Flogging the Quill

Flogometer for Heather: would you keep reading?

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Happy 4th of July. I'm taking the day off, see you next week.

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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, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

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.

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Heather's first 16 lines:

October 18th, 1951

A thick braid of rainwater shot off the roof and slid down the girl's spine like ice. Her raised fist trembled an inch from the oak front door. It must be awfully late… still, the light's on. Although she felt the slippery wood stiff against her knuckles, the sound of her knocking got lost in the rumbling thunder. She rapped again and then leaned her head against the door, wishing for the hundredth time that she was back home. You know you can't go home, she scolded herself. Mama told you so. A flash of a shadow pulled her eyes to the front window of the little brown house. More lightning? Or is someone moving inside? The front door cracked open and a gasp leaked out louder than the howling wind.

"Landsakes, child! You're soaked to the bone!" The chestnut-haired woman clutched an afghan around her shoulders as she beckoned to the girl who staggered inside. "What's a little girl like you doing out on a night like this?" She clucked her tongue. "Does your mama know where you are?"

Not really. She shivered. As she shook her head, the motion lurched the room into a spin. She tried to focus on the kind face and noticed dried tears across the woman's cheeks.

A warm smile cracked through the saltwater streaks. "I'm Thea Greyson." Her voice came soft and throaty. "And don't you worry, honey. I'll help you find your mama. Just tell me your (snip)

Interested but not compelled, craft issues stopped me

While the situation is definitely interesting, and Heather is doing the right thing by starting with a scene that has some drama to it, signs of overwriting and other small craft issues stopped me. A promising start, for me, but. . .some notes.

October 18th, 1951

A thick braid of rainwater shot off the roof and slid down the girl's spine like ice. Her raised fist trembled an inch from the oak front door. It must be awfully late… still, the light's on. Although she felt the slippery wood stiff against her knuckles, the sound of hHer knocking got lost in the rumbling thunder. She rapped again and then leaned her head against the door, wishing for the hundredth time that she was back home. You know you can't go home, she scolded herself. Mama told you so. A flash of a shadow pulled her eyes gaze to the front window of the little brown house. More lightning? Or is someone moving inside? The front door cracked open and a gasp leaked out louder than the howling wind. (The first sentence was the start of slowing me. A "thick braid of rainwater" sounds like a small stream, and why would this person not avoid it? And why have water slide when what it does best is run? I cut the second sentence because it just wasn't needed -- and I doubt the girl would notice that it was oak. Too many adjectives, for my eye, was a problem here. On the italicized thoughts: I'm an advocate of using interior monologue without italics and "thought." Here it could be simply woven in with the narrative without the italics: It had to be awfully late…still, the light was on. Even though I tightened the knocking description, I think it could be better if, for example, rumbling thunder swallowed her knock. For the second thought sequence, it could be: She knew she couldn't go home. Mama'd told her so. Lose the italics again by changing it to past tense. Lastly, for me it wasn't credible that a gasp was louder than howling wind. It would have to be a shriek to be louder. The girl could see the woman's mouth open as if she gasped, but how could she hear it? One other thing -- it's always "the girl." This operates to keep us distant from the character. If she's going to be a point of view character, I'd advise using a name.)

The chestnut-hairedA woman clutched an afghan around her shoulders. "Landsakes, child! You're soaked to the bone!" as sShe beckoned to the girl, who and she staggered inside. "What's a little girl like you doing out on a night like this?" She clucked her tongue. "Does your mama know where you are?" (Issues with the second sentence, which I moved to be first so there was info on who was talking: I don't think the child would be noticing "chestnut" hair. However, it would be good to give some description -- what if the woman was described as about the age of the girl's mother, which I suspect is true from what I read later?)

Not really. She The girl shivered. As sShe shook her head, and the motion lurched the room into a spin. She tried to focus on the kind face and noticed dried tears across the woman's cheeks. (I changed "she" to "the girl" because the antecedent for the pronoun was the woman, not the girl. I changed the "as she" construction because it's not really accurate -- the shake of the head and the room lurching are cause and effect, not simultaneous. I have to wonder if it's really possible to notice dried tear streaks on a face unless they ran through noticeable makeup. I'm not saying that it isn't, it's just that I can't recall ever seeing that. Wet tear streaks, yes. For my money, I'd have the woman have wet tear streaks, and even wipe one away. Seems more believable, and points to the fact that she'd been weeping.)

A warm smile cracked through the saltwater streaks. "I'm Thea Greyson." Her voice came soft and throaty. "And don't you worry, honey. I'll help you find your mama. Just tell me your (snip) (Same point about the tear streaks, and I don't think a girl would be thinking of them as "saltwater." We do seem to be in a close third person here. If you want us to hear the woman's voice in a particular way, you have to put that description before the words come, as in: The woman's voice came soft and throaty. I liked the way the dialogue "find your mama" showed us that the girl is young, rather than telling us, and it characterized the woman.)

As I said, there's promise here, and an interesting situation. There was more on the next page about the girl promising not to tell her name, and then she passes out. If that had been on this first page, I think that would have been plenty to get me to turn the page, storywise, and it will be possible for it to be there if the opening is trimmed and made crisper.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

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Donations go to the cost of hosting FtQ.

---

Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer for Dennis: would you keep reading?

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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, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

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.

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This is a return visit for Dennis. He was flogged back in March. He's reworked the material. Dennis's first 16 lines of his prologue:

"He has awakened."

"Who?"

"The Nightbringer."

"I had hoped he was destroyed this time."

"He is eternal. He cannot be destroyed. Only defeated - temporarily banished."

"It has only been three thousand years. He should not be awake yet. The teachings say ten thousand years must pass before he can return."

"Not if he is summoned."

"None have that power."

"None that we are aware of."

"We are not ready for him. Not yet."

"No one is. There are no heroes left in the world today."

"We haven't needed any."

"We do now. Go. They must be made aware."

"I do not question your judgment, but are you certain these are the ones you wish? They seem a little… different from the norm."

As before, I turned the page.

As before, this tease worked for me. The sparseness is inviting, the reference to a need for heroes made me want more. The last time Dennis submitted this, we also looked at the first 16 lines of his first chapter to see if it met the criteria of compelling, and we will again. But first, a couple of notes:

"He has awakened."

"Who?"

"The Nightbringer."

"I had hoped he was destroyed this time." ("this time" seems like it ought to be "last time," as in had been destroyed last time.)

"He is eternal. He cannot be destroyed. Only defeated - temporarily banished."

"It has only been three thousand years. He should not be awake yet. The teachings say ten thousand years must pass before he can return."

"Not if he is summoned."

"None have that power."

"None that we are aware of."

"We are not ready for him. Not yet."

"No one is. There are no heroes left in the world today."

"We haven't needed any."

"We do now. Go. They must be made aware."

"I do not question your judgment, but are you certain these are the ones you wish? They seem a little… different from the norm."

Now here are the first 16 lines of the first chapter:

A whip cracked the air inches above his head, making him jump and causing the prisoners around him to fall to their knees. He knew from experience that if the wielder of the whip had wanted to, it could have very easily used it to gouge yet another trench in his already tattered back.

His blood ran freely from at least a dozen wounds, both on his back and his chest. His arms and shoulders were bruised and scraped from falling on the jagged mismatch of broken, slippery rock and sloppy red clay that made up the floor of this valley. Where this place was, or what awaited him, was as big a mystery to him as the stars in the sky.

He waited patiently until he felt those around him regain their feet. They had been marching like this for days now. How many days? He really didn't know… A week? Two weeks? A month? It could have been any of them. Nothing ever changed for them except where they were. That was the life of a prisoner.

Not just tossed into the local holding cell for drinking too much and getting into a fight prisoner, but an honest to Gods, captured by some unknown race, prisoner - and he was not alone. He was one of about fourteen people with their wrists lashed painfully together behind their backs and forced to march to only the Gods knew where.

This time I turned the page

Though there are some writing issues to deal with, this was a more compelling scenario. The previous version lapsed into backstory that stopped me. Some notes:

Now here are the first 16 lines of the first chapter:

A whip cracked the air inches above his head. , making him jump and causing the prisoners around him He lurched, and the pull on the chains brought the prisoners on either side to their knees. He knew from experience that if the wielder of the whip had wanted to, it could have very easily used it to gouge yet another trench in his already tattered back. (I suggested an alternative to "making him jump and causing" for clarity and pictorial purposes. To cause other prisoners to fall must mean they are chained together, but the narrative doesn't tell us that. Also, "prisoners around him" was vague. "Jumping" and "causing" didn't give much of a picture, so I tried to give one. Also, I'd like to learn the guy's name in the first sentence unless there's a story reason for withholding it.)

His blood ran freely from at least a dozen wounds, both on his back and his chest. He figured the wetness on his back was blood from whip wounds as well. His arms and shoulders were bruised and scraped from falling on the jagged mismatch of broken, slippery rock and sloppy red clay that made up the floor of this valley. Where this place was, or what awaited him, was as big a mystery to him as the stars in the sky. (If his blood ran "freely," he'd soon bleed to death. Also, he can't really know how many wounds are on his back and how freely the blood runs there. I added a thought-starter to help the reader know about his back.)

He waited patiently until he felt those around him regain their feet. They had been marching like this for days now. How many days? He really didn't know… A week? Two weeks? A month? It could have been any of them. Nothing ever changed for them except where they were. That was the life of a prisoner. (I didn't really understand the first sentence. Why did he need to feel them get to their feet? Is it dark? Waited patiently to do what? Continue marching? Though-starter: The line stopped until the fallen men regained their feet.)

Not He wasn't just a tossed-into-the-local-holding-cell-for-drinking-too-much-and-getting-into-a-fight prisoner, but an honest to Gods, captured-by-some-unknown-race prisoner -- and he was not alone. He was one of about fourteen people with their wrists lashed painfully together behind their backs and forced to march to only the Gods knew where. (Technically, you're using very long compound adjectives here, and I'd suggest rewording to avoid them. I liked that you were weaving in that he has been a violent drinker, but maybe it could be smoother. If he's been chained/tied to all these people for as long as it feels to him, he would surely have had enough time to count how many were there instead of guessing.)

As you can see, from a craft point of view, Dennis can make some improvements. But from a story point of view, this is much better than the first time around.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

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Thank you, Sheila, for your generous donation. Donations go to the cost of hosting FtQ.

---

Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer for Sheila: would you keep reading?

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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, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

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.

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Sheila's first 16 lines of a fantasy novel:

Hightower knew, he knew, he couldn't kill his apprentice, and yet it would be so simple and so very satisfying. Why, just now, as their horses crossed the bridge into Rudyten, one swift kick would send the boy into the raging water below. And Edric was leaning over, gawking at the river. It took tremendous self-control for Hightower to keep his boot in its stirrup while Edric's incessant jabbering droned on.

" . . . and look at this bridge, three elegant arches followed by a drawbridge. Do they ever raise it? I bet not, who would dare attack this city? Look at that wall, there must be fifty, nay, a hundred towers around it, though I can't see the whole thing. This city is so vast. I've heard . . ."

Hightower seethed in silence as Edric babbled on, oblivious to the fact that his observations had no audience. The master felt his hands cramping and realized that his whole body was tense. Stupid boy!

After a deep breath Hightower calmed himself, noting, with annoyance, that it wasn't Edric's fault he was on edge. Hightower hadn't been back to Rudyten since his rival's confirmation ceremony years ago. Now, the prospect of revenge filled him with glee and trepidation, an agitating mixture.

A turn of the page for Sheila

A prickly, interesting character and a strong story question got me to turn the page. The voice is nice as well, inviting me to believe that there's more good writing to come. Yet I think this could be stronger. There's a little "telling" here, and some tightening is possible.

Hightower knew, he knew, he couldn't kill his apprentice, and yet it would be so simple and so very satisfying. Why, just now, as their horses crossed the bridge into Rudyten, one swift kick would send the boy into the raging water below. And Edric was leaning over, gawking at the river. It took tremendous self-control for Hightower to keep his boot in its stirrup while Edric's incessant jabbering droned on. (I just didn't care for the repetitive "he knew" in the opening sentence. And I think that "It took tremendous self-control…" is telling. Can you slip into the character's mind and express it from within? Thought-starter: Hightower took a firm grip on the impulse and reined it in. His boot stayed in the stirrup while Edric's incessant jabbering droned maddeningly on.)

" . . . and look at this bridge, three elegant arches followed by a drawbridge. Do they ever raise it? I bet not, who would dare attack this city? Look at that wall, there must be fifty, nay, a hundred towers around it, though I can't see the whole thing. This city is so vast. I've heard . . ." (Now I have some sympathy for Hightower's murderous impulse. Nice.)

Hightower seethed in silence as Edric babbled on, oblivious to the fact that his observations had no audience. The master felt his hands cramping and realized that his whole body was tense. Stupid boy! ("The master felt…" is stepping out of Hightower's point of view and is the author telling us stuff. He wouldn't be thinking of himself in that way at this time. Once again, get inside the character and give us his experience. For example: His rein hand cramped, and as he stretched his fingers he realized that his whole body was tight. Stupid boy!)

After a deep breath, Hightower calmed himself, noting, with annoyance, that; it wasn't Edric's fault he was on edge. Hightower hadn't been back to Rudyten since his rival's confirmation ceremony years ago. Now, the prospect of revenge filled him with glee and trepidation, an agitating mixture. (I think "noting, with annoyance" is more telling, an authorial intrusion. Not needed, IMO. "After a deep breath" seemed like the long way around to saying "He took a deep breath and calmed…etc. Still, quite a nice story question in that last sentence.)

Excellent start here. Sheila needs to watch out for spots where she tells rather than shows the experience -- they distance us from the character, even subliminally. I rather liked the darkness of this character and his arrogant irritability, and read on to see what he would do. The rest of the chapter didn't disappoint, storywise.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

---

Donations go to the cost of hosting FtQ.

---

Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer for Kamila: would you keep reading?

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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, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

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.

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Kamila's first 16 lines of a fantasy novel:

As a small child I once lost my balance and touched my hand on a hot stove. Before the pain stabbed into my fingers and struck my mind I remember feeling foolish and frightened. I cried out a not-very-small-child curse and put my fingers in my mouth just as the pain hit me. My mother hurled herself across the kitchen and pulled me up into her arms. That scent of our tribe's plush wool, the softness of homespun cloth against my face, the red hair of a Kilhells woman and green eyes staring into mine had always brought me comfort.

I know I'm dreaming, but that same hot pain I remember feels real, and there's no comfort this time. I'm trapped in that room again, the desert heat doubled by infernal fire in a hearth. I'm tied with bark rope on top of a camel hair rug. Instead of hot pokers, carving instruments are heating to white brilliance three feet from my face. There's a helefrit straddling me. Nearby, the blood of an infant has dried to black flakes. I want to wake up, but just like when it was actually happening, I'm helpless.

Something wooden cracks nearby and all at once I'm awake, gasping, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. My body tingles from the memory of my flesh burning and I'm sticky and smelly with sweat. I'm back in the present, cradled in a hammock in the belly of a sailing ship. Sailors stand around a barrel they've dropped. One sailor glances my way from under the brim (snip)

I turned the page, but. . .

An excellent, confident voice assured me that I'd be in good hands with this story, and the details of a fascinating world enticed me. However, I think Kamila could trim this some and get to a really provocative part sooner, preferably at the bottom of page one. I'll share that with you in a moment.

Opening with a dream is sometimes a problem, and here opening with a memory that's in a dream was confusing to me. I think the about-to-be-tortured part was very interesting, but it's not really tied to the moment, to what's happening when she awakens. Some notes:

As a small child I once lost my balance and touched my hand on a hot stove. Before the pain stabbed into my fingers and struck my mind I remember feeling foolish and frightened. I cried out a not-very-small-child curse and, and my put my fingers in my mouth just as the pain hit me. My mother hurled herself across the kitchen and pulled me up into her arms. That scent of our tribe's plush wool, the softness of homespun cloth against my face, the red hair of a Kilhells woman and green eyes staring into mine had always brought me comfort. (As nice as this is, trimmed down, I think I'd cut it altogether. There will be ways to weave in her backstory later, and now's the time to hook the reader. I don't think this information is compelling bait, so I'm going to treat the next paragraph as if it were the opener instead.)

I know I'm dreaming, but that same the hot pain I remember feels real., and there's no comfort this time. I'm trapped in that room again, the desert heat doubled by infernal fire in a hearth. I'm tied with bark rope on top of a camel hair rug. Instead of hot pokers, carving instruments are heating to white brilliance three feet from my face. There's a helefrit straddling me. Nearby, the blood of an infant has dried to black flakes. I want to wake up, but just like when it was actually happening, I'm helpless.

Something wooden cracks nearby and all at once I'm awake, gasping, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. My body tingles from the memory of my flesh burning and I'm sticky and smelly with sweat. I'm back in the present, cradled in a hammock in the belly of a sailing ship. Sailors stand around a barrel they've dropped. One sailor glances my way from under the brim (snip) (Small nit: I don't think a dropped barrel would "crack," I think it would be more likely to "crash," which would be more likely to awaken someone.)

Here's the reason I would trim so much from this opening: it's to get to this paragraph, which came pretty close to the top of the next page:

My name is famous. I'm famous, though hardly anyone has met me. It's always a surprise when people take my word for it that I am who I say I am. I'm plenty tall for a woman, but I don't think I'm tall enough for a myth. I don't wear armor, I've lost my sword, and not only did I fail to do anything to aid the war, I think I might be on my way to assassinate the only man who can save the world.

For me, there's great characterization here and an irresistible story question. If this can be at the bottom of page one, then I think Kamila is assured that the page will turn.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

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Thank you, Scott, for your generous donation. Donations go to the cost of hosting FtQ.

---

Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer for Scott: would you keep reading?

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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, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

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.

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Scott's first 16 lines:

The man arched his back and strained against the straps binding him to the bed.

"I'm worried he's going to break those wristlets, Dr. Randall. You can see how strong he is."

"We'll try not to let that happen. What's his name?"

"He told them Gabriel Lucifer in the ER. He's been here before, though. His real name's Raymond Johnson."

Raymond Johnson fixed directly on Randall and bellowed, "Jesus was the son of GOD! Jesus was the son of MAN! SATAN was an ANGEL! I can see it, and they can't stop me seeing it!" His voice was hoarse.

"Who are they, Mr. Johnson?"

"You know who they are! Don't you let them poke out my eyes! Don't you let them poke out my eyes!"

Too bad Raymond Johnson wasn't competent to consent for research. He would be perfect for the refenterine study. Being in restraints was kind of a tip-off. Still, maybe after he stabilized.

"We're not going to poke out your eyes, Mr. Johnson. I am a doctor. So is Dr. Peck, over there. Laura is a nurse. I can see you're feeling pretty bad, and we want to help you feel …

Despite interesting elements, I wasn't compelled

Craft issues stayed my hand. As I've noted before, editors and agents are highly sensitive to signs that the writing in a story won't be the crisp, professional ride that they need to find. It's the same with me. So, while there are promising story elements, I wasn't moved. Some notes:

The man arched his back and strained against the straps binding him to the bed.

"I'm worried he's going to break free those wristlets, Dr. Randall. You can see how strong he is." (Who is speaking? In these first lines, the point of view character is never established. The cuts were of what I felt were over-writing. It's implicit that the man is strong if there's worry that he will break free, and the other person there should be able to see it.)

"We'll try not to let that happen. What's his name?" (Who is speaking? I thought the first sentence was a fairly silly thing to say about an apparently violent patient. The narrative is showing signs of wandering, of not staying focused on story, IMO.)

"He told them Gabriel Lucifer in the ER. He's been here before, though. His real name's Raymond Johnson." (Once again, who the heck is speaking? And how about an action beat in here to break up the string of quotes.)

Raymond Johnson fixed directly on Randall and bellowed, "Jesus was the son of GOD! Jesus was the son of MAN! SATAN was an ANGEL! I can see it, and they can't stop me seeing it!" His voice was hoarse. (If you want the reader to hear that the man's voice is hoarse, that clue needs to come before he speaks. I'm not sure that "bellowed" is needed, what with all the CAPS and exclamation points. However, one way to work in his voice might be: Raymond Johnson fixed on Randall. He filled his lungs and bellowed, his voice hoarse, "Jesus…etc.)

"Who are they, Mr. Johnson?" (Still no indication of who is talking. If this is Randall, then give him an action beat before he talks to the man. Even something as simple as this: Dr. Randall leaned closer, still careful to keep his distance. Something like this also establishes him as the point of view character because we understand that he is being careful.)

"You know who they are! Don't you let them poke out my eyes! Don't you let them poke out my eyes!"

Too bad Raymond Johnson wasn't competent to consent for research. He would be perfect for the refenterine study. Being in restraints was kind of a tip-off. Still, maybe after he stabilized. . . (Because a point of view character has not been established, we don't know who this internal monologue is coming from. I added ellipses at the end because it was clearly a thought that trailed off.)

"We're not going to poke out your eyes, Mr. Johnson. I am a doctor. So is Dr. Peck, over there. Laura is a nurse. I can see you're feeling pretty bad, and we want to help you feel …(Still no dialogue indication. I see no need to refer to Dr. Peck, seeing as how the scene hasn't been set and we don't know that he's there. I assume Laura is the other person who has been talking. We should know that by now, in my view.

So those are some of the craft issues that stopped me. They were reflected in the later narrative -- lack of clarity, overwriting were of concern. Scott almost certainly has an interesting story to tell, and I think he can get there as he writes and rewrites his way up the learning curve.

By the way, Scott, I thought a better opening might have been the alarm ringing and the patient in the refenterine study.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

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Donations go to the cost of hosting FtQ.

---

Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Creating the care factor.

Readers demand a protagonist that they can care about. Not necessarily "like," but care about. Uber-fiction-agent Donald Maass, in his Writing the Breakout Novel, tells us that one key characteristic of the 100 bestselling novels that he analyzed is that the authors created protagonists that readers cared about.

Thus it comes to pass that acquisition editors at publishing houses demand that your manuscript and mine have that characteristic. But how do you make it happen?

Relationships
Lou Aronica, an editor and the publisher of scores of best-selling novels, told me that the number one way to create caring for a character is to show the character in a relationship. This is not, he stressed, to make a reader like a character, but to create a person-to-person connection that can cause a reader to care about what happens to a character, even one that is otherwise not appealing. We all have relationships, and experiencing one on the page makes the character more "like us." I read a novel in which the protagonist was a pedophile and killer, and while the character was disgusting in many ways, there were sides of him with which I empathized.

Here's just such a character: Born-Again Bobby Strunk, when you meet him, is an obese, slovenly, crude, arrogant, corrupt religious leader -- I guarantee that you would not like him. Yet, by the end of the novel, you will care about him. The caring begins with this:

The wrought-iron gate at the Shady Farms entrance hung open. Residents were unlikely to run away. The Farms was their haven; they had no desire to leave, except on field trips into town for a movie or an ice cream treat. Bobby drove between rows of tall oaks with overarching branches that formed a leafy roof over the driveway.

He parked in front of the converted plantation mansion. Six three-story pillars graced the white Greek Revival structure. A thirty-foot magnolia tree littered the lawn with fallen pink blossoms. Bobby regretted leaving the air-conditioned comfort of his black Lincoln to crunch across the gravel parking lot to the main entrance.

Inside, ceiling fans moved the humidity around but created no relief. He wrinkled his nose at the aromas of mold and the ammonia the janitor used to try to get rid of it.

Sister Mary Agnes, stout in her black habit, came down a sweeping double staircase to greet him. Her somber clothing contrasted sharply with the mansion's high-ceilinged elegance, but the nun always seemed at home. Smile lines crinkling the corners of her blue eyes, she said, "Reverend Strunk, so good to see you. Sadie will be delighted."

Bobby thought Catholics had a crazy religion, what with their Latin nobody could understand and a mutilated Christ pinned to the cross. But integrity and devotion radiated from this woman, and that was what he wanted for his little sister. "How is she?"

"Just as healthy and happy as ever. I think she's out on the shuffleboard court with a couple of our teenagers."

Bobby found Sadie crowing and clapping her chubby hands at knocking her opponent's puck off the ten-spot.

He called out, "Little sister."

She spun, and when she saw him a huge smile glowed. She ran to him, her clumsy gait typical of the short-legged, heavy body of Down Syndrome. Sadie threw herself at Bobby with arms open for a huge hug. He returned it with equal vigor. Comforted and rewarded by her unconditional love, his troubles left him.

Bobby forgot about being the man liberals labeled "the leader of the nation's most volatile right-wing Christian sect." He was a big brother, happily spending the next five hours with his twenty-year-old little sister, pushing her in the swung, laughing on the teeter-totter, dancing, and playing go fish.

They danced the Twist to 50s rock and roll in the rec room. They ate hot dogs and potato salad on the lawn, and talked about her world, a safe place with caregivers always at hand, classes to help her learn, and activities to engage her.

Even dead people count

A story opens with the protagonist deep in an emotional fugue—he doesn’t really feel anything. And he’s a gun for hire, a killer. The reasons for his fugue are mysterious, and they need to stay that way for at least half of the novel.

So how can a reader feel empathy for a character that feels nothing? Through a relationship that both establishes the mystery and tugs at the reader just enough to understand the troubled nature of the man. From the chapter that introduces him:

Jake Black pulled the trigger again.

Again the woman staggered. Then she dove off the flat rooftop after the little girl, her muffled laughter falling away.

A nasty mechanical buzz blasted him—his alarm clock yelling at him. He groped and turned it off, then realized that he was holding his breath, his jaws clenched and aching.

Why?

As he did every morning, he turned to a snapshot in a plain black frame on his nightstand—Amy, forever five years old, in her favorite, flowery party dress. He touched the tiny silver crucifix hanging by its chain from a corner of the frame. Amy wore it in the picture.

Why could he see her face in the photo but not in his memory? The crucifix glittered, and then he couldn’t look at it any more.

When he swung his legs out of bed, a foot came down on an empty wine bottle. God, his head hurt—the price of self-medication. He scowled at all the damn sunshine coming in the picture window that faced east.

Outside, fat clouds drifted towards Lake Michigan in a sepia sky. On the water, white triangles of sails leaned before the wind. Sunlight flared from ant trails of cars thirty stories below on Lake Shore Drive. The view cost extra, but it was a waste.

In the bathroom, his red, puffy eyes stared at him from the medicine-cabinet mirror. He wondered about the moisture on his cheeks. More and more, he found it there when he woke. He touched it with a fingertip, then tasted. Salty.

Another care factor: passion
Aronica told me that a second trait that can create a caring connection with a character is passion for achieving something. People driven to achieve, or fighting for a cause bigger than themselves, is something we can admire, and that brings the character closer to us.

In the film Rocky, his passion for making the best of himself for the big fight takes him and the audience through rigorous training. The audience works with him every bit of the way, and then celebrates with him when he makes his triumphal run up the steps.

In Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead, Howard Roark's passion for his design, and for his vision of what it could be even in the face of what would be crushing opposition, create a huge "rooting factor" for him.

This is one that can work with both protagonists and antagonists. In the film, Spider-Man 2, Doctor Octopus has a goal of achieving a new energy source, which is admirable. Unfortunately, he goes a little nuts about it and does bad things to get there, but his fundamental passion is positive, and that keep a human core alive inside him, and we can care when he sacrifices his life to save the city.

Lastly, caring about others
Showing a character caring is perhaps a form of having a relationship, but I think it's distinct enough to point out. Here's an example of putting that to work for an antagonist.

Wait, an antagonist? The bad guy? Caring? You bet. Sure, you can have a purely evil villain, and readers can enjoy the ride. But a novel has more depth and dimension when the antagonist is also seen as human by the reader. If a reader has just a little bit of connection with the opposition, then the lessons of how not to be a human being are more valid, and valuable.

After all, a good bad guy (good from a storytelling point of view) doesn't see himself as a bad guy. Nor does he see his actions as "evil." Nope, he's just trying to do what he thinks is right. Sometimes bad guys do evil in support of positive outcomes.

So if you can create connections between your reader and your antagonist, the story has set another hook, and the reader is drawn more deeply.

Here's an illustration of caring. When we first meet Drago, we don't have a clue that he will eventually do very bad things. It would be nice for the reader to be on his side, even if only a little bit, so his arc into evil will be greater and more meaningful. Here's how we meet Drago:

The percussive whup-whup-whup of a helicopter drew Drago to a porthole in his galleon's quarterdeck cabin. In the forest clearing where his ship and two others of his clan rested, a half-dozen clan children, teens to toddlers, built a snowman. The tall curved hulls of the sixteenth-century Spanish vessels, all grace when they sailed through the air, now seemed awkward, supports angling out like spider legs to hold them upright. The daylight was dim under the gray January sky, but that didn't seem to matter to the children.

Helicopter noise smothered their giggles, and the galleons vanished behind glaméres of snow-clad forest, the illusions broadcast by alert sentries.

All save one of the children disappeared as well, disguised as young trees. Little Alexandra, her skills not yet awakened, burst into tears. Drago swung the porthole open to help her with a concealing glamére, but then a sapling scooped up the child. In the flicker of a thought, a fat squirrel appeared in her place. Satisfied, he closed the port against the chill.

The helicopter sound faded, the ships and children blinked back into view, and a snowball fight developed. Intrusions by lessi -- and the danger they brought -- were normal to clan children, but for Drago they were a long-endured infestation that he would soon eliminate.

This man's instinctive move to protect a child, and then his desire to protect all of his clan's children, says something about his values. Only later will the reader learn how distorted his way of achieving his goals have been by a murderous desire for vengeance. And it took very little narrative space to add this grace note to his character.

This is a chapter from my forthcoming book, Jump-start Your Novel with Kitty-cats in Action.

For what it's worth.

Ray

---

Donations go to the cost of hosting FtQ.

---

Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer for Julian: would you keep reading?

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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, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

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.

---

Julian's first 16 lines:

James felt a few drops of water on his face and being sure to keep his balance, he looked up at the sky. It had started to rain.

Although he was in distinct danger of falling, he couldn't help admiring the view. From the roof terrace it was incredible; a real selling point, a potential deal-maker, especially at night. It was getting dark, he could see the lights of London stretching in a wide band all the way from his left to his right and he made a mental note to try in future to arrange his clients' viewings during the evenings.

How had he got himself into such a mess?

He looked down. Seven floors below him he could see the street, a couple of parked cars and some rubbish bins and directly under him, illuminated by a single street light, there was a pile of rubble where he could just make out the form of the cat, which was lying motionless. As an estate agent he knew better than anyone how much first impressions counted and what with the rubble and all, the entrance to the apartment block would not make a good first impression.

Bizarrely, despite his precarious and dangerous predicament, he found himself recalculating his evaluation.

Here he was, he thought, like a fool, in the dark, standing on a ledge seven floors above street level, in distinct danger of falling and all he could think about was the price of the bloody apartment.

I turned the page
A good action story question was enough for me -- will he fall off? And why is he there, anyway. But there are some notes. . .

James felt a few drops of water on his face, and being sure to keep his balance, he looked up at the sky. It had started to rain. (I thought the "keep his balance" part was a nice, subtle way to introduce a low-key note of tension. I'm not a fan of "he or she felt," though. We've all been outdoors when it starts to rain, and I don't know that we need to look up at the sky to figure that out. For me, I think this could be cleaner and quicker. For example: A raindrop hit his face, and then another and another. He pressed against the wall, making sure to keep his balance. I think the first sentence in this thoughtstarter shows you that it's beginning to rain in a descriptive way.)

Although he was in distinct danger of falling, he couldn't help admiring the view. From the roof terrace it was had been incredible; a real selling point, a potential deal-maker, especially at night. It was getting dark, he could see the lights of London stretching in a wide band all the way from his left to his right and he made a mental note to try in future to arrange his clients' viewings during the evenings. (I adjusted the tense in the second sentence because it suggests that he's still on the roof terrace, and he's not.)

How had he got himself into such a mess? (I'd cut this. He knows exactly how this all happened, and it's a waste of narrative, in my view.)

He looked down. Seven floors below him he could see the street, a couple of parked cars and some rubbish bins. and directly under him, Illuminated by a single street light, there was a pile of rubble where he could just make out the form of the cat, which was lying motionless. As an estate agent, he knew better than anyone how much first impressions counted and what with the rubble and all, the entrance to the apartment block would not make a good first impression. (I highlighted "some" because it's a useless adjective in description. How many rubbish bins do you see as "some?" Who knows? Why not a specific number, or "a pair" to give a picture. The other cuts were bits of overwriting. Since he's already said that what we're seeing is below him, I saw no need to add the "directly under" -- the reader will get that. I suggest that Julian consider adding something such as "after its fall" at the end of the description of the cat, which slips in a little more tension-building information.)

Bizarrely, despite his precarious and dangerous predicament, he found himself recalculating his evaluation.

Here he was, he thought, like a fool, in the dark, standing on a ledge seven floors above street level, in distinct danger of falling and all he could think about was the price of the bloody apartment. (I'm willing to buy into the crazy things a panicked mind might do, so this worked for me, and now I know just how bad his situation is.)

As it turns out, this guy is murdered, but there's a nice bit of character building going on. Keep working, Julian, and aim to keep the narrative lean here in the opening. Thanks for sending your work.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

---

Donations go to the cost of hosting FtQ.

---

Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer for Petronella: would you keep reading?

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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. I

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, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

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.

---

Petronella's first 16 lines from a sci fi erotica novel:

I stood in the control center of the great Seedship, Alpha Primo, the First of Firsts. Behind me blazed the gateway through which I had entered the spherical space. n front of me a mobile form of the Alpha Primo paced in a semi circle, turning whenever he came up even with me. Like myself Alpha Primo was a synth in human form.

"What's all this?" I waved an arm at the bewildering scene before me. Ever changing shapes covered the wall, and a large structure that crackled and hissed filled the central space. I didn't understand how the ship worked, for I was, after all, a new-born synth, having been decanted a mere hour ago from the vat where I had taken form.

At first he did not answer me, and continued his incestant pacing. I repeated my question. He stopped and stared at me as if he were aware of my presence for the first time.

"Ah, Guardian," said Alpha Primo. "I have a special task for you. I want you to become human."

Had he forgotten my question already? I wanted to learn about the strange things I saw in front of me. I had no desire to become human.

"I'm a synth, how can I ever hope to be human? I can't become flesh."

"I want you to live like a human," he said, his dark eyes serious. "To that end you need a mate. It sorrows me that I have no template for a female synth, and I do not know how to make one.

Although interested, I didn't go for it

The writing is good, and because I'm a SF/fantasy reader, I was predisposed to turn this page. What stalled me? Some craft issues, and informational speed bumps that were vague and seemed unnecessary. Some notes:

I stood in the control center of the great Seedship, Alpha Primo, the First of Firsts. Behind me blazed the gateway through which I had entered the spherical space. In front of me a mobile form of the Alpha Primo paced in a semi circle, turning whenever he came up even with me. Like myself, Alpha Primo was a synth in human form. (A slip in clarity right away. First we're introduced to a mobile form of Alpha Primo, which was fine with me. But then we're told that Alpha Primo is a synth in human form. Which means that the "mobile form" is the same as the actual creature, and I don't think that's what the writer means. The part about pacing"in a semi circle, turning whenever he came up even with me" is overwriting, detail that is absolutely not needed and slows the pace. If you just say "pacing," the reader will fill in all that's needed to visualize the action. Worse, it's a sign of more overwriting to come.)

"What's all this?" I waved an arm at the bewildering scene before me. Ever changing shapes covered the wall, and a large structure that crackled and hissed filled the central space. I didn't understand how the ship worked, for I was, after all, a new-born synth, having been decanted a mere hour ago from the vat where I had taken form. (While I appreciate the effort to introduce the "new-born" aspect of this character in this way, two things bothered me. One was the vagueness of the visual he sees -- I don't "see" anything that makes any kind of sense to me. What does it have to do with how the ship worked? What does how the ship worked have to do with anything? As it turns out, nothing. This is more overwriting, in my view.)

At first he did not answer me, and continued his incestant incessant pacing. I repeated my question. He stopped and stared at me as if he were aware of my presence for the first time.(I cut all of this because it's just wasting my time as a reader. There's no reason for a stall like this. It doesn't build tension in the character because he feels none. Throat-clearing.)

"Ah, Guardian," said Alpha Primo. "I have a special task for you. I want you to become human." (Ah, at last, something really interesting.)

Had he forgotten my question already? I wanted to learn about the strange things I saw in front of me. I had no desire to become human. "I'm a synth, how can I ever hope to be human? I can't become flesh." (She had me going with a provocative statement, and then tried to divert me again. I think you need to keep the focus on what's going to matter to the protagonist. In this case, it's his mission to become human.)

"I want you to live like a human," he said, his dark eyes serious. "To that end you need a mate. It sorrows me that I have no template for a female synth, and I do not know how to make one. (Now this raises good story questions. If only it had come sooner.)

All of what I see as unnecessary information prevented a couple of things from making it to the first page that would have definitely helped moved me forward.

Alpah Primo said, "I have created nanomachines, which are stored and made in the organs hidden in the sacs below your linking organ. These machines will use a female human as a template to make a female synth."

"How will I get the machines on or in the female? Do the storage sacs detach?"

"You will mate with the female in the human manner. Once you have changed a female into a synth you shall bring her here, so that I may direct you to a sphere created special for you and your mate."

That section raises good story questions for me, especially an anticipation of who the female human will be and what's going to happen to her. Will an innocent person be changed into a machine?

Just as agent Lori Perkins says, "…your novel has to grab me on the first page, which is why we can reject you on the first page."

Thanks for sending this, Petronella, and keep at it. There's plenty of promise here.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

---

Donations go to the cost of hosting FtQ.

---

Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer for Ken: would you keep reading?

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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, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

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.

---

Ken's first 16 lines:

Dr. Uri Organikov searched the barren, windswept plains that lay beyond the building's only window. He waited in the deserted cafeteria for his wife, Dr. Pepka Organikov. He smiled when he thought of Cairo. Wouldn't it be nice to let the desert sun splash over their naked bodies writhing with pleasure on a secluded dune? To be warm, warm without vodka, that would be so nice. First, they must escape this prison, Russia. He looked around the empty cafeteria. It was nearly lunchtime, but there was no food.

To think he was among the elite. A doctor, an esteemed microbiologist, both he and his wife were renowned for their accomplishments, at least among their fellow mad scientists. Yet, on this day, he and his wife had nothing to eat. They would die of starvation if they waited for relief from their comrades in Moscow. In most parts of the world they would be highly paid. Not here. Since the collapse of the regime their craft had fallen from grace. Russia could not afford to feed them, much less pay them what they were worth. Their only chance was to ply their trade elsewhere.

He could hear the echo of his wife's high-heeled shoes coming down the empty hall. Less than one year ago this place had been a den of activity. People were scurrying about trying to see pet projects advanced.

I turned the page, but…

The promise of a story in an exotic Russian world, plus jeopardy and story questions -- they would starve, how would they escape -- were enough to get me to turn the page despite some craft concerns. Then, as has always been the case, the craft concerns turned into problems on the very next page -- two paragraphs down the author head-hopped into another character's mind. For me, and for many agents and editors, that's a real turn-off. Still, Ken deserves credit for a good start. Some notes:

Dr. Uri Organikov searched the barren, windswept plains that lay beyond the building's only window. He waited in the deserted cafeteria for his wife, Dr. Pepka Organikov. He smiled when he thought of being in Cairo with Pepka. Wouldn't it be nice to let the desert sun splash over their naked bodies, writhing with pleasure on a secluded dune? To be warm, warm without vodka, that would be so nice. First, they must escape this prison, Russia. He looked around the empty cafeteria. It was nearly lunchtime, but there was no food. (I cut the line about waiting in the cafeteria because it seemed to be a flat piece of info dumped in by the author, and certainly not anything like the thoughts of a man musing about his situation. I added the parts about his wife so that the reference to Cairo would make sense. I really liked the line about being warm without vodka -- in fact, it was part of what encouraged me to turn the page.)

To think he was among the elite. A doctor, aAn esteemed microbiologist, both he and his wife were renowned for their accomplishments, at least among their fellow mad scientists. Yet, on this day, he and Pepka his wife had nothing to eat. They would die of starvation if they waited for relief from their comrades in Moscow. In most parts of the world they would be highly paid. Not here. Since the collapse of the regime their craft had fallen from grace. Russia could not afford to feed them, much less pay them what they were worth. Their only chance was to ply their trade elsewhere. (I cut the big chunk at the last for a couple of reasons. First, it was a huge non sequitur to go from starving to complaining about financial and professional status. The threat of starvation seems much more powerful, and shows that the regime has collapsed without telling. This part was also more summary or telling. A second factor is that it slows the narrative with backstory that really isn't needed here, IMO. It's information that can easily be woven in later.)

He could heard the echo of his wife's high-heeled shoes coming down the empty hall. Less than one year ago this place had been a den of activity. People were scurrying had scurried about trying to see pet projects advanced. (Credibility alert: how could he possibly know that it was his wife's footsteps he heard? Unless the building has no other occupants -- and that hasn't been established -- he couldn't possibly distinguish between the sound of one pair of high-heeled shoes from that of another. He could anticipate that it would be her, but not know. Also, we're in danger of veering into exposition that will slow the pace exactly when Ken needs to keep it moving.)

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

---

Donations go to the cost of hosting FtQ.

---

Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Flogometer for Anthony: would you keep reading?

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Out of it today.

I'm down with a fever this morning and don't think I'm thinking as clearly as I'd like to do a flogging. Tune in tomorrow or the next day.

---

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, etc.) there should be about 16 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page).

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.

---

Anthony's first 16 lines of his fantasy novel:

The red eyes bore him down.

Farnic looked through the swirling sand at the sandwolves. He knew they were out there, mere yards away from him, but couldn't see anything but their red eyes. They'd occasionally flash before him, stare, and then disappear, bodies blending in with the desert. They were circling, which meant an attack was imminent.

When the wind briefly died down, Farnic looked around for any sign of them, but found none. Why would they toy with us? He looked behind him, saw his brother grinning a bit -- the fool -- and Albres scowling. All this for some spices. It wasn't worth it.

They were about three miles away from the city, but the second sun was nearly all the way set, and the mules were scared and slow. If the sun goes down, we all die.

A sandwolf's howl pierced through the air, alone at first, and then its kin picked up the call. This was life. This was the Pass.

*

They were still howling. As the sky turned from that of a peach to that of a bruise, Farnic willed his mule to go faster. Every single spice and potion in the wagon better sellout.

His mother owned a medical shop, one of the best in the city. But to get most of the supplies…

I turned the page, but…

Attacking sandwolves will get me every time, so that part works just fine. I didn't, however, understand the time break with the asterisk -- it cost Anthony a valuable line of narrative on his first page. And there was no real need for it, in my view. With the threat there, keep throwing wolves at Farnic and company.

The "but" part of my reaction refers to the brief info dump that begins with the need to sell all the spices and his mother's ownership of a medical shop. Get them into the city and then tell me about that. Some notes and edits:

The red eyes bore him down. (While this is a grabber, I think it would have been even stronger if it included the fact that the eyes belonged to sandwolves. Why wait? It's more bait on the hook.)

Farnic looked through the swirling sand at the sandwolves. He knew they were out there, mere yards away from him, but couldn't see anything but their red eyes. They'd occasionally flash before him, stare, and then disappear, bodies blending in with the desert. They were circling; which meant an attack was imminent.

When the wind briefly died down, Farnic looked around for any sign of them, but found none. Why would they toy with us? He looked behind him, saw his brother grinning a bit -- the fool -- and Albres scowling. All this for some spices. It wasn't worth it. (I think something like "searched" would be stronger than "looked around." Albres turns out to be his mother, and I think that would be good to include here.)

They were about three miles away from the city, but the second sun was nearly all the way set, and the mules were scared and slow. If the sun goes down, we all die.

A sandwolf's howl pierced through the air, alone at first, and then its kin picked up the call. This was life. This was the Pass. (The struck statement clearly isn't the thinking of a guy threatened with being chewed to death, it's the author sticking his thumb into the pie. For me, it distracted. "Pierced the air" is a tired old phrase, and I'd urge something more original. And I'd include Farnic's reaction to it -- does he clench his sword hilt? Shiver? Have him react in some way.)

They were still howling. As the sky turned from that of a peach to that of a bruise, Farnic willed his mule to go faster. Every single spice and potion in the wagon better sell out. (I liked the "peach/bruise" description, but it seems like adding "the color of" would help with clarity. I cut the break and the "still howling" because I think it would be good to keep the tension high.)

His mother owned a medical shop, one of the best in the city. But to get most of the supplies… (As noted, this is no time to slip into exposition and backstory. This is a speed bump r