Writers, send your prologue/first chapter to FtQ for a “flogging” critique. Email as an attachment. In your email, include your name, permission to use the first page, and, if it’s okay, permission to post the rest of the prologue/chapter.
Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, it’s educational to take a hard look at their first pages. A poll follows concerning the need for an editor.
Donald Maass, literary agent and author of many books on writing, says, “Independent editor Ray Rhamey’s first-page checklist is an excellent yardstick for measuring what makes openings interesting.”
A First-page Checklist
It begins to engage the reader with the character
Something is wrong/goes wrong or challenges the character
The character desires something.
The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
The one thing it must do: raise a story question.
Next are the first 17 manuscript lines of Stolen Son. A poll follows the opening page below. Should this author have hired an editor?
My heart raced, Greg’s fingers tangling through my thick hair as he kissed my body. Everything was perfect. His platinum hair reminded me of someone else. An uneasiness started to rise in my body, yet everything seemed so wonderful! I tried to let the pleasure of being with my husband consume me again. Nothing seemed to work. Something wasn’t right, yet I couldn’t place my finger on it. Begrudgingly, I shoved Greg away. I had to find our son, Gregory.
He glared at me as my pleasure turned to fear. His eyes, once as blue as the ocean itself, had changed. There was nothing but darkness in them. I tried to scream but the sound wouldn’t escape my throat. All around me, the bedroom began to shake as pictures fell from the walls. Behind them, blood oozed out, thick and black like putrid sludge. Greg was gone, and the dark figure which replaced him triggered my fear and memory. He was the bad man, the one who liked to force his way with me.
Before his thick fingers could wrap around my throat, I screamed again, praying for anyone to hear me and come to my rescue but knowing it was already too late. I closed my eyes as his figure faded away. It wasn’t until the menacing laughter stopped that I opened them again. A woman ran into my room, fear creasing her youthful face as she rushed to my side.
“Ms. Simmons! Are you in pain?” she yelled over my screams.
This novel earned 3.8 stars on Amazon. In addition to this being a dream opening, a kind of bait-and-switch tactic, craft issues abounded. POV issues in the opening paragraph were the protagonist, in the midst of great sex, thinking about the thickness of her hair and the color of his. In another paragraph, menacing laughter that had not been introduced into the scene stopped. A definite no-go from me.
Cover critique
This cover is more professional than the writing. The title is intriguing and well set off against a moody, forbidding background that reinforces the title. The author name is adequately sized, though why not make it as large as possible, there’s plenty of room. What do you think?
My books. You can read sample chapters and learn more about the books here.
Just about to head out for a full day of workshops, but I want to share something with you to think about.
Backstory: I'm doing a total overhaul of my first vampire kitty-cat novel with the goal of including the other primary character, Meg, as a POV character--the original is all narrated by my cat, Patch. I've just started on revising.
While she is a main character, another character appears in a supporting role right at the beginning, the woman my vampire kitty-cat lives with--his associate. He's been with her for years, and they have a warm relationship.
In one of Donald Maass's workshops, he proposed this question: what if you kill a character your protagonist cares about?
Thus challenged, I had to think about it. The question expanded to what happens if my hero is the one who kills that character?
Holy cow! It would make for a helluva dramatic turn right at the beginning of the book.
It would also introduce a very dark element into a comic novel.
I'm going to try it. I don't know if I can bring that off, that combination of humor and darkness, but I'm going to try it.
At the end of the workshop I went up to Don and said, "Don, you have just destroyed my novel. Thank you."
So try that question out on your work in progress and see what happens.
Sorry to disappoint, but I'm still consumed by the UnConference, gotta get going to breakfast. The workshops have been terrific, and tonight I do my Flog a Pro gig. It will be fun.
I'm traveling to Salem, Massachusetts today (ungodly6:00 a.m. flight) to take part in the third UnConference created by Writer Unboxed. I'll be teaching a "Flog a Pro" workshop where we analyze the first pages of bestsellers.
I should be able to post from there later this week, will do I if I can. I expect a lovely time with the WU community of writers and publishing professionals.
Submissions sought. Get fresh eyes on your opening page. Submission directions below.
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.
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. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.
Donald Maass,, literary agent and author of many books on writing, says, “Independent editor Ray Rhamey’s first-page checklist is an excellent yardstick for measuring what makes openings interesting.”
A First-page Checklist
It begins to engage the reader with the character
Something is wrong/goes wrong or challenges the character
The character desires something.
The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
The one thing it must do: raise a story question.
A reminder of what you’re after here. This blog is about crafting compelling openings. Not interesting, compelling. Why does it have to meet that hurdle? First, if your work is going to an agent, you’re competing with hundreds of submissions. You have to cut through that clutter and competition with powerful storytelling and strong writing. If it’s a reader browsing in a bookstore or online, the same goes—there are scores of published books competing with yours. Yeah, you need compelling.
Frank sends the prologue and first chapter of Porro. The rest of the narrative is after the break.
Prologue
Sparkling sounds and mellow sights of a perfect noon-time summer day at any lakefront park anywhere in the world. Blue sky containing a tender breeze that nudges a few light-colored clouds. A young woman is walking a white Peek-A-Poo. “Mellie, baby… Could you please just do it for Mommy? She has to get back to work.” Mom and Dad, or maybe Gramma and Grampa, are feeding little ones a picnic lunch. Friends running down a wayward frisbee and laughing. Splat of collapsing cornhole bag and the pulse of bass from open windows and sunroofs…And a scream…Ripping, from deep within the heart …trailing off to a moan tinged with sorrow and sad, frightened recognition.
####
Fuzzy little Melanie had made a discovery. She was tugging a piece of soiled white cloth from one of the large squared-off openings in a dark green heavy mesh-plastic trash container. At first it seemed quite ordinary. But puppy’s mistress walked over to her good girl and quickly spotted the blood. And the smiley face. And she realized it was the tee shirt that all Northeast Ohio, as well as parts of eastern Indiana, Northern Kentucky and Southern Michigan had been seeing in their newspapers, on their TV screens and in Face Book newsfeeds for three days. It was shown next to the photo of a six-year-old-girl who had vanished from a supermarket parking lot in the nearby Ohio town of Ellinville.
Chapter 1
Twelve minutes later two Major Crimes detectives were on-scene. Michael Friedman had been on the unit all of a week and a half. His lead, Stan Porro, had twelve years on the job, nearly five in Major Crimes. On the short drive from Headquarters building they had only the briefest time to discuss the call.
“So whaddaya think, Stan? From what dispatch told you, I’m feeling edgy.”
“Good. I’d be worried if you weren’t.”
“Is it that missing kid?”
“Gotta be. Just the blood, maybe not. But that goddam smiley thing…
“Wow…Shit…”
“Ditto. Looks like you’re playin’ in the majors your first time up to bat.”
Porro pulled their unmarked Dodge Charger off Lake Road into the park entrance. He drove to the rear of the area and into a slot opposite the trash can, hood facing Lake Erie. They were three slots away from the black and white.
“Mike, go tell the uni to widen that perimeter by about ten yards. Then take her squad down to the entrance flip the lights on and block it. I’m calling CS. Stay there till they arrive. Hopefully, they’re not already out at another site. If we’re lucky we may be able to reopen the park before too long. The uniform will relieve you when she’s finished taping. And get her (snip)
The writing is okay, though there is a fair amount of “telling” in the narrative (eg. Fuzzy little Melanie had made a discovery.). But why did the scene-setting place us in a park anywhere in the world when, it turns out, it’s at Lake Erie? Ground us on real ground, not imaginary ground.
And I wonder why this is a prologue instead of the first part of chapter 1? Chapter one starts 16 minutes later. In my view, the prologue should be a scene that starts chapter one. A line break and a transition can easily bring the cops in.
As for turning the page . . . the discovery of a child’s body is certainly enough for me, though I’m not eager to read about the crime. But the chatter between the cops, including joking about hitting on a woman while responding to the murder of a child didn’t work to make me want more. This might be a fair representation of gallows humor among cops, but for me they should have been upset and concerned, not playful. So no on the first chapter—I didn’t really want to spend any more time with those guys.
Submissions sought. Get fresh eyes on your opening page. Submission directions below.
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.
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. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.
Donald Maass,, literary agent and author of many books on writing, says, “Independent editor Ray Rhamey’s first-page checklist is an excellent yardstick for measuring what makes openings interesting.”
A First-page Checklist
It begins to engage the reader with the character
Something is wrong/goes wrong or challenges the character
The character desires something.
The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
The one thing it must do: raise a story question.
A reminder of what you’re after here. This blog is about crafting compelling openings. Not interesting, compelling. Why does it have to meet that hurdle? First, if your work is going to an agent, you’re competing with hundreds of submissions. You have to cut through that clutter and competition with powerful storytelling and strong writing. If it’s a reader browsing in a bookstore or online, the same goes—there are scores of published books competing with yours. Yeah, you need compelling.
David sends the first chapter of Breaking Now. The rest of the narrative is after the break.
Ben Spencer was troubled as he made his usual safety assessment. Strategic survival options noted. Four exits within a hundred feet of section-F, row-W. Good, but not great. Another exit farther away, but closer to the stage. Much better choice. If anything happens, most of the crowd will flee toward the lobby doors. It’s where the bodies pile up. Ben knew this from experience. He would lead Debra to the exit near the stage.
They had argued. Mozart won. Ben would rather have been at the Foo Fighters gig, but Debra had insisted on the orchestra fundraiser. He didn’t have the stomach for a tussle. At least he was able to convince their friends Rick and Carol to come along. Why suffer alone?
Everything was catching up with him, and classical music was depressing, the soundtrack of cinema noir. He assumed life couldn’t get any worse. But, he was wrong. Not that he would blame Debra for the way things eventually turned out. It was entirely his fault. He alone risked everything he cared about, including his family’s safety. The mobster would probably have found a way to gain control whether Ben had been to the concert or not.
Pressure had been piling up. The crushing pressure from the bean counters. The self-imposed pressure to save his staff without compromising principle. His competitors were taking shortcuts, but Ben had been in the trenches. He wasn’t about to sacrifice his hard-earned reputation now that he had joined the ranks of management. The easy way out was tempting. He (snip)
The opening paragraph promises trouble ahead (although it is through "telling," rather than showing) . . . and then the next paragraph slips into backstory. And then the third paragraph seems to be letting us know that whatever is happening here has already happened and there were consequences. Then we continue with backstory in the form of musing.
While the opening suggests the beginning of a scene, it devolves into exposition. As it turns out, nothing happens at the concert. It ends, they leave safe and sound. So why are we at the concert?
Then we go to have drinks afterwards, and the protagonist has a conversation with a mobster—but nothing happens, not even a threat. It’s all friendly (except in the narrator’s mind). Seems clear to me that the story begins later, after this chapter ends. I suggest you look for the moment when trouble actually comes to Ben and start there. Oh, and it would be good to know what Ben is, what he does. On the second page there’s a hint that he’s a reporter with the reference to the crime beat, but that’s not really definitive.
Writers, send your prologue/first chapter to FtQ for a “flogging” critique. Email as an attachment. In your email, include your name, permission to use the first page, and, if it’s okay, permission to post the rest of the prologue/chapter.
Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, it’s educational to take a hard look at their first pages. A poll follows concerning the need for an editor.
Donald Maass, literary agent and author of many books on writing, says, “Independent editor Ray Rhamey’s first-page checklist is an excellent yardstick for measuring what makes openings interesting.”
A First-page Checklist
It begins to engage the reader with the character
Something is wrong/goes wrong or challenges the character
The character desires something.
The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
The one thing it must do: raise a story question.
Next are the first 17 manuscript lines of the prologue of Conviction. A poll follows the opening page below. Should this author have hired an editor?
Jordyn lay on her back in the kitchen, feigning death, wondering how her sweet-sixteen birthday slumber party turned into a bloody massacre. One minute she and her friends were giggling and having fun, the next they were running for their lives.
Now she could only hope that the man pacing the living room wouldn’t notice her; she had slid behind the bar that separated the kitchen and den when the attack started and hadn’t moved since. She’d been struggling not to sob aloud, though the sight of her family and friends being killed in front of her made it very challenging. If he hears me, I die. That simplified things for her.
Jordyn didn’t know who he was; he had entered the front door at 10:00 p.m. unhindered. They left the house unlocked all evening. Jordyn’s friends had been entering periodically, so everyone there had their guard down, including her mom, who was busy trying to make sure all the girls stayed fed and entertained.
As soon as the stranger entered, Jordyn knew something was off; he had an unusual, savage look about him. She thought maybe he was just a homeless man who wandered into the house looking for food, but his next action betrayed this. The man lifted a weapon hidden behind his back and shot Aaron, Jordyn’s cousin, in the chest. Aaron fell backward and didn’t move.
Chaos ensued; her friends were screaming and trying to scramble to their feet, but the (snip)
This novel earned 4.7 stars on Amazon. Definitely a grabber of a scene, and strong story questions are immediately raised. There’s some “telling” in the narrative (Chaos ensued) but that’s not uncommon in thrillers, though the scene would be more effective if it stays close to the girl’s POV. I’ll admit to turning the page. What do you think?
My books. You can read sample chapters and learn more about the books here.
Submissions sought. Get fresh eyes on your opening page. Submission directions below.
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.
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. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.
Donald Maass,, literary agent and author of many books on writing, says, “Independent editor Ray Rhamey’s first-page checklist is an excellent yardstick for measuring what makes openings interesting.”
A First-page Checklist
It begins to engage the reader with the character
Something is wrong/goes wrong or challenges the character
The character desires something.
The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
The one thing it must do: raise a story question.
A reminder of what you’re after here. This blog is about crafting compelling openings. Not interesting, compelling. Why does it have to meet that hurdle? First, if your work is going to an agent, you’re competing with hundreds of submissions. You have to cut through that clutter and competition with powerful storytelling and strong writing. If it’s a reader browsing in a bookstore or online, the same goes—there are scores of published books competing with yours. Yeah, you need compelling.
Thomas sends the first chapter of a historical novel. The rest of the narrative is after the break.
IN THE EAST it happened, in ancient town, by ageless river—in the East, where the past was so old, so outrageous, so remembered, that nothing new and strange could seem entirely a surprise, unless heaven above should itself crack open.
One dark unbroken morning there in the East, a child always restless was seized by sudden stillness. The mother at once was aware of this change. The child lived in her womb and in recent weeks always wakened her by this hour with jerks and kicks.
Not today.
The mother’s mind stirred to alertness in the clinging early dawn. Why was this child so still?
From those movements in mornings past, she’d discerned how this child was one with her, yet separate, self-minded. The child—their first—was hers, yet not. Today this wonder deepened; the child chose not to budge.
Lying wide-eyed on her sleeping mat of river-reeds, for a moment the woman didn’t breathe. All the stillness—the child’s, her own, plus motionless shadows in the room around her—throbbed together in what seemed almost a thunder-roar. She closed her eyes.
In an instant, a moment breathless as death, her mind seemed stolen from her, swept forward across future years. Her inward eyes detected someone standing near, tall, wide-shouldered, (snip)
The writing is at a high level, the voice and tone one of epic stories. But it’s the author’s voice, not that of the nameless woman. Lack of a name is one small issue with me. In my view, names give character’s life, they signal that there is a person here. An anonymous “woman” falls short of that. More than that, it distances us from the character, which in turn distances us from caring about this non-person. This is not a narrative that immerses us into a character’s experience. If that’s okay with you, that’s okay, but I suspect some readers will turn away.
As for story questions, the only one that occurs to me is to wonder if the fetus has died. But that possibility does not occur to the woman, nor does she seem distressed about the lack of movement. So maybe there’s no need for us to do so.
On the next page is narrative that would have helped with tension had it been on the first. Unless all the exposition about “the East” figures into the story, I would delete that so that this could be included:
Her inward eyes detected someone standing near, tall, wide-shouldered, tensely alert; someone fearsome in beauty, though she couldn’t fully discern the face. This was, she sensed, her womb’s offspring—yet also a stranger, strong and alive and lovely.
The vision faded. Its mystery stayed. The woman inhaled deeply, opened her eyes, and laid a hand on her abdomen. This child did not move.
It's clear that this is an accomplished author when the chapter that follows sets up an interesting time during a Roman war (the time frame could have been better established in the opening, IMO). Your thoughts?
Writers, send your prologue/first chapter to FtQ for a “flogging” critique. Email as an attachment. In your email, include your name, permission to use the first page, and, if it’s okay, permission to post the rest of the prologue/chapter.
Many of the folks who utilize BookBub are self-published, and because we hear over and over the need for self-published authors to have their work edited, it’s educational to take a hard look at their first pages. A poll follows concerning the need for an editor.
Donald Maass, literary agent and author of many books on writing, says, “Independent editor Ray Rhamey’s first-page checklist is an excellent yardstick for measuring what makes openings interesting.”
A First-page Checklist
It begins to engage the reader with the character
Something is wrong/goes wrong or challenges the character
The character desires something.
The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
The one thing it must do: raise a story question.
Next are the first 17 manuscript lines of the prologue of The Uncaging. A poll follows the opening page below. Should this author have hired an editor?
No one saw where the little girl came from.
For many, her mysterious appearance became as confounding as how she had managed to stay alive for six years. But she came; she appeared as if a mirage, her white nightgown tussling with the dirt, the hem fading into a muddy brown, darkening with each shuffled step. Long stringy hair lolled back and forth to her slow rhythmic pace. Her right arm hung limply by her side, hand tightened into a fist, a white sliver of something peeking through her fingers.
Initially, her approach was marked only by puzzled expressions as heads turned silently and arms paused mid-motion, the lawns seeming to part for this unexpected ripple in the otherwise clear waters of the town.
Strange that the girl’s peaceful approach could swarm a town with such turmoil. Grady was a slothful community, but when the little girl entered their midst, everyone leapt into action. Paul Michaels draped her with a blanket. Penny Stewart gave her a cup of water. Missy Smith dialed the police.
For years, when it came up in conversation, Mrs. Stephen Meyers pointed out with pride that she was the first to interact with the little girl. Her story changed as time passed; the confusion she initially felt evolved with each retelling into an immediate avid certainty regarding the young girl’s identity. But one aspect of her first statement to police remained ever constant.
This novel earned 4.7 stars on Amazon. As opening lines go, this was a good one that almost guarantees reading the next line. Then the strong writing and voice say that we could be in the hands of a pro here, and a good story awaits. If anything, I would edit the description down to include these two lines from the second page on the first for a guaranteed page-turn:
“All she said was, I’d like to see my mother, please. The woman we all thought killed her, that’s who she wanted to see — her locked-up mother.” p>
Your thoughts?
Cover critique
The cover does a good job of raising story questions with the silhouettes of the caged woman and child. Colors are strong and not the usual, and the title adds intrigue. But, once again, the author’s name is mostly lost in an online version. Just making it white would have helped, and larger, too—there’s plenty of room. What do you think?
My books. You can read sample chapters and learn more about the books here.
Submissions sought. Get fresh eyes on your opening page. Submission directions below.
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.
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. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.
Donald Maass,, literary agent and author of many books on writing, says, “Independent editor Ray Rhamey’s first-page checklist is an excellent yardstick for measuring what makes openings interesting.”
A First-page Checklist
It begins to engage the reader with the character
Something is wrong/goes wrong or challenges the character
The character desires something.
The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.
There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
It happens in the NOW of the story.
Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
The one thing it must do: raise a story question.
A reminder of what you’re after here. This blog is about crafting compelling openings. Not interesting, compelling. Why does it have to meet that hurdle? First, if your work is going to an agent, you’re competing with hundreds of submissions. You have to cut through that clutter and competition with powerful storytelling and strong writing. If it’s a reader browsing in a bookstore or online, the same goes—there are scores of published books competing with yours. Yeah, you need compelling.
Kelly sends the first chapter of Bookworm. The rest of the narrative is after the break.
Lyn hurled the book from her lap.
It scudded over the coffee table and landed on the hardwood floor in a page-crimping straddle. Though no one was around, she jammed a fist in her mouth to stifle her scream, then scrambled to the opposite end of the couch. With a wary eye she regarded the book, her body crouched and coiled for endless minutes, until an ache settled into her bones.
The furnace woke; its lusty clanks almost blasted her off the couch. The old heater’s belching usually didn’t spook her, but neither did books, not usually.
“John?” Lyn called her husband’s name, knowing it was foolish. She didn’t believe in ghosts.
A mug of coffee on its hotplate radiated tongues of steam and sugar-browned aroma. The black forest cuckoo clock ticked…ticked…ticked…like always, like everything was as it should be, which was not true. Eyes glued to the book, Lyn risked a sip. The grand burn down her throat was bitter and smooth and real. She slopped some as she set it down, then lunged for the book before she could change her mind.
She mouthed a sentence, the one that caused her to throw the book. If she heard the words from her own lips, that meant they were really there. But she spoke only a few words before her throat clenched and her iron resolve melted. This frail tongue was not the one that (snip)
I have two issues with this submission. But first, let me say that its good writing and good voice are all to the good. Lyn’s clear fright—terror?—at the words she read begin to raise story questions, and the reference to a ghost regarding her husband creates a good tease for a hook.
Issue the first: Yet I think that, with editing, this page could move from interesting to compelling in terms of story questions. All the detail about the coffee and the clock, etc. do set the scene . . . but, to my mind, at the expense of tension. Those details don’t impact the story, so why not get on with it? Here’s how I’d edit to make more of a grabber of this page:
Lyn hurled the book from her lap.
It scudded over the coffee table and landed on the hardwood floor. She jammed a fist in her mouth to stifle her scream, then scrambled to the opposite end of the couch. Crouched and coiled, she regarded the book until an ache settled into her bones.
The furnace woke; its lusty clanks almost blasted her off the couch. The old heater’s belching usually didn’t spook her, but neither did books, not usually.
“John?” Lyn called her husband’s name, knowing it was foolish. She didn’t believe in ghosts.
She mouthed a sentence, the one that had caused her to throw the book. If she heard the words from her own lips, that meant they were really there. But she spoke only a few before her throat clenched. This frail tongue was not the one that lashed a disorderly classroom into silence. A woman of books, a high school English teacher, and the words were too sharp. She touched her lips, half-expecting to feel blood.
She snapped the book closed. The cover had the library barcode sticker and an ISBN number. The cover was wrapped in clear plastic, as all library books were. Nothing about it suggested anything out of the ordinary.
Except the words inside.
For me, this page makes the story question of “what are those words? much more compelling. But making the page even more compelling leads to the other concern.
Issue the second: If you read ahead, you’ll find good writing, a good character, and mysterious goings-on that suggest a good story ahead. That’s fine. But the words in the book that terrified her are never revealed in this chapter.
While I appreciate that the writer is aiming for a cliff-hangerish teaser, for me, this is a cheat. You want to deliver the character's experience and, without those words, we are deprived of that. And I think that, had we learned what those words were at the start, right after we turned that edited page, her reactions would have a LOT more meaning, and the story tension would have been stronger. But maybe that’s just me. Read on and let me know what you think with a comment.
. . . lashed a disorderly classroom into silence. A woman of books, a high school English teacher, and the words were too sharp. She touched her lips, half-expecting to feel blood.
She snapped the book closed and examined the cover. It had the library barcode sticker and an ISBN number. The cover was wrapped in clear plastic, as all library books were. Nothing about it suggested anything out of the ordinary.
Except the words inside.
No way should these words be here. Yet, here they were. Lyn again thrust the book from her as if it were on fire.
***
With shaking hands Lyn poured another cup of coffee. To this she added a generous dollop of Bailey’s. On second thought, she added more. Lyn rubbed her eyes with her palms of her hands then massaged her scalp, then made her way to the kitchen sink and splashed cold water on her face. From his crate, Caesar raised his furry head in anticipation and watched with mismatched Husky eyes—one blue, one brown.
“I’ve lost my mind, Caesar. Any idea where it is?” Lyn ruffled his ears and let him out to do his dog business. His duty, as she called it. Her property was a mostly forested lot with the exception of a patch of tended lawn that butted up to the concrete patio next to the sliding doors. As the only residential property in the Park Hill Conservatory, acquiring it was a nature-lover’s dream. The conservatory was a 776-acre chain of parks and wild lands linked by waterways, gravel roads, and paved roads. The nearest farm was two miles north on Route 83. The bait store was just south on the same road. For the first time, Lyn wished for neighbors.
Caesar darted off to romp and sniff and take care of business. As he hunkered down, something behind the woodpile caught his eye. The hair on the nape of his neck went up and his tail stiffened. One paw raised in indecision.
“Caesar!” Lyn opened the slider. “Come.”
He glanced at her, then took off toward the rotting pile of partially-cut firewood. It was one of many shrines to Lyn’s late husband, John. The wood lay where John left it three years ago, the axe head still stuck in the splitting block, the half-stacked pile, and the just-hewn pieces in a jumble. When Lyn needed firewood for herself, she cut it fresh with her own axe on a new chopping block. To disturb John’s wood, to stack it, or (God forbid) use it was like taking away what she had left of him.
Caesar stopped just short of John’s memorial pile, though it was clear he wanted to break through the invisible fence. He barked and ran back and forth, stayed by the electric current that would zap him if he stepped beyond the boundary. Still, it looked like he might do it. He’d take a few steps forward, hear the warning beep from his collar, then hustle in an awkward backstep, all the while snarling and snapping.
Lyn dashed to her bedroom, peering out every window to make sure Caesar was still in the yard. Her rubber boots would have to do. She slammed them on and ran back to the door; her boots shrieked with each footfall as she raced. She didn’t have to look to know Caesar still barked his head off.
A thought brought Lyn up short before she opened the slider. Normally she wouldn’t do it, but the book spooked her. She clambered back down the hall to her bedroom and threw open the drawer where two guns were nestled. She grabbed the larger and banged her fingers on the drawer slot hard enough to make them bleed. She squeezed and flexed her trembling hands, willed them calm, then snapped off the safety. Caesar barked and barked, intent on whatever was behind the wood pile.
With the cumbersome gun she couldn’t pull the heavy slider, so she dropped the gun in her robe pocket. It weighed the pocket down and undid the knot so that the icy wind bit against her bare legs. Caesar didn’t even look her way as she waded through the mud and snow toward him, fingering the trigger and attempting to cinch her robe as she went.
“What is it, boy?” Lyn stopped short of the woodpile. Something smelled out of place. There was the pungent wood and leaves in various stages of decay. There was the freshly scraped earth where Caesar had scratched after his business. There was the rank stink of his business. That filled most of her nose. Lyn shook it off.
Under all that was another smell. It didn’t belong.
Lyn pulled out her gun and trained it on the woodpile.
“Caesar, quiet.”
He never listened.
Lyn picked her way around the pile, not looking down, feeling with her boots so as not to trip on the cut logs. She didn’t know what she expected to see, but what she saw rooted her to the spot, gun aloft. Caesar droned on, but his calls were drowned by the ringing in Lyn’s ears, the rush of her blood.
At first she thought it was a scarecrow. The body was dressed in a red and black flannel coat, black gloves, faded jeans, and hiking boots. But the head. The thing for a head was grey and scalloped. Little medallions flaked off or fluttered silently, weakened and broken by time. The work of a thousand hornets, now dead or dying on the snow. As dead as the headless body that lay with arms and legs spread wide. The open shirt collar revealed a neck awash in thick blood. The snow had been marred by scrapings and shoe prints. A chunk of hornets’ nest was ripped from the whole, and splintered medallions were strewn about the snow like coins. It gave the appearance of a head, blown away by a kill shot. Here was a hornet’s nest in the same pattern, someone’s macabre idea of art.
A hornet’s nest. That was no coincidence. First the book, now the hornets.
Lyn fled back to the house. This time, Caesar followed.
***
The police arrived in the time it took Lyn to throw up in the sink, wash her face, brush her teeth, and pace the kitchen a few dozen times.
Upon hearing the doorbell, it was Caesar’s abominable habit to become silent, to pad over to the door and wait for Lyn to open it. She joked that the only way Caesar would stop a burglary was if the thief would be so kind as to have a pet squirrel on his shoulder. Lyn spread the curtains and peeked out the bay window. Her dogwood tree had been garlanded with toilet paper, no doubt a gift from her students. The white loops danced and swayed in the winter wind. The pieces that tore loose blended in with the snow. Lyn’s yard was hit by students once a month during the school year, about average for a high school teacher who had the audacity to live in Park Hill and teach there too. The mostly-melted snow from a few days ago dappled the lawn, accented by gloppy ribbons of toilet paper. The sun shone, pale and anemic in a cloudless midwestern sky.
“Lyn Darrow?” One officer had Irish all over him, freckles and ginger wavy hair that rebelled against everything. He looked bored.
She nodded.
“The 911 operator reported a body on your property?”
“That’s right.”
Irish thumbed behind him. “Dispatch says you’ve got twelve-plus acres of woodland. Could you point us in the right direction?”
“It’s behind the woodpile.”
The second officer was tall and robustly built. His gaze swept the room, taking in everything and also somehow giving Lyn his full attention. “Do you know the deceased? A neighbor? Recognize him—or her—from anywhere?”
“It looks like a him, but no one’s going to recognize that.”
Both officers’ brows furrowed. “Could be an animal,” Irish said.
“It’s wearing clothes.” Lyn pulled her robe tighter against the biting air.
A second squad car showed up. The tall officer, L. Andrews, according to his badge, spoke into his radio that he copied their arrival. The two officers exchanged a look that meant something to them but nothing to Lyn. It lasted a few seconds.
“Fine,” said Irish. And he went outside to greet the arriving officers.
“What was that?” Lyn asked.
“We were discussing who would check out the body and who would question the caller.” L. Andrews wiped his shoes on the mat. “I won.”
“It was a glance.”
“We’ve worked together so long we have telepathy.” L. Andrews extended an arm. “Do you think we can continue our conversation inside, at the table? It might be more comfortable. I have to ask some questions.”
“A table’s not going to make me comfortable. Especially if you’re asking questions.” Lyn found she could only lock gazes for a second before she had to look away.
“Suit yourself.” He pulled out a tiny spiral notebook. Caesar wound around his legs, turning his polyester pants into fur pants.
“Caesar, go inside.”
“He’s no trouble.” The officer scratched Caesar behind his ears. “He probably smells the stray we just took to the pound.”
“He’ll never leave you alone now.”
“That’s alright.” His name was Leif, he said, pointing to the L. Andrews above his badge. Lyn tried to wrangle Caesar away from the officer. As she did so, her clunky Smith & Wesson banged into the door handle. The officer’s gaze fixed on her gaping pocket, and his kind eyes flashed with strain.
Lyn realized her mistake and made sure her hands were splayed and visible. “I took an LCH class and should know better.”
“It didn’t come up on your name.”
“I never got the actual license. Is it okay if I take it of my pocket? It’s heavy.”
“If it’s all the same, I’ll do the honors.” He gently, without so much as brushing her body, slipped the gun from Lyn’s robe pocket. She folded her robe tighter and re-tied the knot.
“Dumb of me.” Lyn blushed.
Andrews ’s cheek showed some heat as well. “You’re not the first. You’re in your home, so you’re not technically carrying a concealed weapon, but that wouldn’t protect you from a jumpy officer—”
“—who fancied himself in danger?”
“Exactly. Look, can we get in, out of the cold?”
“Sure.” Lyn opened the door and Caesar ambled inside.
Andrews set her gun on the end table and pulled a tiny spiral notebook from his breast pocket. Caesar kept putting his furry body in his way, so the officer had to dodge him. “Did you hear anything unusual, either last night or this morning? How’d you find the body?”
Lyn explained how Caesar’s barking alerted her. She left out the book, most unusual of things. Why she didn’t bring it up, she couldn’t say, except that she didn’t want this officer to think she was crazy. A surprising heat settled into Lyn’s cheeks as she answered Leif’s questions. It was unnerving, such focused attention.
The door opened, and would’ve slammed into the officer if he hadn’t thrown up a hand to block it. In blew an icy gust and the Irish officer, a frown creasing his face and forehead.
“Ma’am. There’s no body behind the woodpile.”
Lyn shook her head, at a loss.
“We checked the back yard. Nothing. Just tracks.”
“But. I saw—”
Irish put up his finger, indicating she wait. He spoke into his radio. “We’re a code 4 here…Right. No body. Copy?” To Lyn, he resumed, “Somebody, or probably somebodies, was screwing around behind your woodpile. There’s tracks everywhere.” Irish nodded at the dogwood tree garlanded in Charmin. “And we noticed you got fans.”
“I teach at the high school.”
“You must give some pretty harsh grades.”
Lyn started to protest, but realized Irish had his mind made up.
“There’s footprints everywhere and they lead off the property and come out at Sandy Ridge Road—it’s kids being stupid.” He ran his sleeve along his red nose. “They left you a present. A hornet’s nest.”
“Yes! I didn’t tell the 911 operator, but the body…it was headless. The hornet’s nest was the head. There must be blood. There was blood.”
Irish frowned, as if her credibility had gone the way of the body.
Lyn sat straighter and forced calm into her voice. “There was a body. I saw it. Are you telling me it got up and walked away?”
“I’m telling you it walked to Sandy Ridge Road. I can show you the tracks. The ‘blood’ is ketchup. Somebody’s having fun twisting your noodle. Juveniles, like as not.”
That was the out-of-place sweet smell she got right before she walked around the woodpile. Why hadn’t it registered? Because I was scared. First the book and then…
Andrews righted the chair and guided Lyn back into it.
Irish continued, “We can take a statement, but it’s a waste of time.”
“Mine, or yours?”
Leif studied her throughout the exchange. His eyes on her made her uncomfortably warm. Without her permission, he pulled up a chair and poised his pen. With an air of intimacy fit for a candlelight dinner, he leaned over the table, though she hadn’t joined him. “Ms. Darrow. Tell me exactly what you saw behind the woodpile.”
Irish sighed.
Patrolman Leif Andrews ignored him.
***
Irish made his consternation known by shifting his weight from foot to foot, not stepping off the welcome mat, sighing, and tweezing his mustache with his thick, freckled fingers. Eventually he pulled out his phone and got lost in the glow.
Leif asked more pointed questions about the body. Was it prone or face up? What color were the fingers? Had she noticed any footprints? Anything strange? Lyn confessed she smelled the ketchup, but it hadn’t registered. Somebody lay in her back yard playing dead, someone who knew about the hornets’ nest, after all this time. That part, Lyn left out.
Irish got a phone call and took it out on the front porch. They were alone. Lyn was in mid-sentence when Leif quietly interrupted.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve been here.” His careful tone said it all.
“You mean the day…John…?”
“First on the scene.” Leif nodded. “I’m sorry.”
The memory cut through the fog of three years. It would cut her through thirty years, three hundred years. That day would be a knife in any lifetime. This patrolman was here that day.
“I don’t remember you.”
“That’s okay.”
“I don’t remember very much.”
“That’s your brain trying to protect itself.”
“I wish it would protect me more.”
***
Irish blustered back in, breathing hard, hiking up his belt and stomping snow all over the rug. Another meaningful look passed between the officers. This time Patrolman Andrews shook his head and stood. “I’ll put a watch on your home for the next few weeks. You’ll see a lot more of ours driving by. We’ll run some license plate checks and talk to the park rangers about any unusual activity. We’ll be in touch.”
Lyn thanked him.
“And maybe you should get this licensed, just as a precaution. You went to the trouble to learn how to use it, may as well be legal.” He placed the gun on the table and gave his notebook a last look. “Oh…the hornets’ nest. Kind of an unusual prank. Any idea what’s up with that?”
Lyn nodded almost imperceptibly. “No.”
“No?” Leif leaned forward and tilted his head. So much focus.
Suddenly the wood grain on the table top was extraordinarily interesting. Lyn traced it with her finger.
“Ms. Darrow?”
“I hate hornets.”
Irish cleared his throat. It was time to go.
Lyn glanced over at the book. It was on the floor where she’d flung it.
My heart raced, Greg’s fingers tangling through my thick hair as he kissed my body. Everything was perfect. His platinum hair reminded me of someone else. An uneasiness started to rise in my body, yet everything seemed so wonderful! I tried to let the pleasure of being with my husband consume me again. Nothing seemed to work. Something wasn’t right, yet I couldn’t place my finger on it. Begrudgingly, I shoved Greg away. I had to find our son, Gregory.