date.”

Earl turned a thoughtful face toward town and said, “Yeah. It’s a date.”

Sounds mundane, right? No tension there. But the reader knows that Earl has vowed to kill the man who is her boss in a public meeting. So there are two layers of meaning in his turning his face toward town and saying it’s a date: Jewel’s innocent interpretation (hope), and the reader’s knowledge of Earl’s intent—which means jeopardy for Jewel if he does what he plans. The story questions arise: will he kill the man? If he does, what will that mean to Jewel? How will it affect her?

So don’t hesitate to inject positive, hopeful events into your protagonist’s life. The reader will expect you to somehow sabotage them and will wonder what happens next, especially if she knows that forces unknown to the character are ready to act to destroy her hope.

For what it’s worth.

Submit your WIP to FtQ for a critique:

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.
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.

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Submissions Needed—None Left in the Queue. 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 engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
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.

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.

Kate sends the first chapter of her science fiction novel, Rust. The rest of the chapter follows the break.

The body lay in the undergrowth as if flung there. Ben’s breath rasped in his throat and his heart pumped faster. His temperature spiked again in reaction. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down into his eyes. He blinked, cursing the sting of it, but it was just sweat this time. Not tears. No more tears. He’d seen too many bodies for that. Shamballah. The joker who named this hellhole of a planet ought to be laser lashed.

‘Got something, Jon,’ he said into his comm unit. ‘Looks like another dead runner.’

Jonathan Milton, in charge since acting captain Sam Chang went down with the Rust fevers, replied after the slightest of pauses. ‘Confirm, Ben. Run a commentary, if you please.’

‘Yessir. Approaching body from the south east. Body is facing north, just … laid out on the ground, face down. Low scrub, scattered trees in this quadrant. There’s a – there’s a cloud of insects of some sort, hovering over it, but nothing’s on the body itself. Body is naked. Female.’ Ben swallowed and stopped for a moment, his laser heavy in his arms. Sweat slid down his neck. The rusting disease was unrelenting. He crept closer, sweeping the nose of his laser in steady arcs around the clearing.

‘Ben? What’s going on?’ Jonathan’s anxiety came clearly across the comm. His voice was taut, strung with the tension that gripped the survivor’s camp.

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Strong writing and a confident voice, and we’re immediately immersed in the now of the story. Kate manages to set the scene and begin building the world of her story without slowing the pace to deliver gobs of description, weaving it through the action, unnoticed. Nice job. And there are definite story questions raised. I turned the page. But it could have been just a little bit crisper. Notes:

The body lay in the undergrowth as if flung there. Ben’s breath rasped in his throat and his heart pumped faster. His temperature spiked again in reaction. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down into his eyes. He blinked, cursing cursed the sting of it, but it was just sweat this time. Not tears. No more tears. He’d seen too many bodies for that. Shamballah. The joker who named this hellhole of a planet ought to be laser lashed. Too many words spent on description for me. Not needed, I think.

‘Got something, Jon,’ he said into his comm unit. ‘Looks like another dead runner.’

Jonathan Milton, in charge since acting the captain Sam Chang went had gone down with the Rust fevers, replied, after the slightest of pauses. ‘Confirm, Ben. Run a commentary, if you please.’ Avoid having too many names right up front.

‘Yessir. Approaching body from the southeast south east. Body is facing north, just … laid out on the ground, face down. Low scrub, scattered trees in this quadrant. There’s a – there’s a cloud of insects of some sort, hovering over it, but nothing’s on the body itself. Body is naked. Female.’ Ben swallowed and stopped for a moment, his laser heavy in his arms. Sweat slid down his neck. The rusting disease was unrelenting. He crept closer, sweeping the nose of his laser in steady arcs around the clearing. Unfortunate echo of facing/face. Maybe “on her belly” or something else?

‘Ben? What’s going on?’ Jonathan’s anxiety came clearly across the comm. His voice was taut, strung with the tension that gripped the survivor’s survivors' camp.

‘Uh, sorry sir, just making sure the coast is clear, sir. Approaching body now. It, uh – (snip)

Your thoughts?

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.
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.

Continued:

. . . she – is not moving that I can see. Pretty sure she’s dead but sir, she looks unharmed. I mean, she’s not – she’s not Rusted, sir.’

‘Explain, Ben.’ Jon’s voice vibrated with impatience and a sort of … hope?

Ben felt a similar stirring. His arms began to tremble. ‘Sir, I – I don’t immediately recognise this, uh, person.’

The comm hissed emptily.

‘Are you able to conduct a close quarter examination of the body? Is the immediate environment clear of threats? No, wait – I’ll send Stanton to cover you. Take guard position, wait for Stanton before you go in.’

‘Yessir. ‘ Ben said again. Habit. Jon was a Contractor, not a Federation officer, but those distinctions had lost their meaning since the crash. He looked around the clearing once more, hearing Jonathan on the open channel order Stanton across to his coordinates. He was half a click away, five minutes or so in these conditions. Cautiously, half an ear out for any sound or movement in the clearing around him, he returned his gaze to the body.

The girl looked like she was asleep. Her skin was smooth and unmarred by the horror of the weeping rust scabs. She gleamed in the low light of the open forest. Almost metallic, Ben thought. Maybe copper, or – or bronze. He tried to bring back long ago lessons in world civilisations. An image of a fierce, hawk-faced man with black hair and red skin flickered across his thoughts, but that wasn’t quite right. He shook his head, and his eyes travelled the length of the woman’s body. Who the hell was she? Her arms were thrown forward, as if begging aid. He could only just see the curve of the left side of her face, her smooth, bald head tucked down between her arms. She looked tall, and strong. Well, anyone would, compared to a camp full of Rusted cripples. Ben snorted and gripped his laser more tightly. What’s taking Stanton so long?

The flying insects weren’t bothering the body but they’d quickly discovered Ben. He swatted at them with his free arm, trying to keep his vision clear. He could feel his own scabs tearing and catching with the awkward movements. Why they bothered with full combat uniform at this stage he didn’t know. It wasn’t going to help them fight the real enemy. A quick death by some ugly beastie sure seemed preferable some nights. Nights when he writhed with white- hot lightning fizzing through his veins and bones and muscles. Nights when his brain lit up with phantom lights and sounds like a goddam vid game. He hadn’t even hit the killing stage of the fevers yet, and still the pain was insane. Mornings he’d wake to a sweat-soaked sleep bag and his god-awful collection of rust scabs. Almost his whole body now. Even his prick. He emitted a mournful note of disbelief as he thought of his crusted penis, the shock he felt every time he released it from his pants for a piss.

‘Ben! That you? You okay, man? I’m just about on you – what’s going on?’ Stanton’s heavy breathing sounded through the comm and snapped Ben back to attention.

‘Nothin’ man, just … this place is creepy. Gotta dead body here even the flies don’t wanna touch, but not a mark on her that I can see.’ Ben heard crashing in the brush to his left and saw Stanton push through at a trot. He swiped bushes out of his way and held his laser steady as he came.

‘Right,’ Stanton huffed. ‘Where is she?’

Ben nodded to where the girl lay.

‘I’ll keep watch, Ben. You go on and have a look,’ Stanton said, his head already swivelling as he scanned the clearing.

‘Keep me in the loop back here,’ Jon snapped, losing patience with being at a distance. ‘Doesn’t either one of you have an operating cam?’

‘Uh, yeah, sorry Jon.’ Ben toggled his cam on, knowing he must be tired, and getting weak, to forget basic procedure like that.

He took the few short steps over to the girl and bent over her, grasped her left shoulder and flipped her onto her back. Her eyes were closed. The bones of her skull and her face were fiercely prominent, elegant. Her expression was blank but she was familiar. I know her ... It’s ... His gaze travelled down and he lost his train of thought. Her breasts were very, very nice. Ben jerked his gaze back up to her face, reddening, knowing Jonathan back at base was noticing him notice what he was noticing. He glanced down again at the length of her body. No marks. Lean, well-muscled build. Long legs. He looked away.

‘I don’t know what got her,’ he said, trying to keep his voice steady. He was still a soldier, goddammit. ‘She’s unmarked. No puncture wounds I can see, no open wounds, no obvious breaks to limbs or spine, in fact I’d say – ’ The girl twitched and Ben stumbled back with a yell and almost fell on his ass.

Stanton swung his laser to her but Ben was in the way. ‘What! What!’ he screamed. ‘Ben! You okay?’ He rushed to Ben, his laser glowing with charge and Ben smashed the barrel of it away.

‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! She’s alive!’

‘Stand down! I repeat, stand down!’ Jonathan shouted through the coms, almost deafening Ben. ‘DO NOT SHOOT TO KILL! Wherever she came from she may have answers for us!’

Stanton stood wide legged, quivering, his laser pointed at the girl, his face white with strain.

Ben scrambled back to the girl’s side, cautiously placing a hand against her throat. ‘She has a pulse, I can feel a pulse!’ Ben said, turning his head to look at Stanton. They both yelled when the girl’s right hand snapped out and grasped Ben’s wrist. He pulled away instinctively but her grasp was steel. She opened her eyes.

‘Holy shit,’ he breathed.

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Oops, got caught up in a couple of book design projects and forgot about this week’s BookBub flogging. So here it is:

Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, It seemed to me that it could be educational to take a hard look at their first pages. If you don’t know about BookBub, it’s a pretty nifty way to try to build interest in your work. The website is here.

I’m mostly sampling books that are offered for free—BookBub says that readers are 10x more likely to click on a book that’s offered for free than a discounted book. Following is the first page and a poll. Then my comments follow, along with the book cover, the author’s name, and a link so you can take a look for yourself if you wish. At Amazon you can click on the Read More feature to get more of the chapter if you’re interested. There’s a second poll concerning the need for an editor.

Should this author have hired an editor? Here’s the first chapter a thriller by Seely James.

Pia Sabel trailed five yards behind Agent Marty, her head of security, as sunlight stabbed between the leaves overhead and the oppressive weight of Washington’s summer pressed in. For the last three days, everything in her life had focused on those who hurled the javelins of power and those impaled on their spikes. In her twenty-five years, she’d grown accustomed to winning, from Buenos Aires to London to Beijing, and had long ago lost patience with anyone or anything that distracted her from her goal. Yet she was walking toward just such a distraction.

Agent Tania followed two yards behind. “You think they’re really going to press charges?”

Pia glanced over her shoulder. “They can’t. The State Department doesn’t have the authority, or the evidence, or any enforcement charter.”

“Then what the hell does State do?”

“Make sure US corporations get foreign contracts, make sure our spies have somewhere to hide, and make sure US travelers stay out of trouble.”

“Foreign contracts? Is that how we won the Algerian deal?”

“The Secretary helped us land that one. That’s the only reason I’m taking this ridiculous meeting.”

They walked up the slight incline in silence. Marty reached the corner, checked both (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Did this writer need an editor? My notes and a poll follow.

Good clean writing, good voice, and we’re opening with a scene. So far so good. But what’s the story question here? We have some “information” questions, which I feel cheat the reader and find irritating: winning what? What goal? What distraction? Press charges for what? Against whom?

The opening paragraph starts with setting the scene pretty well, but it quickly devolves into references to backstory and exposition about the character—all of which, IMO, should have waited until later. Let’s get some story on this page to chew on—are the charges against her? Let us know. What are the consequences of the charges? But the narrative quickly tells us that State can’t press charges, so there’s no problem, right? We need story here and we’re not getting it. Your thoughts?

You can turn the page here.

Edit poll

Should this writer have hired an editor?

Your thoughts?

Ray

Add a Comment

Submissions Needed—Only One in the Queue 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 engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
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.

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.

Anne sends the first chapter of Uncalculated Risks. The rest of the chapter follows the break.

FBI Special Agent TC Atkins’ head ached from the relentless rhythmic pounding of the Seventies club dance music. He stood just inside the double doors of the Roosevelt Ballroom in the Capitol Hotel in Washington, D.C. He’d waited until the function was almost over when no one paid attention to who entered the ballroom. He came tonight out of curiosity.

So this was a high society charity gala. What the wealthy did on Saturday nights. The rich invited their peers to a party where they dined, danced, and then opened their checkbooks to benefit some good cause

The gala was being held by the Declan and Elizabeth Logan Foundation. He wanted to get a look at Elizabeth Logan—size her up without her knowing—before he formally met with her on Monday. The FBI White Collar Division had opened an investigation on the Logan Foundation. It was alleged that funds were being stolen and Elizabeth Logan was the foundation administrator.

He scanned the room and saw middle-aged fashionably dressed people, old enough to have made lots of money, and still young enough to want to dance to that Seventies disco crap. He marveled at everyone’s perfect tans even though it was only the beginning of June.

The music stopped. TC heard a faint tapping noise which became more audible as the room quieted. Here come the obligatory speeches. He walked into the room and joined the one (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Clean writing here, and we’re in an immediate scene, all good. But we spend a fair amount of time with setting and not much on story. I think it needn’t take as much to set up a gala event in a ballroom. We can fill most of that in, I think. What I’d like to see is a strong story question but, for this reader, there isn’t one. This scene is used to introduce the woman and her husband, primarily.

The chapter goes on to a meeting between Elizabeth and TC after more setup. I suggest taking a look at starting the chapter much later and getting to the heart of the issue as soon as possible, preferably on the first page. Get the agent into her conference room while in her POV, get his accusation on the first page, and use internal monologue to set up the problem—she’s guilty and needs to figure a way out. That seems like where the story actually begins.

Your thoughts?

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.
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.

Continued:

. . . hundred guests now gathering around a staircase that led up to a balcony-level lounge. A woman dressed in a glittery blue cocktail dress stood on a step high enough to position her above the crowd. She traded her water glass and knife with the DJ for his microphone.

TC stared at Elizabeth Logan. She was stunning. Perfectly dressed—obviously—but beyond that, a personal magnetism radiated from her petite body. He was instantly drawn to her. In his head, there was no one in the room except him and Elizabeth Logan. He edged toward the stairs, captivated by her voice. It was pitched low with the hint of a southern upbringing. She drew out some words and softened her vowels. Sexy.

“Hello everyone.” The speakers screeched feedback which silenced the rest of the people. “Sorry.” She held the microphone further from her mouth and continued, “I have great news. Tonight we’ve set a new record. The Declan and Elizabeth Logan Foundation has received one point six million dollars and we haven’t yet included the funds raised from the silent auction. My husband and I can’t thank you enough for your generosity. The children’s wing at Memorial Hosp….”

TC forced himself out of his reverie as she spoke her final words.

“…So, give yourselves a great round of applause.”

Hands clapped and cheers surrounded him. He joined in. He couldn’t take his eyes away from her. He watched as she made her way down the stairs to mingle with her guests. He moved closer. Someone asked her where Declan was.

She giggled, “Oh, he’s probably at the bar talking about investments. He can go on and on you know.”

TC even liked the way she laughed. After getting a look at her, he didn’t see how she could be involved in anything illegal. Hoping that was the case, he fantasized how together they’d uncover the culprit stealing from her foundation.

He reluctantly turned away and headed for the bar. Might as well check out the husband too. He ordered a tonic and lime. Declan Logan stood a few feet away, his back to TC. It’s true, the red-headed Irishman really wears his hair in a braid. And it went halfway down his back. Gross.

He’d heard Logan interviewed a few years ago on CNBC where he said that he’d never cut his hair unless his hedge fund showed a loss. He read in a magazine that Logan’s clients loved him so much that some even copied his hairstyle. Again, gross.

Declan Logan was built like a barrel. TC guessed he was about five foot ten at the most. He had broad shoulders and no neck. His large head was covered with a slicked back mass of coarse red hair that twisted into the foot and a half long braid. The cut of his tux attempted to hide the thickness of his torso. It might be time for alterations because when Declan moved, his love handles bulged under the black cloth. TC eavesdropped on Logan’s conversation with a man sporting a Tom Selleck mustache.

“Yeah, I guess you could say I’m a bottom feeder,” Logan said. “I like my women beautiful but dumb.”

“Your first wife wasn’t as good looking as Elizabeth.”

“It wasn’t for lack of tryin’. I paid for every kind of surgical enhancement known to man.”

“And then she ran away with your business partner.”

Declan didn’t answer. He drained his glass and turned toward the bar. TC stepped out of his way.

Declan’s square face was puffy and sweat beads clung to his forehead. He dabbed his face with several bar napkins then tossed the crumpled wad behind the bar. He told the bartender, “Keep ‘em comin’, Brucie. I’m the one payin’ you.” He stumbled a bit as he swiped his fresh drink from the bar. Not a drop spilled.

He’s half in the bag. TC stood in front of Declan so he couldn’t walk away.

“Congratulations, Mr. Logan, you raised a lot of money tonight,” TC said. “Who’s going to receive the funds?”

Declan shrugged, “I dunno. The wife runs the thing. I only gave my name to her foundation so I could get potential hedge fund clients all in one room.” He waved his beefy arm in an arc, “Lookit all this—like shooting fish in a barrel, eh?” He leaned his head back and tried to lock eyes with TC. “So, what’s your name?”

“Thomas Clay.”

“Well, Thomas Clay, be my next fish. You got money to invest? I know a great place to put it.”

He ignored Declan’s feeble sales pitch. If you act like this at every fundraiser, I doubt you’ll land any new clients. “You should hire your wife,” he said. “She seems to be good at shaking money out of people’s pockets. And she’s not bad to look at either.”

Declan stepped closer and whispered loudly, “She’s just a social climber. I rescued her from a life of servitude. I met her at one of these kind of shindigs. She was passing out the champagne. I needed some arm candy at the time and she was fun in bed, so I married her.”

Declan’s boozy breath gagged TC. Time to wrap things up. He clapped Declan on the shoulder. “Hey, I think my date is back from the ladies room. Nice talking to you.” He strolled through a group of people, set his untouched drink on a nearby table and left the ballroom.

***

The Logan Foundation office was located in a renovated Washington D.C. row house. It was a two story brick with bays, the fourth house in a row of ten on the street. It was only eighteen feet wide including the narrow hallway. Three rooms opened to the left of the hall. The front room, with the bay window overlooking the street, was Elizabeth Logan’s office. Next to that was a conference room. The old kitchen at the rear was divided into the powder room, a space for the water heater, and the kitchenette with a small refrigerator, counter, and sink. A steep curved staircase off the kitchen led to the unfinished second floor.

Monday morning, Elizabeth Logan looked in the powder room mirror to check her hair and makeup. She applied more lip gloss. She could never have too much lip gloss. Her eyes looked fine. So did her hair. Four years ago, her salon colorist persuaded her to add highlights and low lights to her blonde hair. It had been a definite improvement. Declan always said he liked his women to have ‘trashy blonde’ hair. After she’d changed it, she convinced him that women in their thirties shouldn’t look like twenty-five year old sluts. Declan’s answer had been, “Then I guess it’s about time I traded you in.” Afterwards he’d laughed and hugged her and told her she looked great. She’d never felt secure after that.

It was cold in the small conference room. It made her nipples hard. She rubbed both arms to make the goosebumps go away and re-adjusted her short-sleeved mohair sweater across her chest. There was only one thermostat to regulate the building. The options were, too hot or too cold depending on what room you were in. But it was still better than radiator heat and window air conditioners.

She’d barely sat down in the conference room when the doorbell rang. She glanced at her vintage Lady Rolex. Ten o’clock precisely. She should have known. Government people, always on time, always following the rules. What would this one be like? Probably a bespectacled gray-haired worker-bee. She couldn’t imagine what insignificant bureaucratic drivel he—or she—was sent to bother her about.

She looked through the door peephole and her jaw dropped. Male. Mid-thirties, several inches over six feet tall, slim build, covered by a perfectly fitted navy blue suit. He had longish dark brown hair and a few days beard growth that was the fashion these days. She couldn’t see the color of his eyes because he was looking down as he pulled a wallet from his inside coat pocket. His eyelashes were annoyingly thick and long. Such a waste on a man. She opened the door halfway. Large soulful brown eyes gazed down at her from a serious face.

“Elizabeth Logan?”

“Government person?”

He opened his identification wallet that showed his picture and a gold badge. “FBI Special Agent Thomas Clay Atkins, White Collar Division.”

She spent another few moments verifying his credentials, hoping it would make him a little nervous. She always liked to have the upper hand in encounters with people. Not that she was a ball-buster. She just wanted to be taken seriously from the get-go. She’d spent her childhood as a non-entity who wore her siblings’ hand-me-down clothes, and played with their broken, cast-off toys. She vowed she wouldn’t go unnoticed as an adult. Finally she stepped back and opened the door all the way. “Come in, We’re meeting in the conference room.”

***

Her pale pink fluffy sweater distracted TC right away. He felt the urge to touch the fluffiness with his index finger. Elizabeth Logan’s high-heeled sandals tapped rapidly on the floor as she led him to the second doorway. Her behind looked wonderful filling tight white slacks. No panty line. Not a good way to start, he warned himself.

Elizabeth sat at the place where a yellow legal pad of paper and pen lay. TC sat adjacent. They studied each other for a long moment. He didn’t know what she was thinking during that time, but he spent it acting like a school boy. Her eyes—hazel with flecks of gold. Nose—long, thin, with a cute bump at the bridge. Lips—wetly pink from some kind of lipstick. And he detected a slight lavender scent. Probably her shampoo. His heart skipped a few beats.

Elizabeth cleared her throat with emphasis. Obviously, she was waiting for him to begin. He opened a blue file folder and removed some paperwork. He set it on top of the closed folder. “Gerald Flanagan contacted us last March regarding an inconsistency between the amount he and his wife donated last year versus the amount stated in the Logan Foundation’s annual contribution letter. He said he asked you to send him a corrected letter so he could finish his income taxes.”

Elizabeth thought a minute and nodded, “Yes, I remember talking to Mr. Flanagan and couldn’t find the amount he said he donated in our records. The amount stated in our letter was the amount found on our books. I told him I was sorry but I had to report what we received.”

“I have a copy of Mr. Flanagan’s cancelled check and a copy of the Foundation’s letter here. And I also have a question for you.”

TC handed Elizabeth the copy of the front and back of Mr. Flanagan’s check. “Do you recognize the endorsement on this check? It isn’t the Foundation’s name or bank account number.”

She looked at the paper and handed it back to him.

“If you could explain that endorsement, maybe we can clear this whole thing up today without going through an audit,” TC said.

She wrote Gerald Flanagan’s name on her pad and underlined it three times. “I told Mr. Flanagan that sometimes when we receive a lot of checks at one time, they might go through a holding company account, then be transferred to the Foundation’s bank account. That’s why the endorsement is different on his check. As for the amount discrepancy, I think I suggested there could have been a typing error on the bank’s part when deposits were made and transferred. That’s something I’m not privy to.”

She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “At the time, Declan and I were getting ready to go out of town for a month. I told Mr. Flanagan I’d given him all the information I had and if he couldn’t get things resolved, I would look into it further when we got back.”

“Where did you go?” TC asked.

“We went to our house in Telluride with a group of friends. It’s an annual thing.”

“I’m jealous. I’ve never skied in Colorado. I hear it’s fantastic.” TC gushed.

Elizabeth gave him an irritated look like she had no desire to talk about her personal life. He had no idea why he’d even asked. It just popped out.

He smiled crookedly, “Sorry, not on subject. Please continue.”

“Well, I forgot about it and never heard from Flanagan again. I thought he’d resolved it on his end with his bank.”

TC shook his head, “More likely the problem is with your bank. It’s your responsibility to contact them. To give you time to clear this up, Mr. Flanagan filed for an extension on his tax return until October and then called us. If there’s anything discovered by our audit, you can also expect the IRS to audit you.”

There. He’d told Mrs. Logan everything. He leaned an elbow on the table and pressed his fist against his cheek. He gazed at her, waiting for her response. Her face was pinched with tension, or anger…or something. At this moment he hated his job that he loved so much. It felt wrong to accuse this seemingly nice lady of misappropriating funds. But he knew looks could be deceiving. Incidents like this happened all the time. It only took one person to blow the whistle. When the FBI auditors started digging, they’d probably find more inaccurate contribution letters. He studied the range of emotions that crossed her face. Okay lady, let’s see what you’ve got.

***

Elizabeth’s head was spinning. An audit? By the FBI? She hadn’t expected that. What had she gotten herself into? Although Agent Atkins was the bearer of bad news, the whole time he talked, she was strangely soothed by his voice. If he ever whispered sweet words into her ear, she could see herself falling into his arms. It appeared Agent Ring around the White Collar had it all figured out. Her method of skimming money from the donors hadn’t been clever enough.

She took a deep breath and laid one hand on top of the other on her lap, in an attempt to appear calm. She remembered her husband’s advice on running a successful business. “No matter how bad things get, you can always rearrange the facts so you look good. Never admit mistakes or reveal how you run your business. People may try to bring you down, but if you say as little as possible, the odds are in your favor they’ll never be able to prove it.” She hadn’t really understood him until now.

She felt a frown beginning so she raised her eyebrows and forced a tiny smile. She could wring Gerald Flanagan’s neck. The little twerp. Rich people didn’t prepare their own taxes. Her scheme had worked fine for four years, ever since Declan mentioned it might be time for a new wife. If they divorced, the damned pre-nuptial agreement gave her nothing but her personal possessions. So, bit by bit, she’d accumulated a nest egg, planning for the inevitable. The Foundation would never miss it and it would be her salvation.

Declan had traveled a lot during the last two years. He claimed business was tough, that he had to cast a wider net for new clients. She believed he was working on wife number three. A private detective might prove that Declan rarely went out of town. She didn’t want to waste any of her money verifying what she already knew.

Elizabeth slipped a quick look at Agent Adkins. Her fund-raising events were finished until October. Declan wouldn’t be home much. She faced a boring summer. This FBI guy might be fun to play with. Kind of like the barn rats she used to taunt before her brother came along minutes later and blew their heads off with his shotgun. She could definitely give him a run for his money.

She chewed on the inside of her lip as she considered what to say. Agent Atkins was smart. He hadn’t fallen for her ‘It must be the bank’s fault’ explanation. That line had stalled Gerald Flanagan for a while. She’d give the auditors a mountain of paperwork and confuse the heck out of them with complex explanations of accounting procedures. When they found nothing, she’d play the good guy and offer to resolve the misunderstanding with Mr. Flanagan by returning the difference. It was only fifteen thousand dollars. The foundation could well afford it.

TC broke into Elizabeth’s thoughts, “Look, I’m not trying to destroy your Foundation. You should be proud of your philanthropy. I researched your organization. You’ve come a long way in less than ten years. And all that during the recession as well.”

Elizabeth face brightened. “Yes, we’ve done a lot of good work and don’t plan to stop. I can’t imagine what might have happened with Mr. Flanagan, however I assure you I will get to the bottom of this.”

TC grabbed his pen, “Great. What’s your business manager’s name? I’d like to nail down the audit schedule.”

Elizabeth drew in a deep breath, flicked her hair behind one shoulder, and stuck out her chest hoping that her nipples still showed. Game on. May the best man win. She peeked up at him coquettishly. “Well, I guess that would be me.”

TC looked confused. “No business manager? But this is such a large organization…”

“I believe in keeping administration costs low. It’s not rocket science to deposit checks. If I get a lot in at one time, my accounting firm, who prepares our statements and taxes, takes care of them.”

“Is that where the holding company, LF Heritage, comes in?” TC asked.

Elizabeth pretended to appear bewildered. “You would have to ask my accountant. I’m not sure what all they do.” She clicked open her pen and held it over her blank pad of paper. “You just tell me what you need, and when, and I’ll arrange to provide it.”

***

TC was glad when the meeting was over. Mrs. Logan had taken lots of notes and they agreed upon a schedule and the records needed. Two auditors would work in the Foundation office conference room beginning next Monday at one o’clock. He told her the entire process should take about two weeks, if there were no problems.

He laid his business card on top of her pad. “My stomach is rolling. How about I take you to lunch?” As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t. The invitation came out so naturally. He never asked anyone he investigated to a meal. Not even to go have a drink. It wasn’t an agency rule—or maybe it was—he couldn’t think straight right now. He thought it was his own rule because he never wanted anything to influence his investigations. Not that he’d ever worked with such an attractive Person of Interest before. He had no idea why he wanted to get to know Elizabeth Logan better. On top of that, she was married and he wasn’t on the market either.

“Lunch?” Elizabeth looked at her watch. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was so late. Sorry, I don’t eat lunch, only a good breakfast and dinner.” She ran her tongue slowly back and forth on the inside of her upper lip, still considering his request. “Anyway, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. It might jeopardize your audit and besides, my husband might object to me being seen out with such an attractive man.”

***

Elizabeth slid TC’s business card under the top page of her pad. A little flirting couldn’t hurt. She’d get farther along being sweet and it looked like Secret Agent Man might be open to it. Maybe she could trade a forty-nine year old cheater for a thirty-something hunk. She wouldn’t let anything happen, of course. Just have a bit of fun. This could be an interesting summer. It might help her forget that her marriage was on the skids and her security fund was about to go up in smoke. God forbid there be any talk about going to jail.

She extended her hand to shake TC’s and seal the deal. “Let the games begin,” she challenged with a smile. His hand engulfed hers. It was warm and firm. Her whole body shivered at his touch. Yes, if she played her cards right, this could definitely be an interesting summer.

Add a Comment

Submissions Needed—None Left in the Queue 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 engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
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.

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.

Ilena sends the prologue and first chapter of Exhonerated. The rest of the chapter follows the break.

Prologue:

The Homestead Herald

13 Years Earlier

CONVICTED MURDERER GETS THE DEATH PENALTY

By Cindy Margolin

A double murder shocked the sleepy town of Homestead last fall, when two young girls disappeared after last seen walking home from their bus stop. Today, Thomas Wilkes, 43, has been sentenced to death row for the murder of those two young girls.

In the week after they went missing, Donald and Marie Walcott, the parents of the two girls, held a press conference seeking the public's help in solving the mystery over their disappearance. Banners and newsletters with their photographs were distributed.

Homestead's Chief of Police Glenn Frye said that the scene was "gruesome." The bodies of Melanie and Daisy Walcott, ages 13 and 7, respectively, were discovered nude and floating face up in a canal located a quarter mile from their home. An autopsy revealed that the causes of death resulted from blunt-force trauma to the side and back of their heads.

Almost a week passed after their disappearance before two eyewitnesses came forward, stating that both had witnessed Wilkes driving near the bus stop around the time the girls vanished.

Were you compelled to turn the prologue's first page?

Chapter 1:

Georgia Wilkes heartbeat rises in tandem with the needle of her truck's speedometer –already pushing past 90 m.p.h. Her hair flies around in all directions from the wind blowing through the window. It's as if a mini tornado is passing through, leaving nothing in its wake. Any rogue receipts or other little pieces of paper, remnants of a truck requiring an overdue cleaning, are pushed out by the violent gusts. The clock reads 10:32 a.m. Because she was driving south, the sunlight shines from the east and exposes only the left side of her body to the UV rays. If someone paid close attention, they'd notice that her arms were unevenly tan. A result of time spent in her truck. It was her preferred method of relaxation.

The road was mostly empty, allowing her to stay on the lane designated for faster traffic. Once in a while, she came upon a driver oblivious to the unspoken rules of the road and she'd have to switch lanes to pass them. She's about to slow down, bored of this game she was only playing with herself, when she notices a man beside her, speeding and keeping up right next to her. He smiles at her and she waves at him, placing both hands on the wheel, affirming her acceptance to race. The cat-and-mouse game continues for a couple of miles. Georgia feels the adrenaline course through her as she manages to stay ahead by employing clever driving maneuvers. A skill she possessed but one she had no use for listing on a resume. The man somehow ends up behind her, which allows her to check him out more closely. He is 24-years (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the chapter's first page?

Once again we have strong writing and a good voice. The prologue reporting a crime was good at raising story questions—I wanted to know more about the crime and the story behind it:

As for the first chapter, though, for me the only possible reason to read on was that the girl has the same last name of the accused murderer. But nothing that happens in this page—she drives fast in a truck is about it—did anything to provoke a desire to know more. The chapter is pretty much setup to give us an idea of this girl’s character, but nothing in terms of a story comes along to create real story questions. I think the real story starts later and I urge Ilena to consider starting the story at that point, the place where Georgia’s life is thrown out of whack by something that threatens her and causes her to take action. I suspect that the information in the prologue could be woven in later, thus eliminating the need, but I can’t be sure.

Your thoughts?

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.
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.

Continued

Wilkes trial was broken into two parts since Florida recognizes the death penalty. In the first phase of trial, the penalty phase, Wilkes was found guilty of first-degree murder. The trial lasted five weeks, with the jury's deliberation coming in just under four hours. Judge Ross McNeil ordered Wilkes to serve concurrent life sentences at its conclusion. "The murders of these innocent young girls was carried out in the most cold and horrifying manner," said Judge McNeil, when he announced Wilkes punishment.

It is unknown the exact date Wilkes will be executed. "Even though this doesn't bring back our girls, we're happy that justice has been served," said the Walcotts.

Chapter 1

Georgia Wilkes heartbeat rises in tandem with the needle of her truck's speedometer –already pushing past 90 m.p.h. Her hair flies around in all directions from the wind blowing through the window. It's as if a mini tornado is passing through, leaving nothing in its wake. Any rogue receipts or other little pieces of paper, remnants of a truck requiring an overdue cleaning, are pushed out by the violent gusts. The clock reads 10:32 a.m. Because she was driving south, the sunlight shines from the east and exposes only the left side of her body to the UV rays. If someone paid close attention, they'd notice that her arms were unevenly tan. A result of time spent in her truck. It was her preferred method of relaxation.

The road was mostly empty, allowing her to stay on the lane designated for faster traffic. Once in a while, she came upon a driver oblivious to the unspoken rules of the road and she'd have to switch lanes to pass them. She's about to slow down, bored of this game she was only playing with herself, when she notices a man beside her, speeding and keeping up right next to her. He smiles at her and she waves at him, placing both hands on the wheel, affirming her acceptance to race. The cat-and-mouse game continues for a couple of miles. Georgia feels the adrenaline course through her as she manages to stay ahead by employing clever driving maneuvers. A skill she possessed but one she had no use for listing on a resume. The man somehow ends up behind her, which allows her to check him out more closely. He is 24-years old. She knows this because of an uncanny ability to accurately guess a person's age. An innate talent she's had since a young age. She always thought it was because she could see right through people, past the physical and into their souls.

His eyes are dark. She can't tell if they are brown or gray but they definitely don't shine or sparkle. And she is attracted to him. Not only because his face is symmetrical and he has a nice smile, no, the real charm stems from his proclivity to challenge a stranger on the open road. She sees him smiling through the rearview mirror, indicating he is enjoying this as much as she is. Her speed is now clocking in at 101 and looking up ahead, she contemplates her next move because weaving through traffic was going to get tricky. The cars up ahead were playing some kind of vehicular red rover.

One of the cars slows down and she spots an opening she can jet through. In these moments, her brain shuts off and she goes on auto-pilot, allowing her instincts to take over. She peeks at the man behind her and his smile is now replaced with a tight lip and lines appear on his forehead, signaling that he too was contemplating his next chess move. A gray Acura up ahead is about a car's length ahead of the little red Fiat to its right. She manages to slip in the space created by the two cars, almost clipping the Fiat. The Fiat driver blasts his horn at her. Her truck's reckless presence causes the driver's around her to slow down, in an effort to avoid an accident. This allows Georgia to get back on the passing lane but she sees that her racing partner has somehow managed to come out in front. She curses but the wind drowns out any sound. The man sticks out his hand and gives her a thumbs up sign. Georgia returns the favor but doesn't display her thumb – she uses the finger generally reserved for a stronger, and more negative connotation.

He slows down. Georgia is able to catch up to him – the game now at an impasse. Smiling at her, he points up. Georgia looks out her window and sees a sign indicating an exit 2 miles ahead. She looks at him, holds up two fingers and mouths the word "exit" in the form of a question. He nods and she gives him her best attempt at a sultry smile, hunching her shoulders and then bringing them back down, releasing the tension she'd been carrying.

They move over to the far right, and she follows him, exiting off the highway. They pull up into a gas station. This is when her fight or flight instinct would kick in but there was something about this guy that made her feel like she had nothing to worry about. Yeah, he could be a serial killer. Yeah, he could beat her up to a pulp and leave her for dead at this gas station – her mother finding out from the nightly news that a girl her daughter's age was found dead about 30 miles from her home. But her intuition left her unconcerned. She decided she would be fine whether he asked her for her phone number or whether they copulated in the station's restroom. The man gets out of his truck, a newer Ford model.

"You're crazy," he says. "And I think that was called beating you."

"Maybe for a little. But eventually I would have won."

His eyes momentarily squint. "How old are you?"

"I'm nineteen." The man looks at her but doesn't say anything. "I can show you my driver's license."

"Not necessary. Follow me." Georgia follows the man to the side of the gas station, an area next to an ice machine. Two doors stand side by side, a sign over each indicating the designated gender. The man tries to open the door but it is locked.

"Wait here" he says. She contemplates leaving right now. But the electric energy from the race is still coursing through her and she knows that this is part of the fun. He comes back, holding a long wooden stick with a key attached. She grabs it from his hand, and unlocks the door, making sure to hold onto it in case she needed to defend herself. As soon as they are inside, the man thrusts her against the bathroom's white, ceramic sink and kisses her, his hands moving in mismatched directions. He unbuckles his belt and she does the same with hers, both frantic. He pulls out a condom from his pocket. Georgia notices the glossy wrapper has a bright orange sticker that says $.99. He rolls it on and this is not a moment which requires foreplay or the whispering of sweet nothings. The moment is over in 4 minutes, flat.

Afterwards, the man kisses her, gentle this time.

"It's been fun," he says and looks directly into her eyes, confirming their brown color. He leaves her standing there, dizzy and physically satisfied. Turning around, she looks at herself in the mirror. Her bright, hazel eyes staring back at her. She smiles. A gesture which betrays her emptiness. Georgia splashes water on her face and dries it with her shirt since there are no napkins available. She walks inside the gas station to return the key and pay for gas. Waiting for change, she notices the open box of condoms on the counter, all displaying the familiar orange sticker. As the teller hands her the change, he asks if she needs anything else.

"No, no I don't," she says. Because it was true.

Add a Comment

Submissions needed for flogging. None in the queue for this week. Let us cast fresh eyes on your opening page and see how well it works. Email your opening prologue or chapter in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):

Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, It seemed to me that it could be educational to take a hard look at their first pages. If you don’t know about BookBub, it’s a pretty nifty way to try to build interest in your work. The website is here.

I’m mostly sampling books that are offered for free—BookBub says that readers are 10x more likely to click on a book that’s offered for free than a discounted book. Following is the first page and a poll—this was a trilogy for free. Then my comments follow, along with the book cover, the author’s name, and a link so you can take a look for yourself if you wish. At Amazon you can click on the Read More feature to get more of the chapter if you’re interested. There’s a second poll concerning the need for an editor.

Should this author have hired an editor? Here’s the first page in a trilogy by Robert J Crane.

When I woke up, there were two men in my house. As alarming as that would be for most girls, for me it’s doubly so; no one but Mom and I are allowed in our house. No one. That’s rule number one.

I sensed them creeping around in the living room as my body shot to instant wakefulness. It probably sounds weird, but I could hear them breathing and an unfamiliar scent filled the air, something brisk and fresh, that brought with it a chill that crept into my room. They did not speak.

I rolled off my bed, making much less noise than either of them. I crouched and crept to the doorway of my room, which was open. It was dark; dark enough for me to tell they were having trouble seeing because one of them brushed the coffee table, causing a glass to clatter. A muffled curse made its way to my ears as I huddled against the wall and slid to my feet. We had an alarm, but based on the fact that a deafening klaxon wasn’t blaring, I could only assume they must have somehow circumvented it.

I didn’t know what they were looking for, but I’m a seventeen-year-old girl (eighteen in a month, and I guess I’d say woman, but I don’t feel like one – is that weird?) and there were two strange men in my home, so I guessed their motives were not pure.

How did they get in? The front door is always locked – see rule number one. I peeked (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Did this writer need an editor? My notes and a poll follow.

A strong example of opening in media res, right in the middle of something happening. No backstory, though bits are woven in unnoticeably, such as the rule of no one allowed in the house. The writing is strong (though I’d change the filter phrase “my body shot to instant wakefulness” to “I shot to instant wakefulness.” The voice is a good, clear one, and the character clearly in jeopardy. And sympathetic, too—a teenage girl with home invaders. I not only wanted to know what would happen next, I downloaded the trilogy and am currently enjoying it. What do you think?

You can turn the page here.

Should this writer have hired an editor?

Your thoughts?

Ray

Add a Comment

Submissions Needed—None Left in the Queue 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 engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
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.

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.

Samantha sends the prologue and first chapter of her current untitled WIP. The last submission is here. The rest of the chapter follows the break.

Prologue:

As a young boy, Albert never slept when it snowed. Even without the wind, Albert imagined he heard the crystals whispering against the old shingles of the house. They murmured change. Transformation.

The windows of the attic sat low to the floor and Albert would turn onto his belly, position his elbows in the hollows of the bedsprings, and watch his backyard morph into a silver dream. Mostly, Albert watched his father’s barn, the way snow gathered on the eaves, piled in soft heaps, tumbled to the ground, piled up again. (His father built the barn long before Albert was born, felled the trees himself and painted it canary yellow—“ghastly” yellow, his mother called it. Every few years his father repainted the barn, brought it back to its original stunning glow, amid much of the family’s teasing. Some things you do only because they make you happy, his father told him with a wink.) In the night snows, the barn turned silver with the rest of the world and Albert lay for hours, watching the snow pile up and tumble down. Pile up. Tumble down.

Albert wondered about that single snowflake, the flake that brought it all down. It would have floated so gently from the blackened sky, light as air, unaware.

It shook Albert, caused a deep shudder somewhere in the regions of his maturing mind, to think that such a thing could happen. That something so small and insignificant, so ignorant of its own power could, without warning or provocation, bring the whole world crashing down.

Were you compelled to turn the prologue's first page?

Chapter 1:

At eighty-three, Albert Henry Hallam was prepared to go to jail. He thought it preferable to a nursing home where the bars were made of bingo nights and tapioca pudding. He worried, though, that his age would land him in a minimum-security facility with some soft-bellied roommate named Montgomery or Chase and with whom he might still be forced to play bingo and eat tapioca pudding. His skin color, however, could mitigate the situation. Over the slow decay of dementia, Albert thought he might happily choose a good shanking. Or was the verb form shiving? Does one shiv with a shank? Or shank with a shiv?

“You worry too much. I didn’t forget.”

Turning away from the mirror, Albert opened the drawer of the table beneath it, rummaged through the loose papers, stacks of mail, dried up pens, muttered under his breath, winced when he banged his bandaged hand against the wood—“didn’t forget, with a piddle-paddle pet, the cat got wet, and he lost his bet.” Blood seeped, unnoticed, beneath the poorly-wrapped gauze.

Several minutes later Albert found his house keys half-buried in the dirt of his potted peperomia. He never would have found them at all if not for an errant ray of light that flinted off the metal. Albert had no memory of placing the keys in the plant, nor had he reason to do so. He fought a chill, an image (cold fingers creeping over his brain, plucking out items at will); the (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the chapter's first page?

Good writing and voice here but, for me, the prologue ended up being a little too vague for me to understand its importance to the story. While it seems to start out being a scene, nothing but musing and backstory happens. Gets a “no” from me.

The chapter did begin a scene, and there’s a promise of story in the opening paragraph, plus some good writing—I really liked the idea of bars made of bingo nights and tapioca pudding. The characterization of a doddering old man worked as well, although I was confused by the unattributed dialogue in the second paragraph, and I didn’t understand what it referred to—forget what? That could use clarification. And in the third paragraph we were surprised by the fact that he was looking into a mirror—that should have been included in the first paragraph as scene-setting.

Was the narrative enough to be compelling? I ended up with an “almost.” However, later the narrative refers to his “crime spree,” and I would definitely have turned the page if the third paragraph had opened like this:

Ready to continue his crime spree, Albert opened the drawer . . . etc.

Your thoughts?

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.
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.

Continued

. . . vision was strong, compelling, but Albert had no time. Sunset was coming. He had to hurry.

Albert’s yellow slicker and matching rain hat hung in their usual place on the hook behind the front door—his disguise, or so he called it. All criminals needed a disguise (Albert was raised on radio drama; Orson Wells’ portrayal as The Shadow would unwittingly inform many of his adult predilections)—a mask, glasses, or even just a well-placed hat. Nothing too elaborate, just enough to throw off police and any potential witnesses. A good criminal needed his tools too. And Albert had these handy. He picked up the brown paper bag from the table, hefted it, a loud rattle in the darkened house. A disguise, tools, and a good cover story. Albert had them all. He was learning to lie with ease.

Parting the curtains at the living room window, Albert peered outside. Most days Officer Benjamin Light stopped at the Pathmark after his shift and picked up a frozen dinner or a bag of chicken and rolls for one. Albert had a retirement gig as a product sampler at the Pathmark—little booth set up in the freezer section, tiny plastic cups—and often saw Officer Light pass by, though he never offered the man a sample. Tuesdays, though, Albert knew that Officer Light liked to treat himself to Christie’s Crab Shack’s weekly special—a surf n’ turf burger and a to-go cup of crab bisque. Christie had chuckled at Albert’s questions, passing them off as a bit of old-man silliness, mixed with dementia. (Christie had earned a D- in Albert’s 5^th period American government, as Albert remembered, a pity pass if ever there was one.) He closed at 7:30 on Tuesday nights since Christie never missed an episode of NCIS. Christie’s was seven minutes from Albert’s house, and so that meant…yes, here was Officer Light, cruising down Shalott Drive, right on time.

The police car paused as it passed Albert’s house. Albert leaned away from the window, holding the curtain open with the tip of his finger. A moment later the car was gone, disappearing around a tree-covered bend at the end of his street.

Albert let the curtain drop.

Potting soil clung to the grooves of his keys and he gave them a shake. In fifty-two years, Albert had never locked the door to his house, and it had been fifteen years or more since he’d parked a car in his driveway. Still, Albert never went anywhere without his keys. The keys were his routine, like putting on his watch or brushing his teeth. He found more and more these days that routines kept him focused, safe. They grounded him in the man he’d always been, not this shuffling old guy he was quickly becoming.

Albert winced out of habit as he straightened his spine and slipped the key ring into his pocket. Years of arthritis had taught him to anticipate the searing pain that lit like wildfire when he bent or stretched. His lower back, his left knee…oh, that left knee that could shoot a fireball into his gut with no warning at all.

But now…Albert stood up straight, feeling each vertebrate slide easily into place. Nothing. No pain at all. Albert lifted his foot, testing his old bones. He even bounced a little, working the knee back and forth. He switched to his right foot, bounced high enough to lift his heel from the floor. Albert smiled. He’d had good days in the past, here and there, often enough for him to remain hopeful, but this was different. His recent nocturnal activities had produced an unanticipated side-effect—a cure for arthritis. Who would have thought it? His doctor would never believe him, would just smile that vacant smile and add an anti-psychotic to the stack of prescriptions. So Albert kept this little piece of magic to himself. He hopped again, a little jig in the darkened house. He smiled.

It hadn’t taken much to turn Albert to a life of crime. Less than you’d think. It was something so small, insignificant, (light as a snowflake, you might say), that brought his life crashing down around him. In truth he’d been searching for a while now, a reason, a cause, a hill on which he might die. If someone had asked him just a few weeks ago, Albert would have said his absence would go unnoticed. With the exception of the peperomia—which seemed intent on living if only to spite him—plants and dog had all withered and died in the absence of his wife’s loving care. (Death comes easily in the wake of a broken heart; Albert wondered often why the same had not happened to him.) There were no children. No nieces or nephews, cousins, siblings, in-laws. Even his colleagues at the school had all passed away. Albert had taught history and American government at Kinderkamack High School for 41 years and upon returning to the school 5 years ago (some “meet your elders” senior project his wife had guilted him into) Albert had recognized no one. Not one single soul.

So yes, a few weeks ago, Albert would have said that aside from the paper girl, there was no one to notice if he should suddenly up and disappear.

This was June. By August Albert’s crime-spree would be over and he could vanish—either to jail or more heavenly regions—without incident. This fact bothered Albert very little, the irrelevant nature his life had taken on. He was ashamed to admit, even to himself, that it was something of a relief. That the idea was alluring: slipping away, unnoticed.

But that was before.

The house next door was occupied again, and this occurrence had changed everything. In the beginning—was it thirty years ago now?—renters had come and gone, and every so often a garden would appear in the front yard, grow for a season, and die when the house went vacant again. The renters never stayed long, spooked by the rumors, or so Albert had heard. The house next door was something of a suburban legend, neighborhood lore that had grown only darker and more wild with time. But Albert was not one to spread stories, even if the tale Albert could tell was much, much worse.

Painters came every five years to repaint the house—purple, from roof to foundation, shutters to shingles—and the homeowners association would kick up their usual fuss (Bergen county New Jersey had a take-no-prisoners approach to community management, though the older neighborhoods, like Albert’s, had grandfather laws on their side). With the painters came renewed hope. A possibility of return. But for years now, the painters had come and she had not, and Albert had begun to believe he’d lost his chance forever. Then late one night last fall, Albert saw a light go on in the house. There had been no moving van, no truck of any kind. Just that single light. He waited. He watched. Just to be sure. And now he was. Clare Lyndsay had finally come home.

And time was running out.

“I’ll listen to you this time. I promise,” Albert said, his words catching only a stray cobweb in the corner of the darkened room.

Albert lingered a full minute after the police car went around the corner before he opened the front door. He counted the minute out loud, whispering—forty-two, forty-three, forty-four—amazed again at the vigor and force his days had suddenly taken on. It was as if he’d returned to the stage after years of sitting and watching from the wings. So easily he’d slipped back into the leading role of his life. His hero’s journey was not quite over, it seemed. There were still adventures to be had. Dragons to defeat. Maidens to rescue. He might just earn an honorable death yet.

Albert stepped onto the porch, chuckling at himself as he shut the door behind him and started down the sidewalk. Such hubris. Conceit. He knew better. Hadn’t he taught his students better? Didn’t every character in history think he was the protagonist of the story?

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My buddy Therese Walsh, Writer Unboxed, clued me into an interesting study of when readers quit on a book. The article on Digital Book World, Start strong or lose your readers by Andrew Rhomberg reinforces the message you get on this blog. Not only does the first page have to be compelling, so do the rest. It was interesting to me to see that, on average, about 40% of readers finish a book, though one of the books they studied lost 90% of its readers before the third chapter started.

Here's a little from the article--you should check it out, though; the graphs of how a reader's attention decays while progressing through a book is worth a look and a thought.

“In today’s world of infinite distractions, you need to capture the reader’s attention within the first 50 to 100 pages. . . . If they are women, you have 50 pages, maybe even 100, to woo them. If they are men . . . you may have just as few as 30 pages to achieve that goal. Men are simply more fickle; women persevere for longer. Though once committed men are equally likely to finish a book as women are, except if the book is about feelings and relationships. Then all bets are off.”

Check it out.

For what it's worth.

Ray

Add a Comment

Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, It seemed to me that it could be educational to take a hard look at their first pages. If you don’t know about BookBub, it’s a pretty nifty way to try to build interest in your work. The website is here.

I’m mostly sampling books that are offered for free—and here’s a complete trilogy for no cost. How can you resist? (By reading the first page.) Following is the first page and a poll. Then my comments follow, along with the book cover, the author’s name, and a link so you can take a look for yourself if you wish. At Amazon you can click on the Read More feature to get more of the chapter if you’re interested. There’s a second poll concerning the need for an editor.

Should this author have hired an editor? Here’s the prologue from the first book in a trilogy by Steven F. Freeman. The promo billed it as “A pulse-pounding trio of thrillers!"

Captain Alton Blackwell had nearly reached the end of his twelve-hour shift in the mobile communications—“ mobcom”— vehicle, a command-center van mounted along the length of a chassis roughly the size of a commercial bus. The mobcom housed arrays of cutting-edge communication equipment packed along shelves. Along each side of the van, long, mounted tables with chairs provided just enough space for sixteen soldiers to operate the equipment. Alton’s Army unit, the 76th Brigade Combat Team, was stationed in the desert near Gazib, about two hundred miles north of Kandahar. Aton, commander of the soldiers operating the mobcom van, was responsible for establishing and securing the brigade’s communications network.

Alton leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms straight up.

“Long shift, huh, Captain?” asked Lieutenant Anders, his second-in-command.

“Yeah, but at least we’re inside. I guess being in the Signal Corps has its advantages. We’re in here with the A/ C, not outside in that oven.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Lieutenant,” said Alton, “have you finished the conversion of the signal scramblers to NORAD’s new encryption protocols?”

“No, sir. We have to replace the motherboards, and the space behind the wall panels is (snip)

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Did this writer need an editor? My notes and a poll follow.

Hard to believe a typo such as misspelling the protagonist’s name would be on the first page, but there it is. But what’s not on the first page is a story question, bogged down as it is by the long and not very interesting setup about the “mobcom.” As it happens, an attack comes soon—but I wouldn’t have gotten there. No page turn for me despite that this is a free trilogy.

You can turn the page here.

Should this writer have hired an editor?

Your thoughts?

Ray

Add a Comment

Submissions Needed. 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 engaging the reader with the character
Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
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.

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.

Kelsey sends a revision of her first chapter of This Bitter Cup. The last submission is here. The rest of the chapter follows the break.

I closed the door softly and crept down the hallway. It was dark as the castle’s torches were not lit at this hour. I quickened my pace and just as I checked the hallway behind me I walked straight into a man.

No, a boy. My age. He was not wearing the uniform of the castle guard or a servant’s livery. His clothing was a muted shade of black, as if to hide among the shadows between the lines of moonlight shining through the balistrarias. We locked eyes for a moment before he continued running down the hallway.

I continued in the opposite direction from him and threw myself headlong down the spiral staircase into the bowels of the castle. I exited through the scullery entrance into the cool night. I pulled my hood close to hide my porcelain skin; it would instantly tell any guards I wasn’t the servant I was dressed as.

I followed the narrow river that bisected the city to Madge’s Inn. Upon entering I was startled to find Madge herself sitting behind the counter. No one knew how old Madge was but no one could remember a time before her Inn either. I had assumed she’d died but I was glad she hadn’t.

Madge nodded at me and moved her stool and the rug beneath it to reveal a small trapdoor. I opened it and climbed down the ladder into darkness.

Were you compelled to turn the page?

I do like the voice here and the atmosphere of this opening. It’s clear that the protagonist is up to something she doesn’t want anyone to know about . . . but what? She avoids discovery, but what are the consequences if she is discovered? What is the story about? These aren’t story questions, they are information questions, and it would be stronger if there were answers here. A hint of her mission, the stakes, any consequences to create a little tension. As it is, there wasn’t quite enough to pull me forward. As it turns out, even though we go with her to a secret meeting, we end up not knowing what it’s about, nor what the story concerns. We need more chew on before we can develop a taste here, Kelsey. But keep at it, there’s plenty of potential in these pages, and you've improved on the original. Some notes:

I closed the door softly and crept down the hallway. It was dark as the castle’s torches were not lit at this hour. I quickened my pace and just as I checked the hallway behind me I walked straight into a man.

No, a boy. My age. He was not wearing the uniform of the castle guard or a servant’s livery. His clothing was a muted shade of black, as if to hide among the shadows between the lines of moonlight shining through the balistrarias. We locked eyes for a moment before he continued running down the hallway. It seems to me that black is black and there are no shades of black. Those are called “gray.” And the boy/man wasn’t running when she walked into him, he just seemed to have been there. I would change “continued running” to “ran.” for this to track in a meaningful way.

I continued in the opposite direction from him and threw myself headlong down the spiral staircase into the bowels of the castle. I exited through the scullery entrance into the cool night. I pulled my hood close to hide my porcelain skin; it would instantly tell any guards I wasn’t the servant I was dressed as.

I followed the narrow river that bisected the city to Madge’s Inn. Upon entering I was startled to find Madge herself sitting behind the counter. No one knew how old Madge was but no one could remember a time before her Inn either. I had assumed she’d died but I was glad she hadn’t.

Madge nodded at me and moved her stool and the rug beneath it to reveal a small trapdoor. I opened it and climbed down the ladder into darkness. Here, if not earlier, would be a good place to hint at some aspect of story. For instance: I opened and climbed down the ladder into darkness to join my fellow conspirators.

For what it’s worth.

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.
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.

Continued

I felt for the door and rapped quickly, hoping I remembered the pattern. I heard the latch click and entered the room. The walls and floor were packed earth but the ceiling was black stone, like a starless night sky.

I sat at a table. “How many are we waiting for?” I asked the large, black bearded man behind the counter. I remembered him vaguely from the last meeting.

“Four,” he replied and continued to stare at the door.

I twiddled my thumbs. My nerves made me feel like a crouched cat, ready to flee at the first whiff of a threat. Four more people trickled through the door over the course of half of an hour. I recognized half of them. One was the town blacksmith’s apprentice. The other worked for the baker.

I sat alone at my table, the only woman in a room full of men.

One of the men I didn’t recognize stood behind the bar and the bearded man sat down at a table. He placed both his palms flat on the well-worn wood and looked out at the room.

He cleared his throat. “I’ve just received word that we have acquired the maps.”

He looked at me. “We have been trying to acquire these for some time but have been unable to ourselves,” he looked back out at the room, “this was accomplished through the use of an outside…contractor.”

The boy I had seen in the hallway?

“You will receive further instructions when we reconvene in a fortnight.”

That was all he had to say? Everyone left except for the black bearded man and the man who had addressed us.

“What the hell has happened since the last meeting?” I demanded. “Why isn’t Samuel running these meetings anymore? Why do I only recognize three people?”

“Such unbecoming language for a lady,” the black bearded man said.

“Introductions are in order,” the other man said more tactfully, “I’m Richard and this is my cousin John, you may remember him from the last weekend.”

“I remember,” I said, crossing my arms and raising my chin.

“We had an incident with Samuel last week,” Richard said, “the guards noticed him asking a lot of questions and they took him in to ask some of their own and he hasn’t been seen since.”

“If you kept a better handle on your castle you would have already known that,” John said to me. “And if you’d gotten the maps a fortnight ago like we’d planned this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Who was this contractor?”

John and Richard looked at each other. “No one you need you need to worry about,” said Richard. “You won’t ever be seeing him.”

“I like to meet everyone involved at least once,” I said. “You know that.”

“I no longer think that’s the wisest policy, plausible deniability and all that. With the guards taking people I’d hate to see your lovely name tortured out of anyone. Best to keep you in the shadows.”

I glared at them. “Fine, I’ll see you in a fortnight.” I stormed out of the room.

When I left Madge’s the river was lit with the silvery light of the moon but there wasn’t any hint of dawn on the horizon. I was on time. In the quiet silver light all I heard was the river lapping against the shore but I swear I felt someone watching me.

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Hi. I want to ask you to please take a look at samples of my book design work--while you may not be in the market, at some time you may know someone who is, and it might be fun for you to see all the variety that's there.

You'll see designs for fiction, memoir, and non-fiction. Click on a cover to see the full front/spine/back cover in a larger size. I hope you'll drop in for a minute or two. A screen chapter of the samples page is below. To visit, go here or click the image below. Thanks for your time and consideration.

Ray

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Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, It seemed to me that it could be educational to take a hard look at their first pages. If you don’t know about BookBub, it’s a pretty nifty way to try to build interest in your work. The website is here.

I’m mostly sampling books that are offered for free. I’ve noticed that many of these folks use a prologue—this one does, but it’s so short I’m skipping ahead to the first chapter. Following is the first page and a poll. Then my comments are after the fold along with the book cover, the author’s name, and a link so you can take a look for yourself if you wish. At Amazon you can click on the Read More feature to get more of the chapter if you’re interested. There’s a second poll concerning the need for an editor.

Should this author have hired an editor? Here’s the the first page from a book by Dick Cluster.

“… too many changes at once,” Alex was saying. He recognized this for a rationalization, and an old, barnacle-encrusted one to boot. He wondered how many other times it had been enunciated, sotto voce, over this same slippery table, by men or women whose fingertips traced, as his did, circles of diluted bourbon on the black Formica top. He envied the piano player, whose dry fingers glided brilliantly over shiny keys.

The pianist, Meredith had said, was playing a song cycle by Franz Peter Schubert. Alex hadn’t been able to identify the composer, though he could have said it was a European who worked after Bach and before Stravinsky. He did happen to know one surprising fact about Schubert— at least it had been surprising to him— which was that he had died even younger than Mozart, at the age of thirty-one. “Hey, listen,” Alex had said more than once since coming upon this fact, “I’ve already outlived Schubert by nine years, and Che Guevara by one.”

Tonight Alex had expected jazz piano, not classical. And why not, when he had watched the pianist amble in from his break: a dapper man, rimless glasses and well-shaped mustache, a sort of older Herbie Hancock, though then Alex had realized that Herbie Hancock himself wasn’t so young anymore. The musician had sat down, flexed his long brown fingers, and conjured these august Germanic rhythms out of the machine.

Were you compelled to turn the page?

Did this writer need an editor? My notes and a poll follow.

The writing and voice are good, but, as a little old lady once said in a hamburger commercial, “Where’s the beef?” A man sits at a table in a bar, musing. Then there’s some backstory. Then a piano player plays music. Story questions? None here and, with an opening this languid, I suspected it wouldn’t appear for far too many pages. I passed. You can turn the first page here.

Edit poll

Should this writer have hired an editor?

Your thoughts?

Ray

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