Flog a Pro: would you turn this bestselling author’s first page?
By Ray Rhamey | February 19, 2015 |
Trained by reading hundreds of submissions, editors and agents often make their read/not-read decision on the first page. In a customarily formatted book manuscript with chapters starting about 1/3 of the way down the page (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type), there are 16 or 17 lines on the first page.
The challenge: does this narrative compel you to turn the page?
Please judge by storytelling quality, not by genre—some reject an opening page immediately because of genre, but that’s not a good enough reason when the point is to analyze for storytelling strength.
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A First-page Checklist
- It begins connecting the reader with the protagonist
- Something is happening. On a first page, this does NOT include a character musing about whatever.
- What happens is dramatized in an immediate scene with action and description plus, if it works, dialogue.
- What happens moves the story forward.
- What happens has consequences for the protagonist.
- The protagonist desires something.
- The protagonist does something.
- There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
- It happens in the NOW of the story.
- Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
- Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
- What happens raises a story question—what happens next? or why did that happen?
Caveat: a strong first-person voice with the right content can raise powerful story questions and create page turns without doing all of the above. A recent submission worked wonderfully well and didn’t deal with five of the things in the checklist.
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Side note: this is Flog a Pro number 24. Hard to believe we’ve been doing this for two years! It’s been fun for me, and I hope for you.
This novel was number one on the New York Times hardcover fiction bestseller list for February 8, 2015. How strong is the opening page—would this have hooked an agent if it came in from an unpublished writer? Do you think it’s compelling? Reminder: “compelling” is much different than “interesting”—it means that you are irresistibly urged to turn the page by what you’ve read. Following are what would be the first 17 manuscript lines of chapter one.
There is a pile of clothing on the side of the train tracks. Light-blue cloth— a shirt, perhaps—jumbled up with something dirty white. It’s probably rubbish, part of a load dumped into the scrubby little wood up the bank. It could have been left behind by the engineers who work this part of the track, they’re here often enough. Or it could be something else. My mother used to tell me that I had an overactive imagination; Tom said that, too. I can’t help it, I catch sight of these discarded scraps, a dirty T-shirt or a lonesome shoe, and all I can think of is the other shoe and the feet that fitted into them.
The train jolts and scrapes and screeches back into motion, the little pile of clothes disappears from view and we trundle on towards London, moving at a brisk jogger’s pace. Someone in the seat behind me gives a sigh of helpless irritation; the 8: 04 slow train from Ashbury to Euston can test the patience of the most seasoned commuter. The journey is supposed to take fifty-four minutes , but it rarely does: this section of the track is ancient, decrepit, beset with signalling problems and never-ending engineering works.
The train crawls along; it judders past warehouses and water towers, bridges and sheds, past modest Victorian houses , their backs turned squarely to the track.
My head leaning against the carriage window, I watch these houses roll past me like a tracking shot in a film. I see them as others do not; even their owners probably don’t see them (snip)
My vote and editorial notes after the fold.
Did you recognize Paula Hawkins and her The Girl on the Train? Was this opening page compelling if you picked it up to sample it in a bookstore?
My vote: no
The voice was tempting, for sure, and I really liked the opening paragraph. But then it devolved into a train ride. That’s what’s happening—an anonymous person is on a train.
So I looked through the sample until I found a narrative that did manage to draw me in. Assume for a moment that in setting the scene we establish that she’s on a train (it’s not currently there, but easy to do), would you find this more compelling? A vote follows.
My shirt, uncomfortably tight, buttons straining across my chest, is pit-stained, damp patches clammy beneath my arms. My eyes and throat itch. This evening I don’t want the journey to stretch out; I long to get home, to undress and get into the shower, to be where no one can look at me.
I look at the man in the seat opposite mine. He is about my age, early to midthirties, with dark hair, greying at the temples. Sallow skin. He’s wearing a suit, but he’s taken the jacket off and slung it on the seat next to him. He has a MacBook, paper-thin, open in front of him. He’s a slow typist. He’s wearing a silver watch with a large face on his right wrist— it looks expensive, a Breitling maybe. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he’s nervous. Or just thinking deeply. Writing an important email to a colleague at the office in New York, or a carefully worded break-up message to his girlfriend. He looks up suddenly and meets my eye; his glance travels over me, over the little bottle of wine on the table in front of me. He looks away. There’s something about the set of his mouth that suggests distaste. He finds me distasteful.
I am not the girl I used to be. I am no longer desirable, I’m off-putting in some way. It’s not just that I’ve put on weight, or that my face is puffy from the drinking and the lack of sleep ; it’s as if people can see the damage written all over me, can see it in my face, the way I hold myself, the way I move.
I found this character and person much more intriguing, and I would have turned the page. Your thoughts?
If you’d like to help beginning novelists with your constructive criticism, join me on Wednesdays and Fridays for floggings at my site, Flogging the Quill.
Ray Rhamey is the author of five novels and one writing craft book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling. He’s also an editor of book-length fiction and designs book covers and interiors for Indie authors and small presses. His website, crrreative.com, offers an a la carte menu of creative services for writers and publishers. Learn more about Ray’s books at rayrhamey.com.
I do find the opening compelling. Yes, it’s a slow train ride with a lot of description. But what I find compelling is what the characters notices during her journey: the pile of clothes, the backs of the houses, etc. I can relate to her. I still like novels that don’t plop me into the middle of the action. I like to get to know a character, and I think I know this one after the opening scene. The additional scene with the bottle of wine (for a 50 minute train ride) makes her even more interesting. I want to know about her. I’d keep reading.
I voted no for “compelling” because I found it to be a dull and slow opening. The things that the character noticed on the journey were ordinary. “…warehouses and water towers, bridges and sheds, past modest Victorian houses…” is fairly generic so I didn’t believe her telling us about her “over-active imagination” or that she “sees what others do not.” And the additional scene didn’t do a whole lot more for me.
But, if I were in a bookstore or library I would have read further. Even if I find the opening page of a novel less than compelling, I give a book at least the first 4 or 5 pages to see if I want to read it. I wonder, is it fair to judge if you want to read a book on just the opening paragraphs alone?
Ray, I often use your checklist when reading novels and I have to say, I find very few novelists who fulfill all your 12 points. May I ask, could you name a few titles that do?
Paula, I’ve never thought of applying the checklist to published novels, so don’t have an immediate answer, and I will sometime. But I try to practice what I preach, and I can say that the first page of my current WIP, a sequel to The Vampire Kitty-cat Chronicles titled The Hollywood Unmurders does include all the checkpoints. You can read that page, vote on it, and the rest of the chapter here: https://bit.ly/1CcAt8B
Ray you have picked a really interesting case study here—you made it too tough for me to vote. I would have turned the page either way, but “about the same” doesn’t seem right either, since the two passages are completely different.
I can absolutely see why you recommended the second. But without a doubt I would have turned the page after the true first page. Sometimes, for me, the voice is compelling enough—and I am most concerned about that pile of clothes, and image that will stick with me.
That said I believe that writing about boredom is always a dangerous way to open. Unless you can do it like this.
It seemed very generic to me. Lots of description but nothing happening. Very old school in some ways. Not necessarily bad, just not my cup of tea.
No. I found it bloodless, which is the opposite of what first person narration should be, esp. on page one. No compelling emotion.
The second passage is better, therefore, though of course the semi-colons should be cut, buried, and never resurrected.
I liked the way both the commas and semi-colons were used, esp in the last paragraph. For me, gave a sense of stream of consciousness without being “too” streamy. :-)
ps – also voted no on first, much more likely on second, particularly because of that last paragraph.
While the idea of these clothes and what they could represent “interested” me, they would not “compel” me to turn the page.
Always love this exercise of yours Ray. Having heard a lot about this book recently, I was still taken by surprise to find the opening scene you chose this week came from The Girl on the Train. I voted no, even though I am a certified anglophile, previous resident of London, and I find the descriptions rich and evocative. Right off the bat, I objected to opening the paragraph with “There is” (admittedly an old prejudice knocked into me by some set of generic writing rules), but the bigger problem is that I didn’t get enough sense of who the narrator was or why I should care that she was on that train. I voted yes on the second passage, though. Her observations of a fellow passenger and of her own discomfort plopped me right into that carriage with her in a way the more objective opening scene did not.
I found myself thinking of other things, which is never a good thing. Obviously, it didn’t hold my attention or draw me in in any way. The second was better, especially the last few lines.
The opening didn’t work for me. There is no story question. I don’t get a sense of the main character. I’m not even sure of the gender of the character. The location of the clothes is confusing. At one point, the clothes are lying on the side of the track. Then the narrator states they may be part of a load dumped into the scrubby little wood up the bank. Where is the pile of clothes? By the tracks or in the woods? That alone took me right out of the story. The second passage is a little better, but there is nothing remarkable about a woman in her 30s asking herself the kinds of questions that the character is posing. Thanks, Ray, for your work on this series. I look forward to it each month.
I do think it’s important to point out that while these are the first 17 lines of chapter one, the book actually begins with two other paragraphs before chapter one–not labeled, but a prologue of sorts. Those two short paragraphs are incredibly compelling and intriguing. We don’t know, as readers, if the paragraphs are spoken by the same speaker, or two different ones (they are divided and on separate pages)–and we don’t know whether or not chapter one is a third speaker, or one of the two (or all the same one) from the two opening paragraphs. With the other two “prologue” paragraphs in mind, I find the opening of chapter one very compelling. The first two paragraphs (before chapter one) raise story questions. I read chapter one through their filter, hoping to find answers.
I voted yes for the first because I liked the voice, the fact that she pays attention to what’s around her. I voted yes again just to see if she’d snap out of her self-absorption. I’d give her another page and if there is more woe-is-me, tell her to stop whining and get on with it. Nobody owes her anything.
I really enjoy this feature – but please can we have some more examples that you think are good?
I voted “No” and “about the same”.
The first passage had promise at the start – is there a gruesome murder about to be discovered? But then the train moves on and there is no sign that this incident is going to be relevant ever again.
I found the second passage better written but I really do object to the word “girl” as applied to an adult woman. The book title would put me off, and the line “I am not the girl I used to be” was the killer. Well of course she’s not if she’s “early to mid thirties.” My sympathies are with the man who finds her distasteful. But why is he wearing a watch on his right wrist? Is his left-handedness significant? Is it the vital clue that identifies him as the murderer?
I’d like to read the blurb to get some clue as to what this book is about, but I doubt if I’d read on.
I voted yes. I don’t mind a slower, more introspective opening and it is consistent with the rest of the novel, so on that level it works. I liked this book, but found the first half slow going, but I’d heard that things picked up in the second half and I did find that to be the case. The second half redeemed the first half. I do look forward to reading more from her.
Dreary, self-absorbed, disconsolate…why do enough people find this voice so compelling that it climbs to #1 on the Times list?
I’ve been pondering that. First person narration is, to some degree, already engaging. Equally, it can be off-putting. Even when off-putting, though, it can sometimes engage.
The Girl on the Train is hardly the first novel to smack us with a loathsome or pitiful narrator whom we nevertheless take up. Humbert Humbert and Bridget Jones charmed us with humor, okay, but Ian McEwen and Cormack McCarthy’s downer characters are charmless.
The secret ingredient, I think, is self-awareness. Misery that wallows is unbearable; misery that reflects upon itself disarms us. It’s an effect of metacognition, which put simply is thinking about your own thinking.
Put simply, when you step above your own misery to examine it, you’re not only less miserable you’re already rising above it. There’s science to show this, if you’re interested. (Check out the book Metacognition by John Dunlosky and Janet Metcalfe.)
In these two passages from The Girl on the Train, the narrator is reflective enough that her commuter gray gloom tips us over into interest. It did me, anyway, and evidently quite a few others.
I voted yes.
“The secret ingredient, I think, is self-awareness. Misery that wallows is unbearable; misery that reflects upon itself disarms us. It’s an effect of metacognition, which put simply is thinking about your own thinking.” –
This really appealed to me, and helped explain why I liked the second sample so much more than the first.
Where the first sample hinted at self-awareness, I felt engulfed by it in the second (in a good way).
“My mother used to tell me that I had an overactive imagination; Tom said that, too.”
Had I been an agent or editor reading this as a submission from an unpublished author, I’d have put it aside with the above compound sentence.
For me, the story has gone off the track with that digression in the first paragraph. I need a story moving forward, not backward, with the characteristics of a train that is rapidly gaining speed.
Do we need to know what Mama and Tom used to say?
I would turn the page, in part because this opening is not making use of the usual gimmicks to grab me. I also admire the writer’s choice of verbs: “The train jolts and scrapes and screeches back into motion….” and “The train crawls along, it judders past warehouses….” This blending of message with sound effects is evidence of serious writing. It’s not enough in and other itself, but it’s enough for me to definitely want to see more.
I voted yes for the real opening. Nothing in there looks like the author is trying to show off or shock me with cheap tricks; it’s written in an “honest” style, and I like quiet beginnings.
I find the second excerpt less interesting. The style gets a bit too choppy with too many short sentences to my liking, and I lost interest there. So I voted no in the second poll, although the last paragraph of the section shows a potentially interesting character. It would depend on the description on the backcover whether I’d want to read the book.
I really disliked the lists in each one of them. I hate long descriptions. The first one was so intensely boring that my eyes instinctively skipped over it. The last paragraph in the second one was far more interesting.
I was in the bookstore yesterday, picked this novel up, as a matter of fact, so I note that you inadvertently omitted two short paragraphs that occur before Chapter 1. They are key in that they make that clothing pile ominous and imply the narrator is seeing something important that other people–and perhaps she herself–will discount, to potentially lethal consequence. With that and the solid wordsmithing, I’m in. The reputation of the book helps, too.
I voted no on the actual opening and about the same on the alternate. The first opening is intriguing about the clothes, and if something happened after that, some dialogue or a newspaper article about a murder, it may have been more compelling. The second did not compel me either. It was all observation and musing of the protagonist, but again, nothing was happening. If there was some kind of dialogue or some action of some kind, I may have voted differently. It was interesting, but far from compelling.
I like Donald Maass’s dissection of why this works.
Furthermore, I found it well written, with great verb choices. (jolts, scrapes, screeches, crawls, judders etc.)
Finally, I am originally from England, and anyone who has been on a train trundling into Euston station can empathize with the narrator’s plight. (“Trundle” is an excellent word.)
Okay, what is going on with the pile of clothes on the side of the tracks?
What changed the girl so much that she is now undesirable? What happened? Dang! Now I have to get this book. So much reading to do…
No robots, no guns, no swords, no magic, no aliens . . . no interest.
Yaawwnnn…. Need I say more?
I found it interesting but not compelling. I liked the descriptions of what the protagonist was seeing and experiencing but that was not enough to really hook my interest. I usually give a book the benefit of the first half chapter before turning it into a door stop. I suspect I may keep reading to find out what the protagonist sees in the houses that the owners do not but could equally have dropped it back on the sale table if I had to choose on the basis of these lines.
I think your analysis is spot on. First paragraph is good, but you’re right–the rest is just a train ride. The character portrayal a little further down is much more attention getting. Thanks for making me think about this!
I’m torn.
My initial gut reaction to both the opening and Ray’s second passage, was no. I didn’t find anything compelling about either opening. There’s no story question, and it just seems to me like nothing is happening. James Scott Bell says the opening is “bloodless… no compelling emotion” and I agree. Then, Donald Maass comes along and points out that it’s dreary, self-absorbed, and disconsolate, but that self-aware misery can be engaging. Mr. Maass, gives it a thumbs up, as do many real-life readers, a-la the New York Times Bestseller List. Mr. Bell, voted a resounding no.
So what am I missing here? Is it just subjective? Maybe it’s just a matter of personal preference, but I don’t get it. I don’t mind a dreary and disconsolate voice if there something compelling happening, or some tension pulling me along. But in these openings, I don’t see it. Mr. Maass, is there some instance of tension or micro-tension that I’m missing? Please help me see what you see.
While the story is told in the first person, ultimately it is more descriptive than narrative. Nothing actually happens. There is no interaction with another character.
That being said, not all opening pages are immediate attention grabbers. John Galsworthy’s “The Man of Property” (1906, the first volume in The Forsyte Saga) begins with a longwinded meditation on the nature of the family as the basis of society. If I had allowed this to dissuade me from reading further, I would have missed out on a lifelong love for Galsworthy’s work, which I have read and reread, in the original and in translation, over the course of the past 45 years.