Flogometer for Christopher—would you turn the page?

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.

Some homework. Before sending your novel's opening, you might want to read these two FtQ posts: Story as River and Kitty-cats in Action. That'll tell you where I'm coming from, and might prompt a little rethinking of your narrative.

Storytelling Checklist

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this list of 6 vital storytelling ingredients from my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells. 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.

Evaluate the submission—and your own first page—in terms of whether or not it includes each of these ingredients, and how well it executes them. The one vital ingredient not listed is professional-caliber writing because that is a must for every page, a given.

• Tension
• Story questions
• Voice
• Clarity
• Scene setting
• Character
  

I rooted around in the center drawer of my desk, pushing aside a notice from the IRS and a two-year-old birthday card from my wife and son. The stress headache was pounding its way through my skull, and I was looking for some quick over-the-counter pain relief that would solve my problem.

After choking down three Advil capsules, I checked my watch. It was 11:14. The appointment had been for eleven. Good, maybe he wasn’t coming.

Leaning forward, I ran my hand across the lustrous surface of the desk. It was a monstrous seventy-inch long twin-pedestal built in the 1870s by Hobbs & Co. What could I get for it in cash? Probably not much. Always two prices for antiques. A buying price and a selling price, like almost everything else in life.

Rubbing my left temple with my forefinger, I wondered when the damned Advil would kick in. Monday morning and the week already down the crapper, thanks to the esteemed judge of the 639th Judicial District Court. He’d signed a judgment against one of my clients in a suit on a promissory note. The client owned a gift shop and figuring you could never make a wrong bet when it came to Christmas cheer, she’d borrowed thirty grand to stock up on knick knacks for the all-important Christmas buying season. It turned out to be a bad year for fake gingerbread houses and glass unicorns. Now she was on the wrong end of a big-ass judgment. The thirty (snip)

Didn’t sweep me forward

While I think Christopher is working to characterize this person and set the scene, the result is a fairly tension-free page of what’s called “throat clearing” seasoned with overwriting. It stopped me from getting to a pretty good scene that followed. The nature of his desk isn’t relevant to the story. Nor is, it turns out, the judgment against the client. If we knew his headache was caused by having to face the person who was late, there might have been enough bridging tension to get us there, but we don’t know that. I think there was a much better place to start. It comes at the end of the chapter. I’ll show you that in a minute. Notes:

I rooted around in the center drawer of my desk, pushing aside a notice from the IRS and a two-year-old birthday card from my wife and son. The stress headache was pounding its way through my skull, and I was looking for my Advil. some quick over-the-counter pain relief that would solve my problem. (Surely someone stressed out and in pain wouldn’t be thinking about “over-the-counter pain relief” when he knows he has Advil in the drawer. This was the second sign of overwriting—extreme detail that does not advance plot or characterization. Why explain the nature of a common brand? Why the IRS notice and the old birthday card—the first example of overwriting? Their relevance to the story?)

After choking down three Advil capsules, I checked my watch. It was 11:14. The appointment had been for eleven. Good, maybe he wasn’t coming. (Actually, this could have been a good opening line. It raises a story question right away.)

Leaning forward, I ran my hand across the lustrous surface of the desk. It was a monstrous seventy-inch long twin-pedestal built in the 1870s by Hobbs & Co. What could I get for it in cash? Probably not much. Always two prices for antiques. A buying price and a selling price, like almost everything else in life. (On the first page, where you absolutely need to hook the reader, there’s no time for a side trip on the history and worth of a desk unless it’s extremely relevant to the story that should be developing. It wasn’t.)

Rubbing my left temple with my forefinger, I wondered when the damned Advil would kick in. Monday morning and the week already down the crapper, thanks to the esteemed judge of the 639th Judicial District Court. He’d signed a judgment against one of my clients in a suit on a promissory note. The client owned a gift shop and figuring you could never make a wrong bet when it came to Christmas cheer, she’d borrowed thirty grand to stock up on knick knacks for the all-important Christmas buying season. It turned out to be a bad year for fake gingerbread houses and glass unicorns. Now she was on the wrong end of a big-ass judgment. The thirty (snip) (The phrase “Rubbing my temple with my left forefinger” is a clear example of overwriting. Then we slip into backstory about a client, and it’s backstory that doesn’t relate to the problem he’s about to encounter.)

I’ve taken bits and pieces from later in the chapter to see if there’s a stronger way to get us into the scene. The last line here is the last line of the chapter, and I think it belongs right up front. It tells you much of what the story is about (I think).

Tyrell gave me the thousand-yard, ex-con, don’t–fuck with-me stare I’d seen from many of my clients. He was much bigger than the scrawny twenty-two-year-old I remembered. His neck was thick and sinewy, and his chest strained at the fabric of his shirt.

I told him, “I gave you the best defense possible. You need to understand that and just get on with your life.”

His eyes narrowed. “If it was such a good defense, why did an innocent man spend eighteen years in prison?”

With something like these 7 lines as the opening, you have 9 more lines to provoke the reader into a page turn.

What do you think? Comments, please.

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred):

1. your title
2. your 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
3. Please format with double spacing, 12-point font Times New Roman font, 1-inch margins.
4. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
5. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
6. If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
7. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

© 2010 Ray Rhamey

Send author a comment on this post

Tension in your first sentence

Here’s Tension in your first sentence from my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells.

There’s a reason for working to create tension with your very first sentence—it leads to the second sentence, and you draw your reader into your story sentence by sentence by sentence. It’s clear that each sentence on the first page is charged with the responsibility to KEEP READERS MOVING FORWARD.

When you send a sample to an agent, or when an editor turns to your first page, you are on trial. Not just your work, but your ability. The agent/editor wants to know, can this writer engage me? Can this writer use language to make me read his story?

The story is on trial as well. You get a few hundred words to make your initial case that the journey through the next 80,000 words is worth it, and will reward your reader with a helluva reading experience.And it all starts with that first line.

But there are so many things in your mind when you craft that first sentence—setting the scene, or characterizing, or creating action, or whatever—it’s entirely possible to miss seeing a lack of tension.

Take me, for example. In one of my novels, I’d reworked that bloody first sentence scores of times, and it had evolved to this:

As I neared one of the bronze lions that guard the Chicago Art Institute, a lean man in a black overcoat aimed a small video camera at me.

While it did what I wanted it to in many ways, including setting the scene and starting with action, it nagged at me that something was missing.

Tension.

I realized that the problem—and the solution—lay in the verb. While “aimed” is descriptive enough, and it gives you a clear picture of the man’s movement, it is otherwise lame. It describes the action, but doesn’t characterize it in a way that can create tension. By the way, I think Stephen King is a master at creating mood and tension in this micro approach to word choice.

In this case, I needed to add a flavor that suggested something was amiss with this action, that there might be jeopardy attached. I didn’t want to be as “on the nose” as something like “threatened.” That wouldn’t make a lot of sense, and would be ham-handed as well. I think the replacement verb below does the trick.

As I neared one of the bronze lions that guard the Chicago Art Institute, a lean man in a black overcoat targeted me with a small video camera.

For me, “targeted” adds an element of purpose to the man’s action. And what do we do with targets? We hit them or shoot at them. That, it seems to me, is implicit in my choice of verb; my protagonist, Annie, feels like a target, and that adds tension.

In addition, since we’re in Annie’s point of view, this adds to characterization because it’s her interpretation of the normally innocent action that lets the reader know that, for some reason, she sees it as a threat.

This is a tiny bit of writing for effect, true, but it contributes to the aggregate that delivers her experience.

After finding this soft spot in my own work, I decided to go through the many samples writers have sent to me and see how their first sentences fared in terms of creating some sense of tension. For example:

In the moment after midnight, the world held its breath.

For me, lots of tension there. Why did the world hold its breath? Why at midnight? What’s happening? Here’s another.

There’s something there.

I like that one, too. There’s menace in those three words, and I want to know more. A bit of dialogue opened the next sample.

“They’re belly beads.”

Hmm. Kinda interesting, but no hint of tension. In looking at the rest of the sample, there was no tension in the opening paragraphs. This writer will have to dig deeper.

Next, from a published novel, Nectar from a Stone, by Jane Guill.

Maelgwyn’s “husbandly attention,” as he called it, went on and on.

That opening line is packed with information and, for me, tension. In those eleven words I get the idea that sex is happening; that the recipient of Maelgwyn’s attention doesn’t think of it the same way that he does; and that she doesn’t like it. This opening both establishes a relationship and smacks of the tension in it.

Here’s another from a published work, E.B. White’s Charlotte’s web.

“Where’s Papa going with that ax?”

I defy anyone to not rush to the next sentence. Now back to some of the samples sent to me by unpublished writers.

Allison could sense something was wrong all the way to the roots of her fur.

There’s tension alluded to here, but it doesn’t grab me. I think it’s the fact that I’m being told about the tension (“something was wrong”) rather than being shown. I took another part of the opening paragraph and added it in this way:

Allison’s father stepped into the doorway, and she tensed all the way to the roots of her fur.

That’s a start at raising story questions and writing for effect. What about this one?

Inspector Steve Masters of the National Security Branch watched her stride down the airport concourse.

Only the man’s title and the “Security Branch” hint at tension, and vaguely. The lack lies in the action—just watching someone isn’t tension-provoking. How about just a couple of tweaks. . .

Inspector Steve Masters of the National Security Branch tracked his target through the airport concourse.

Another example:

Grace stirred in bed, kept her eyes closed.

Nope. But a few sentences later, the writer had this:

A floorboard creaked beneath the worn carpet.

Now, if that had been the first sentence, and then we had Grace stirring but keeping her eyes closed, I would wonder what Grace isn’t seeing that makes the floor creak—there would be tension afoot. Next:

Boccaha was a small fat balding man with bad teeth.

That simple description caused no tightening in my mind. For one thing, he’s not doing anything, as far as we can see. As it happened in this sample, it took a couple of hundred words of exposition before anything actually happened.Here’s an opening (very long) sentence that focuses on scene.

A crisp, bitter winter wind knifed between the buildings of downtown Seattle, slashing like transparent rapids through the alleys and streets, seeping into the cracks around doors and windows, and stealing under people’s coats and hats as nature sought to balance hot and cold.

While I applaud the writer’s effort to set the scene, and he has given thought to using active verbs, all we’re really seeing is a windy day. No tension here. As it happened, his second paragraph started this way:

Darren McAllister’s stiffening body lay face-up in a green, rusted metal Dumpster, half-hidden by discarded pizza boxes and a bulging black plastic trash bag.

Okay, now you’ve got me. Add the wind in later, if you must, but give me tension to begin with. Interestingly, writers often have a real grabber of an opening sentence that comes later in the narrative.Here’s a writer who didn’t wait around.

She couldn’t run any more, but she didn’t dare stop.

Applause, applause. I want more. Guaranteed that I’ll move on to the next sentence, and the writer increases her chances of hooking me. How about this one?

The Reverend David Wilcox was walking slowly across the wet grass towards the rectory, where his friend Dr Alex Greer was waiting for him.

No sale. This was from a murder mystery. Not even enhancing the verbs (“walking slowly” needs help) would add edge to this simple movement. But about 1,200 words later in the story was this sentence:

He lowered the pillow over Emily’s face and pressed down firmly.

Now we’re talking.

Go to the first line on your first page. If there’s no tension, look for a way to add it—there’s an agent or editor waiting to drop the blade like an executioner if he’s not lured further into the story.

For what it’s worth

Ray

© 2010 Ray Rhamey

Send author a comment on this post

Flogometer for Liz—would you turn the page?

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.

Some homework. Before sending your novel's opening, you might want to read these two FtQ posts: Story as River and Kitty-cats in Action. That'll tell you where I'm coming from, and might prompt a little rethinking of your narrative.

Storytelling Checklist

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this list of 6 vital storytelling ingredients from my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells.
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.

Evaluate the submission—and your own first page—in terms of whether
or not it includes each of these ingredients, and how well it executes
them. The one vital ingredient not listed is professional-caliber
writing because that is a must for every page, a given.

• Tension
  
• Story questions
  
• Voice
  
• Clarity
  
• Scene setting
  
• Character
  

She gazes up at me. A patch of duct tape covers her lips. The square
gleams, iridescent as beetle wings, in the frail moonlight. The waning
gleam casts her blonde hair, nearly as pale as my own, into a halo. The
quicksilver shine through the small attic window molds her tears into
crystal.

Encased in a cocooning web of hemp rope, she struggles against her
bonds as I descend, spider-like, from the rafters. By the time my
slipper-clad feet touch the floor, she whimpers beneath the gag. I
press a finger to my lips. The child quiets.

“Shh, draga mea,” I murmur. Though the child cannot know the
Romanian endearment, my voice is soft and gentle enough to calm her. Ah,
the power of a woman’s voice.

This attic room lies far above where the kidnappers stalk, but I am
always wary of any noise. The scars hidden beneath my shirt are poignant
reminders of the children that I failed to rescue.

Her eyes follow my progress in this cramped space. The eaves hang too
low for me to stand completely upright. My creeping walk is insectile,
skittering, as I circle behind her. Too much weight on one hand, one
foot, and the boards beneath will creak, alerting those in the bedrooms
throughout this old farmhouse.

I make no sound, as the Ghost.

A smile twists my lips, but I swallow it away. The newspapers coined my name, thanks to brief
descriptions from parents, guardians, or the few policemen to whom I deliver the lost children.

I turned the page, but . . .
I like the story values in this opening—an interesting and different
character, a suffering child to be rescued, good story questions—but for
me the writing is a little over the top. The opening paragraph in
particular was too packed with adjectives and ways of saying moonlight
over and over. So, nice stuff, but perhaps too much of it? Notes:

She gazes up at me. A patch of duct tape covers her lips. The square
gleams, iridescent as beetle wings, in the frail moonlight. The waning
gleam casts her blonde hair, nearly as pale as my own, into a halo. The
quicksilver shine through the small attic window molds her tears into
crystal. (“The square” stopped me cold. It took a
beat to figure out that it referred to the duct tape. Just “It” would
have worked much better and kept the flow going smoothly. Then we have
“frail” moonlight, kind of a nice phrase, but then it is also a “waning
gleam” and a “quicksilver shine.” The last four sentences could have
easily been edited to read: It gleams, iridescent as beetle wings,
in the frail moonlight from the attic window. The light casts her blonde
hair, nearly as pale as my own, into a halo, and molds her tears into
crystal.)

Encased in a cocooning web of hemp rope, she struggles against her bonds as I descend, spider-like, from the rafters. By the time my slippers-clad feet touch the floor, she whimpers beneath the gag. I press a finger to my lips. The child quiets. (A thought: the first sentence would be crisper as Cocooned in a web of rope, she struggles as I descend, spiderlike, from the rafters.)

“Shh, draga mea.” I murmur. Though the child cannot
know the Romanian endearment, my voice is soft and gentle enough to calm
her. Ah, the power of a woman’s voice. (It would be nice for the reader if the narrative could include what draga mea means. One way to do it would be to simply follow the foreign words with a comma and the English equivalent like this: ”Shh, draga mea,” baby, I miss you.)

This attic room lies far above where the kidnappers stalk, but I am
always wary of any noise. The scars hidden beneath my shirt are poignant
reminders of the children that I failed to rescue. (For me, “poignant” was one adjective too many.)

Her eyes follow me my progress in this cramped space. The eaves hang too low for me to stand completely
upright. My creeping walk is insectile, skittering, as I circle behind
her. Too much weight on one hand, one foot, and the boards beneath will
creak, alerting those in the bedrooms throughout this old farmhouse. (The
“cramped space” reference is telling that is immediately shown by the
fat that the eaves are too low for the Ghost to stand.)

I make no sound, as the Ghost.

A smile twists my lips, but I swallow it away. The newspapers coined my name, thanks to brief descriptions from parents, guardians, or by the few policemen to whom I deliver the lost children. (I
felt that “A smile twists my lips” was a little over the top, and an
unlikely thing for the character to be thinking. I think that “I smile”
would work just fine. I added the “by” for clarity.)

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred):

1. your title
   
2. your 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
   
3. Please format with double spacing, 12-point font Times New Roman font, 1-inch margins.
   
4. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
   
5. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
   
6. If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
   
7. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

© 2010 Ray Rhamey

Send author a comment on this post

Flogometer for Douglas—would you turn the page?

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.

Some homework. Before sending your novel's opening, you might want to read these two FtQ posts: Story as River and Kitty-cats in Action. That'll tell you where I'm coming from, and might prompt a little rethinking of your narrative.

Storytelling Checklist

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this list of 6 vital storytelling ingredients from my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells. 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.

Evaluate the submission—and your own first page—in terms of whether or not it includes each of these ingredients, and how well it executes them. The one vital ingredient not listed is professional-caliber writing because that is a must for every page, a given.

• Tension
• Story questions
• Voice
• Clarity
• Scene setting
• Character
  

He hid among a cleft in the desolate shoreline, a shadow lurking in the darkness. An outsider often made an outcast, this night he exacted retribution.

Three partially sunken ships blocked the narrow channel opposite, the funnels and decks eerily illuminated by faint colored streaks of an intermittent aurora. The closest ship, angled by countless storms, left a gap just wide and deep enough at high water for a u-boat to enter, a u-boat he would guide. Past the block ships the channel opened into the broad depths of Scapa Flow, the hallowed anchorage of the Royal Navy and heart of Britain’s naval dominance.

An ethnic German and veteran of the Kaiser’s navy, he cared nothing about the new conflict with Hitler, lived quietly in Orkney eighteen years and did not think himself an enemy. Only when the government forfeited his English wife’s modest inheritance simply because of her marriage to him did his mind change. Forced from a family cottage despite poor health, her long held hopes and dreams vanguished, she died despondent and destitute and left him angry and alone. He did not understand why a country so proud of law and fairness scorned its own.

The disembodied low churn of diesels wafted on the breeze, the mechanized sound of his fury and wrath, and two flickers of light signaled across the water. He responded with a shielded lantern.

And now the first chapter opening:

Richard Kast hated to fly. Cramped inside the cargo hold of an RAF transport, he winced at a sudden drop in altitude and fought roiling spasms in his stomach and throat.

A stiff backed Royal Marine opposite noticed. “A bit green. Just like a civi.”

Kast stared coldly. A dark featured, imposing former boxer accustomed to quick physical domination of his environment, he considered airsickness an unsettling character flaw and personal challenge. When turbulence again assaulted his equilibrium he focused on the floor between his feet and willed himself not to vomit.

Necessity brought him airborne. Two nights earlier the battleship Royal Oak exploded and sank at anchor inside Scapa Flow off northern Scotland with over eight hundred lives lost. Preliminary reports indicated a German u-boat penetrated the harbor, delivered the fatal blow and escaped into the sheltering depths of the North Sea.

The horrific defeat on home soil only six weeks into the Second World War raised serious concerns about Britain’s defenses and caused widespread public outrage. Parliament demanded an immediate explanation and the Admiralty, in charge of harbor security, hastily assembled a Board of Inquiry. Most observers thought the incident spelled political doom for the new First Sea Lord, Winston Churchill.

For me, these lacked the pulse of character

I have a couple of notes for Douglas in a moment, but first, my reactions. The narrative’s historical nature and the possibility of a good story have appeal, but for this reader it was all distant, at arm’s length, and not involving. The sweat and emotion of these characters wasn’t there, and without the feel of the character’s experience of what was happening, I wasn’t compelled.

In the prologue, the third paragraph, while spelling out the character’s motivation, was also info dump. More than that, it seems to me that this would hardly be what he was thinking about, or in this manner, at such a time. There are ways to slip some of this in, for example: Tonight he would avenge the British government’s calloused murder of his wife. He still burned at the thought of her evicted from her family home to die of a broken heart and body. (By the way, I think you meant ‘vanquished’ rather than ‘vanguished’.)

The second paragraph was pretty much told (not so much shown) from an authorial, distant point of view, not from within the eyes and mind of an angry, vengeful man.

The chapter opening came closer to involving me with the character, but then slipped out of the character’s POV and into the author’s for a physical description that the character would never have thought of while desperately fighting off airsickness, and this takes me out of the story. The narrative also got a little info-dumpish, too. I understand why, but the task at hand here is to hook me with the character’s experience, not the historical setting of the story. That can come later with dialogue or other exposition.

Bottom line, while the events and history are interesting, the reader is not immersed in the living experiences of troubled characters. Get us in their skins, Douglas, and you might have us.

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred):

1. your title
2. your 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
3. Please format with double spacing, 12-point font Times New Roman font, 1-inch margins.
4. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
5. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
6. If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
7. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

© 2010 Ray Rhamey

Send author a comment on this post

Start with kitty-cats in action

Here’s Start with kitty-cats in action from my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells.

Opening your story in media res, the midst of something happening (versus placidly setting the scene), is key to engaging a reader. For example:

Hairball raced across the clover, leaping honeybees, never taking his gaze from Barfie, praying her grip would hold.

This opening raises immediate story questions that a reader
will want to know the answers to—why is Hairball racing? Who is Barfie? What is Barfie? What do they have to do with each other? What’s Barfie's scary-sounding problem?

Unusual circumstances added to the action intensify interest. You’ve heard of “fish out of water” stories…how about “cat in water?”

Up to his dewclaws in the cold wetness of the stream, Hairball wanted to yowl his discomfort, but he had to choke back all sound and keep his eyes on his prey.

Opening with action that depicts a significant challenge to a character will keep a reader moving down the page, too.

Hairball eyed the tree trunk's towering height. It was an impossible climb. He was too small, too weak. But if he didn’t climb, Barfie would fall to her death.

Plenty of story questions raised there. But we can do better. Now let’s open with action combined with jeopardy for increased tension.

Barfie dug her claws into the branch, struggling to keep her balance. She dared not look down; her last glance at the dizzying height had almost sent her tumbling. Her ears caught a cracking sound…the branch was tearing away from the trunk.

Yeeks! Now to really create opening tension by combining  action and jeopardy with conflict.

Hairball arched his back and hissed at the beast. It was easily three times his size, an alien species that had been stalking him and now crouched, poised to spring. There was no place to run. He extended his claws…

Don’t get me wrong. Not all openings have to begin with physical action…but they MUST begin to raise story questions immediately. Remember that thoughts are action, too.

Hairball wondered if Barfie’s soul now rested on one of the puffy pillows in the sky, freed from her broken body. How would he face her mother after he’d sworn they would be safe?

Approaches you can use to kick-start your novel include:

• Start with something happening.
• Start with action in unusual circumstances.
• Open with action that challenges the character.
• Combine action with jeopardy for the character.
• Add conflict to action and jeopardy.
  

For what it's worth.

Ray

ARCHIVES .

© 2010 Ray Rhamey

Send author a comment on this post

Flogometer for Kelley—would you turn the page?
originally posted: August 20, 2010

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.

Some homework. Before sending your novel's opening, you might want to read these two FtQ posts: Story as River and Kitty-cats in Action. That'll tell you where I'm coming from, and might prompt a little rethinking of your narrative.

Storytelling Checklist

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this list of 6 vital storytelling ingredients from my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells. 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.

Evaluate the submission—and your own first page—in terms of whether or not it includes each of these ingredients, and how well it executes them. The one vital ingredient not listed is professional-caliber writing because that is a must for every page, a given.

• Tension
• Story questions
• Voice
• Clarity
• Scene setting
• Character
  

Starting over. That was the whole point of this, right? Then why do I feel such a strong sensation pulling me backward, back to my empty house in the only city I’ve ever called home? With each mile of pavement under the tires, the sensation grows inside me like the mountains rising on the horizon. What used to be a slight nag has now become full-blown anxiety and alarm so intense I’m starting to feel nauseous.

My mind seemed at ease for most of the drive, and I clearly remember feeling a shred of optimism as I watched the Chicago skyline fade in my rear-view mirror a few days ago. I couldn’t have imagined the only positive emotion I’ve had in such a long time. Why the apprehension now? I hoped that putting physical distance between myself and my old life would free me from at least a portion of my torment, from some of the weight pressing down on me every day. I know better than to think I can live happily again, but is just a tiny bit of relief too much to ask?

I can blame some of my unease on this unfamiliar land, now more unfamiliar with the arrival of the vast mountains fading into the horizon and getting closer, fast. The open air, the flat ground surrounding me, and the ceaseless, oppressive sky make little effort to provide any cover from my past. They specialize in full, honest exposure with no apologies. I am a lightning rod out here. I cannot hide. There is nowhere to blend in, and it is going to take some strength to get (snip)

Despite virtues, no turn for me

I like the voice, and the writing is refreshingly clean and solid. That this character is troubled is clear, but not by what. Fundamentally, nothing much happens in this opening. It’s backstory and scene-setting and a reference to unhappy times. She’s driving, and she feels bad. The rest of the chapter is similar in nature—she stops for gas, nearly passes out, and is helped by a local. Then she arrives at her destination, a Montana town, and goes to the house she has bought or rented. That’s it.

Nary an inciting incident appeared, no event or incident that impacted her life and forced her to react, to take action. Thus, for this reader, no story and no tension. Your writing is good, Kelley, and you should be encouraged. But look for the point in your story when something happens to this person that blocks or takes away something she needs badly, and she is compelled to react, to take action to get what she must have (and that will be frustrated). A few notes:

Starting over. That was the whole point of this, right? Then why do I feel such a strong sensation pulling me backward, back to my empty house in the only city I’ve ever called home? With each mile of pavement under the tires, the sensation grows inside me like the mountains rising on the horizon. What used to be a slight nag has now become full-blown anxiety and alarm so intense I’m starting to feel nauseous. (I’m not a fan of the “started to” construction, nor of using the word “feel.” Can you come closer to show us her feeling? Thoughtstarter: … anxiety and alarm so intense that nausea curdles in my stomach. Continuity point: it seems to say that she has an empty house in Chicago, yet she goes to a new house in Montana. Does she own both, or has she actually sold the Chicago house?)

My mind seemed at ease for most of the drive, and I clearly remember feeling a shred of optimism as I watched the Chicago skyline fade in my rear-view mirror a few days ago. I couldn’t have imagined the only positive emotion I’ve had in such a long time. Why the apprehension now? I hoped that putting physical distance between myself and my old life would free me from at least a portion of my torment, from some of the weight pressing down on me every day. I know better than to think I can live happily again, but is just a tiny bit of relief too much to ask? (If we had any idea of what her torment was, or an aspect of the old life that caused it, this could be more effective. As it is, she’s referring to things that she knows but the reader, having no idea what they are, ends up with not much meaning. I’m not saying to slip into backstory—never!—but, for example, if she has left a broken marriage behind, or there was a death, or a murder, or something solid the reader can latch on to. But this is all vague and unknowable.)

I can blame some of my unease on this unfamiliar land, now more unfamiliar with the arrival of the vast mountains fading into the horizon and getting closer, fast. The open air, the flat ground surrounding me, and the ceaseless, oppressive sky make little effort to provide any cover from my past. They specialize in full, honest exposure with no apologies. I am a lightning rod out here. I cannot hide. There is nowhere to blend in, and it is going to take some strength to get (snip) (She refers to her past, but what is there about it that’s so traumatic? As in my notes above, this narrative, while nicely written, doesn’t engage us in something happening to this character, in my view. If she’s trying to escape, and that’s her current desire, then maybe the story starts when something happens that could prevent that.)

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred):

1. your title
2. your 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
3. Please format with double spacing, 12-point font Times New Roman font, 1-inch margins.
4. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
5. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
6. If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
7. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

© 2010 Ray Rhamey

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Flogometer for Ray—would you turn the page?
originally posted: August 18, 2010

Update: at the end of this update I'm providing a link to the rest of the chapter for those who wanted to turn the page. Those who said no can, if they wish, see what they missed.

The feedback has been interesting, and it's fascinating to see what readers pick on, often things that a first page would have trouble addressing. For example, some wondered why a vampire would worry about dying, or why a vampire kitty would be worried about a coyote. The answer to the first lies in the "world" of this story, where the mythical vampire "rules" that everyone "knows" don't apply. As to why he would worry, it seemed to me that ending up as an undigested undead lump in a coyote's stomach is a pretty clear cause for concern, and worth worrying about -- if it's not for you, that's okay, but a story has to follow its internal logic.

For the rest of the chapter, go here. Comments welcome. If you're fresh to this post, please read the opening below and give your input. Thanks.

It occurs to me that just about any potential reader for your manuscript or book will see the title, and that can help the reader with expectations. So this submission includes the title. In my case, this is a sequel, as you’ll see. If you have a submission in the queue, please email me a title to use.

Regarding comments: I hope you’ll take the time to leave one, especially if you elected to not turn the page. What will be most helpful to me (and all writers who submit here) is not the textual nitpicking that sometimes happens here (not that that’s not helpful as well), but the instant emotional response, the “why not” that you feel after the first quick read, just as you would have with a book in a bookstore. Thanks.

Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this list of 6 vital storytelling ingredients from my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells. 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.

Evaluate the submission—and your own first page—in terms of whether or not it includes each of these ingredients, and how well it executes them. The one vital ingredient not listed is professional-caliber writing because that is a must for every page, a given.

• Tension
• Story questions
• Voice
• Clarity
• Scene setting
• Character
  

The opening page:

I knew that if the coyote ate me he would end up with a terminal case of indigestion, which is what you deserve if you chew on a vampire kitty-cat chock full of the vampire virus, but by then I wouldn’t be in any condition to say gotcha. Although being undead wasn’t much of a life, I preferred holding on to what little I had.

If it had been a dog instead of a coyote, I wouldn’t have worried—who worries about a creature that has devoted eons of evolution to mastering the arts of tail-wagging and drooling? But this guy was from a long line of finely tuned hunter-killers. And the word around Los Angeles was that coyotes had never met a cat they didn’t like.

Crouched behind a scrub oak underneath the H in the HOLLYWOOD sign, I hadn’t heard any movement from the direction of the O where I’d spotted him—and he’d caught sight of me. The scrub oak, barely three feet tall and about that wide, was more bush than tree, and no barrier to a determined coyote. The full moon I’d been enjoying now felt like a spotlight. I slunk low and peered beneath a branch. He wasn’t beneath the O anymore.

Uh-oh.

What would being chewed up do to my undead self? How much could he swallow before the virus turned him into a vampire coyote? Would I be an indigestible lump in his belly, giving “hairball” a whole new meaning? Creepy. Not to mention disgusting.

Thanks, guys.

Comments, please?

For what it’s worth.

Ray

Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred):

1. your title
2. your 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
3. Please format with double spacing, 12-point font Times New Roman font, 1-inch margins.
4. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
5. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
6. If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
7. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.

© 2010 Ray Rhamey

Send author a comment on this post

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I'm a novelist/freelance editor, and author of "Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells" (a most useful writing craft book). Most clients are first-time novelists. I've written 5 novels, had one literary agent (am looking for a new one).