What is the implicit promise and how can you implement it? Gabe (@Ava_Jae) breaks down this great opening enhancer YA examples. (Click to tweet)
 |
| Photo credit: AnToonz on Flickr |
"It’s not the moment your life collapses that’s the worst part.
It’s what comes after.
When you wake up from the nightmare to find out that it wasn’t, unfortunately, a nightmare, but your life, and you have to go on living it.
So this is me, approximately three months after my life ends and I have to start it all over again:
Sitting like a taut wire at the edge of one of those red velvet, deceptively uncomfortable auditorium seats, while on the stage a tiny Asian boy with skin issues is eking out Hamlet’s soliloquy.
“What dreams may come,” he squeaks, “When we have shuffled off this mortal coil—”
Which sounds exactly what I’d like to be doing right about now.
My knuckles are white. My intestines have tied themselves up into a knot and are currently trying to escape through my throat. I’m two people away from my audition. Some people have sucked, like this kid, but most have been pretty good.
And me? I’ve never done this before. But if we’re going to base this on my high school endeavors to date, I’m placing my bets on the “suck” end of the spectrum.
I could just get up and leave. I should just get up and leave.
But that would be admitting defeat. To Mom. To Vicky. To myself.
This was my last great idea. I’m out of options.
I take a deep breath. I can do this. I love plays. Especially Shakespeare. Especially Hamlet."
"It’s not the moment your life collapses that’s the worst part. It’s what comes after. When you wake up from the nightmare to find out that it wasn’t, unfortunately, a nightmare, but your life, and you have to go on living it. Suggest making this one paragraph because I can already see you use short paragraphs a lot and "It's what comes after" doesn't really stand well on its own, and as a whole it makes more sense with all three together.
So this is me, approximately three months after my life ends and I have to start it all over again:
Sitting like a taut wire at the edge of one of those red velvet, deceptively uncomfortable auditorium seats, while on the stage a tiny Asian boy withskin issuespimples is eking out Hamlet’s soliloquy. Love the imagery in the bolded. I'd squeeze more in this first page if you could—not in this paragraph, but overall.
“What dreams may come,” he squeaks, “When we have shuffled off this mortal coil—”
Which sounds exactly what I’d like to be doing right about now. Heh, this is a line that sounds very teenagery and snarky and I like it.
My knuckles are white. My intestineshaveare tiedthemselves upinto a knot andare currentlytrying to escape through my throat. I’m two people away from my audition. Some people have sucked, like this kid, but most have been pretty good.
And me? I’ve never done this before. But if we’re going to base this on my high school endeavors to date, "Endeavors" isn't really a word teens (or even most adults to be honest) use casually. Switch this out with something more casual. I’mplacing mybettingson the “suck” end of the spectrum.
I could just get up and leave. I should just get up and leave. But that would be admitting defeat. To Mom. To Vicky. To myself. These work better as a paragraph together, IMO.
This was my last great idea. I’m out of options.
I take a deep breath. I can do this. I love plays. Especially Shakespeare. Especially Hamlet."
.@Ava_Jae talks voice, stylistic writing effects, and more in the 32nd Fixing the First Page Feature. (Click to tweet)
 |
| Photo credit: lwpkommunikacio on Flickr |
"Jacinta Rose committed her first murder ten years before she was born.
Six months ago, when the memories of her serial killing first returned, she’d thought herself delusional. But now, as she lingers in the rotting heart of the power station, she can’t deny the truth any longer. All her research has brought her here.
Jacinta stands on a web of concrete bridges suspended three stories high. Drab steel walls frame the vast industrial area, barred windows twisting the afternoon light as it spills inside. Only her dark pea coat keeps a gaunt chill at bay. The power station is old and withered, a nest of spiders and memories. From her perch, Jacinta can see where the body landed. In her mind’s eye, she can still see the body.
The power station had been decades away from being abandoned after Cyclone Briar, the floor a writing mass of bodies and machinery. She’d walked nonchalantly, rolling up the sleeves of her casual black suit. Brown skin and dark curls reflected back at her in the glass windows parallel to the walkway. Despite the gulf of time, she still appeared twenty-five.
The foreman was looking way, didn’t even see the knife she seemed to pull from thin air. It rippled like liquid silver and stabbed into his back once, twice. Rubies of blood fell. Jacinta struck him hard in the neck before the first droplet hit the walkway. The man twisted, muscles spasming. Smiling, she swept his legs out from underneath him, and he fell."
"Jacinta Rose committed her first murder ten years before she was born. Very interesting opening line.
Six months ago, when the memories of her serial killing first returned, she’d thought herself delusional. I'm questioning whether you need this line right here, because right now I'm finding it confusing and it isn't adding any understanding to this scene, for me. But now, as she lingers in the rotting heart of the power station, she can’t deny the truth any longer. What truth? All her research has brought her here.
Jacinta stands on a web of concrete bridges suspended three stories high. Drab steel walls frame the vast industrial area, barred windows twisting the afternoon light as it spills inside. Only her darkpea coatpeacoat keeps a gaunt chill at bay. The power station is old and withered, a nest of spiders and memories. From her perch, Jacinta can see where the body landed. It'd be more effective if you replaced this with a description of the body. That way you aren't filtering ("Jacinta can see"), but by describing it the readers know Jacinta can see it. In her mind’s eye, she can still see the body. Recommending deleting that line because it's basically the same as the previous line.
The power station had been decades away from being abandoned after Cyclone Briar, the floor a writing mass of bodies and machinery. She’d walked nonchalantly, rolling up the sleeves of her casual black suit. Brown skin and dark curls reflected back at her in the glass windows parallel to the walkway. Despite the gulf of time, she still appeared twenty-five. This paragraph is pretty well done. We've got nice description and some important information without info-dumping.
The foreman was looking away, didn’t even see the knife sheseemed topulled from thin air. It rippled like liquid silverandas she stabbedintohis back once, twice. Adjusted because the knife didn't stab him itself—she used the knife to stab him. Rubies of blood fell. Jacinta struck him hard in the neck before the first droplet hit the walkway. The man twisted, muscles spasming. Smiling, she swept his legs out from underneath him, and he fell." Last note: I'm a little confused here about whether this is the body she was looking at near the beginning of the sample and if we've jumped back in time to see what happened or if this is another body.
.@Ava_Jae talks character connection, motivation and more in the 31st Fixing the First Page Feature. (Click to tweet)
 |
| Photo credit: hharryus on Flickr |
"The priests are always telling me that my mother should never have bathed me in the moon. It sets a girl up for mischief, and worse as she gets older. Now that I’m nearing sixteen, I’m far too old to be forgiven for knowing things no natural person should.
I remember the moon-baths clearly enough, even though I wasn’t quite four when my mother was found out and taken away to Temple. I remember being cold and cranky, whining and stomping as she stripped away my overdress and tunic.
'No, moma, no!' I would shout, my cries echoing off the garden walls. I must have woken up half the compound with my yelling, but no one ever shouted back or lit a lantern to see what all the commotion was.
'Calm down, Luna, just calm down,' my mother would say. She tried to distract me with special full-moon songs, and showed me how the light played in the big, round basin. I did like to watch the silvery ribbons dash around the polished bottom, swirling like watersnakes. Sometimes she could win a giggle from me before I remembered that I wasn’t going to like what came next.
It wasn’t just the icy feeling of the night air against wet skin - I didn’t like the squirmy feeling the bright water woke in my belly. I’d thrash and protest the whole time, even though mother would promise better and better treats each time if I would just be good.
I was never good."
"The priestsarealwaystellingtold methatmy mother should never have bathed me in the moon. Beautiful opening line and image—I also like how it sets up tension right away. Well done. It sets a girl up for mischief, and worse as she gets older. Now that I’m nearing sixteen, I’mfartoo old to be forgiven for knowing things no natural person should. Iiiiinteresting. :D
I remember the moon-baths clearly enough, even though I wasn’t quite four when they found my motherwas found outandtakentook her away to Temple. Adjusted to make the sentence active (vs passive). Iremember beingwas cold and cranky, whining and stomping as she stripped away my overdress and tunic. Adjusted to remove filtering (I remember).
'No, moma, no!' Iwouldshouted, my cries echoing off the garden walls. I must have woken up half the compoundwith my yelling, but no one ever shouted back or lit a lantern to see whatallthe commotion was.
'Calm down, Luna, just calm down,' my motherwould saysaid. She tried to distract me with special full-moon songs, and showed me how the light played in the big, round basin. Ididliked to watch the silvery ribbons dash around the polished bottom, swirling like watersnakes. Sometimes shecould winwon a giggle from me before I rememberedthatI wasn’t going to like what came next.
It wasn’t just the icyfeeling of thenight air against wet skin - I didn’t like the squirmy feeling the bright water woke in my belly. Adjusted to remove some filtering and wordiness. I’d thrash and protest the whole time, even though motherwouldpromised better and better treats each time if I'dwouldjust be good.
I was never good."
.@Ava_Jae talks prologues, great opening paragraphs, wordiness and more in the 30th Fixing the First Page Feature. (Click to tweet)
 |
| Photo credit: mine |
"Only one thing could make me leave my house for the first time in two years—the promise of revenge. The vague message I’d received via email had been just a hint, but the opportunity had sounded too sweet to resist.
Hell Here at 10. No more.
Bundled against the driving snow in a wool coat and gloves, I marched down the sidewalk in front of my house. The brutal Iceland wind whipped my collar into my chin and spiked frozen needles through the leather on my hands. My loud, crunchy footsteps through the knee-high snowdrifts beat a laborious rhythm at the back of my skull. I was used to dead silence contained within four walls, not this eternal winter bullshit.
By the time Hell Here’s neon lights strobed behind the falling snow, I quickened my pace. Despite the harsh weather, the arctic air fanned the vengeful fire that burned in my gut into a raging storm.
I grinned, possibly a little too maniacally, because a couple coming up the sidewalk skirted wide. I eased up the shoveled path toward the thick wooden door of Hell Here and mistakenly made a grab at the handle. Pain stabbed into my hand and flared red across my vision. An anguished cry ripped from my mouth and lost itself in the wind. I backed away, gripping my palm to my middle, while tears iced my cheeks. Thankfully, no one stood around to see that nonsense.
A burly man knocked his way out the door, and I slid by him into the crowded bar."
"Only one thing could make me leave my house for the first time in two years—the promise of revenge. Interesting opening. I'm curious. The vague message I’d received via email had been just a hint, but the opportunity had sounded too sweet to resist. Here's my second issue with the e-mail: your protagonist mentions the opportunity sounds too good to resist, but the e-mail is so vague that no opportunity is mentioned. So if your protagonist knows what opportunity this is referring to, the readers should know too.
Hell Here at 10. No more.
Bundled against the driving snow in a wool coat and gloves, I marched down the sidewalk in front of my house. The brutal Iceland wind whipped my collar into my chin and spiked frozen needles through the leather on my hands. Great imagery here. My loud, crunchy footsteps through the knee-high snowdrifts beat a laborious rhythm at the back of my skull. "Laborious rhythm" doesn't sound to me like something anyone would say casually—and it throws off the flow to me (which is ironic, because it's talking about rhythm). I was used to dead silencecontainedwithin four walls, not this eternal winter bullshit. Nice voice.
By the timeHell Here’s neon lights strobed behind the falling snow,; I quickened my pace. Adjusted because "by the time" indicates something happened by the time they reach the place. Right now it sounds like you're saying when they see the lights they speed up. Despite the harsh weather, the arctic air fanned the vengeful fire that burned in my gut into a raging storm. See note on this below.
I grinned, possibly a little too maniacally, because a couple coming up the sidewalk skirted wide. I eased up the shoveled path toward the thick wooden door of Hell Here and mistakenly made a grab at the handle. Pain stabbed into my hand and flared red across my vision. An anguishedcry ripped from my mouth and lost itself in the wind. I backed away, gripping my palm to my middle, while tears iced my cheeks. Lovely detail. I've had this happen IRL and it is a bizarre thing to experience. Thankfully, no one stood around to see that nonsense.
A burly man knocked his way out the door, and I slid by him into the crowded bar."
.@Ava_Jae talks deepening POV, great imagery and more in the 28th Fixing the First Page Feature. (Click to tweet)
What changes between 1st & final drafts of published books? @Ava_Jae vlogs BEYOND THE RED's 1st vs. final opening. (Click to tweet)
 |
| Photo credit: phalinn on Flickr |
"I’m paralysed. Everything from the neck down no longer responds. I breathe in sharp and try to move my toes, my hands, my fingers.
Nothing.
The only thing I can do is stare up into a light ― a bright blue light.
Tears leak from my eyes as probes and electrodes are attached to various part of my body. The needle-like instruments stab underneath my fingernails as the straps pinning me down to the surgical table are tightened.
My heart thunders in my chest.
'It’s alright, just be a good girl. This will hurt, but if you be a good girl I promise you can play with the yoyo again. You like the yoyo, don’t you, Raven?'
A masked man comes into view.
'Do you want me to administer another, Doctor?' a nurse asks.
'No, she’s had the maximum dose already. We’ll continue in her current state.'
Wires jostle above my head as the doctor moves away, a huge surgical light now being lowered over my body.
I’m hyperventilating.
'Doctor, she’s panicking. I have to give her another.'
'She won’t respond if we do that.'
Something sharp is attached to each of my temples.
'MRGHHHHH!' I scream against my gag, the nurse trying to calm me as tears pour down my face.
'Doctor! Doctor, she’s going to have another seizure! We have to sedate her!'
'Just leave it, Edith! She has to be conscious or this won’t work! This has to work this time!'
'But she―'
'I’m starting the procedure! Injecting the solution. Just keep her stable!'"
"I’m paralysed. Everything from the neck down no longer responds. I feel like this could be more evocative. Starting off with this unexpected paralysis is definitely interesting, but right now we're being told she's paralyzed—literally told. I'd like to really be in her head and feel what she's feeling. What is she thinking when she can't move? Is this expected? Does she panic? How does it feel to try to move but not have your body respond? You start to get a taste of that with her sharp breath in the next sentence, but I'd really like to see more. I'd like to know exactly what's going on in her head and how it feels to be literally trapped in your unresponsive body. I breathe in sharp and try to move my toes, my hands, my fingers.
Nothing.
The only thing I can do is stare up into a light ― a bright blue light. This is a nice detail of the blue light. What I'm missing from this opening so far is emotion, though. This could be a very powerful start if we got a glimpse into how this ordeal is making her feel from the start.
Tears leak from my eyes as probes and electrodes are attached to various part of my body. This is passive phrasing—probes and electrodes are attached. Instead, I'd like to see tis shifting so we can see who is doing this to her. The instruments aren't attaching themselves and stabbing themselves into her. Show us who is doing this to her. Also, what various parts of her body? The needle-like instruments stab underneath my fingernails as the straps pinning me down to the surgical table are tightened.
My heart thunders in my chest. This is good, but I think we could use more of her bodily reactions showing emotion even up to this point. If you haven't bought it already, I highly recommend The Emotion Thesaurus by Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi—it's a fantastic resource full of entries that show exactly how different emotions affect the body, which makes showing emotion a million and two times easier.
'It’salrightall right (common mistake—"alright" is technically not a real word), just be a good girl. This will hurt, but if you be a good girl I promise you can play with the yoyo again. You like the yoyo, don’t you, Raven?' I'm very curious about why they're speaking to her like a child when the age category would indicate she's not a child. Unless...this is a flashback? If this is a flashback, I would recommend against it—starting with flashbacks are pretty confusing for readers, and especially when the flash back is more exciting than the actual opening scene, it tends to irritate readers because it's a bait and switch. Of course, I don't know for sure that this is a flashback, but just in case...
A masked man comes into view. Masked how? I mean, in the next sentence we figure out he's a doctor, but "masked" could mean a lot of things. I'd slip in a short, quick description to indicate it's a face mask or something.
'Do you want me to administer another, Doctor?' a nurse asks.
'No, she’s had the maximum dose already. We’ll continue in her current state.'
Wires jostle above my head as the doctor moves away,; a huge surgical lightnow beingis lowered over my body.
I’m hyperventilating. Again, I think this could be more evocative. It'd be much more powerful to see her struggling for breath, getting dizzy from lack of oxygen, etc., than being told she's hyperventilating.
'Doctor, she’s panicking. I have to give her another.'
'She won’t respond if we do that.'
Something sharp is attached to each of my temples. Attached how? Did they press the sharp thing into her? Is it held by something else? This is important because in the next line I'm not sure if she's screaming because this hurts or because she's panicking, or both. Also, this is passive again—rephrase to make it more active and show who is doing what.
'MRGHHHHH!' I scream against my gag, the nurse trying to calm me as tears pour down my face. How? What does the nurse do? Again; more evocative when we see what people are doing rather than being told they're doing it. Is the nurse patting her? Shushing her? Holding her hand? Touching her cheek? There are a lot of possibilities.
'Doctor! Doctor, she’s going to have another seizure!—Wwe have to sedate her!.' I recommend cutting down on the exclamation points. Too many and the dialogue starts to drift into melodramatic territory. :)
'Just leave it, Edith! She has to be conscious or this won’t work!—Tthis has to work this time!.''
'But she―'
'I’m starting the procedure!. Injecting the solution. Just keep her stable!.'"
.@Ava_Jae talks delving into the POV character's head and flashbacks in the 22nd Fixing the First Page critique. (Click to tweet)
Struggle to come up w/ the right opening? Check out these tips from 4 contest finalists. #writetip (Click to tweet)
 |
| Photo credit: frangrit on Flickr |
"If the wind hadn’t blown her poster for History out of her hands and into Jake Hyland’s, Amanda Walker would never have started talking to him. If she never would have started talking to him, she would be on her way home instead of watching her bus pull away as Jake talked her ear off. The only good part about this arrangement was Sam Jude, who was gorgeous, mute, and standing right behind Jake.
'So, do you want to come with us?' Jake finished, completing the look with teenage boy puppy-dog eyes. Amanda blinked.
'Sorry, what were you saying?'
Jake let out an awkward laugh and rubbed the back of his neck, but he didn’t back off. He just bared his teeth in a smile as awkward as his laugh and started over.
'Me and Jude are going to go check out the old house – you know, the one out on the highway? And, uh, I was wondering if you wanted to come with?' Jake asked. Amanda glanced at Sam, who was looking behind her. 'I mean, you don’t have to.'
'How are we getting there?' Amanda asked. She didn’t really want to go, but her bus had already left and she didn’t want to walk home. On the plus side, she’d be with Sam, even though Jake would probably be vying for her attention the whole time.
Sam held up a driver’s license. Jake looked between her and it, grinning. Amanda wondered if he was ever going to give her poster back."
"If the wind hadn’t blown her poster for History out of her hands and into Jake Hyland’s, Amanda Walker would never have started talking to him. If she never would have started talking to him, she would be on her way home instead of watching her bus pull away as Jake talked her ear off. The only good part about this arrangement was Sam Jude, who was gorgeous, mute Rather than telling readers Sam is gorgeous and mute (and do you mean disabled mute or just not speaking right now?), I think it'd be much stronger if we saw it ourselves with a brief description (not necessarily right now) and some action from Sam, and standing right behind Jake. While I understand stylistically how the "if the" structure openings can sometimes work (and they sometimes do!) the conclusion of this paragraph doesn't feel interesting enough to me for this kind of opening to be absolutely vital. Starting with exposition is pretty tricky, and in this case, I'm not feeling that it's really doing this particular story any favors. I think this could be interesting if moved later in the narrative—maybe it's something Amanda could think about later on?—but I'm thinking starting later in the story and with less exposition would probably be more powerful.
'So, do you want to come with us?' Jake finished, completing the look with teenage boy puppy-dog eyes. Amanda blinked.
'Sorry, what were you saying?' This, to me, just reads as you, the author trying to subtly slide in the exposition, as if Amanda were thinking everything in that first paragraph and wasn't paying attention. But the way the first paragraph is written, I didn't get the sense that it was coming from Amanda. If that's what you're going for, I'd work on trying to make her voice clearer in that intro.
Jake let out an awkward laugh and rubbed the back of his neck, but he didn’t back off. He just bared his teeth in a smile as awkward as his laugh Love this! But you have two "awkward"s in two sentences—see if you can reword one? Perhaps you could describe his awkward laugh in the first sentence instead of saying it's awkward? and started over.
'Me and Jude are going to go check out the old house– you know, the oneout on the highway?. I recommend these cuts because the "you know" makes this "As you know, Bob" dialogue. Super easy fix with the suggested cuts, though. :) And, uh, I was wondering if you wanted to come with?'Jake asked.
*Suggested new paragraph. Amanda glanced at Sam, who was looking behind her.
*Suggested new paragraph. 'I mean, you don’t have to.'
'How are we getting there?' Amanda asked. She didn’t really want to go, but her bus had already left and she didn’t want to walk [this could be a good place to insert the detail of how long the walk would be, for verisimilitude] home. On the plus side, she’d be with Sam, even though Jake would probably be vying for her attention the whole time.
Sam held upahis driver’s license At least, I'm assuming it's his driver's license? Otherwise technically it could be read like he planned to use someone else's driver's license. Jakelooked between her and it,grinnedingSuggesting this change because the original read a little awkward to me. Amanda wondered (Filter phrase alert! I recommend rewriting without "wondered.") if he was ever going to give her poster back."
.@Ava_Jae talks starting in the right place and opening exposition in the 21st Fixing the First Page critique. (Click to tweet)
 |
| Photo credit: hdes.copeland on Flickr |
"I crumpled the exam and tossed it into the trash as I exited the school building. My A proving Lysol killed more germs than bleach was hard earned. I should’ve been proud, but the grade made me feel like Dad. Being a brainiac was a nerdy-coolness I needed to smother before I obsessed over science experiments like him.
'You could fail intentionally, yunno?' Tara suggested, walking into the parking lot by my side. Of course, my best friend knew my score. She also knew my grades were important to me to get into college to escape this gawd-awful town—away from my absent-for-life father, where at least he’d have an excuse not to see me.
I combed my fingers through my mop of hair. 'That’s stupid.'
Gravel crunched under our feet walking to her car. The sun warmed our skin. Tara stared past me and batted her lashes toward Anath. He gazed at me from a few cars down. 'Seriously Raeni, I think he’s crushing.'
I peeked over my shoulder at his tribal tattoo as his bronze arm swooped through the strap of his backpack. Long dark curls caressed his high cheek bones. It was hard not to look at him. His brown eyes locked onto mine. Caught, I turned away.
'Stop ogling.' I laughed at Tara, dropping my backpack on her hood. He watched.
'Talk to him, but not about your nightmares,' she whispered.
Now she thinks I’m brainless? Telling a guy I’m a nut-job won’t ever be on my to-do list."
"I crumpled the exam and tossed it into the trash as I exited the school building. My A proving Lysol killed more germs than bleach was hard earned. I feel like this is grammatically off in terms of subject/object. The "A" didn't prove Lysol kills more germs than bleach—the report did—but the way this sentence is structured is a little confusing. I'd reword this to avoid anyone tripping over it (like I did). I should’ve been proud, but the grade made me feel like Dad. Being a brainiac was a nerdy-coolness I needed to smother before I obsessed over science experiments like him.
'You could fail intentionally, yunno?' Tara suggested, walking into the parking lot by my side. Of course, my best friend knew my score. She also knew my grades were important to me to get into college to escape this gawd-awful town I'd make this just "god-awful." To me, the "gawd" placement feels too much like an adult trying to sound teenager-y.—away from my absent-for-life father, where at least he’d have an excuse not to see me. This is great—really gets across her bitterness in a realistic way without drifting into woe is me territory.
I combed my fingers through my mop of hair. 'That’s stupid.'
Gravel crunched under our feet walking to her car. This is another place where the structure is confusing—it looks to me like you're saying the gravel is walking. I'd go with "Gravel crunched under our feet as we walked to her car." The sun warmed our skin. Tara stared past me and batted her lashes toward Anath. He gazed at me from a few cars down. 'Seriously Raeni, I think he’s crushing.' Do teens still say this? I would check with some actual teens to be sure.
I peeked over my shoulder at his tribal tattoo as his bronze arm swooped through the strap of his backpack. Long dark curls caressed his high cheek bones. It was hard not to look at him. His brown eyes locked onto mine. Caught, I turned away. There's nothing technically wrong with this protag checking out hot guy/gets caught looking encounter, but it's used a lot in YA, to the point where I feel like it's drifting into cliché territory. Be careful.
'Stop ogling.' I laughed at Tara, dropping my backpack on her hood. He watched. How does she know he's watching if she's not looking at him anymore? This may be a good place for some sensory details if she feels that prickly someone looking at you feel.
'Talk to him, but not about your nightmares,' she whispered. This kind of comes out of nowhere to me, in the sense that I don't see a logical reason why she would say that (and your protag doesn't seem to think there's a logical reason for her saying that, either). Like, telling a hot boy you have a crush on about your nightmares is not a common thing, so it looks to me that you're just trying to tell the readers your protag has nightmares, and if that's the case I think you may want to consider going about it in a more natural way.
Now she thinks I’m brainless? Telling a guy I’m a nut-job won’t ever be on my to-do list." My thoughts exactly. :)
.@Ava_Jae talks familiar openings and writing teens realistically in the 19th Fixing the First Page critique. (Click to tweet)
 |
| Photo credit: mac.rj on Flickr |
The snow drifted softly down on the frozen grass, the grey sky swallowing the openness of the world. I stood, staring down hard at the tombstone at my feet. My body was calm, my pulse steady, my mind churning slowly. The violin case weighed my arm down, as if it had a magnetic attraction to my Mom who was beneath my feet, in the ground. Dead.
I set the case down, kneeling; I touched the headstone, tracing her name: “Amy Duple: Wife, Mother. 1972-2017.” No “devoted wife,” no “loving mother.” Just “wife.” Just “mother.” Keeping it simple, keeping it all about image. God-forbid someone see you as weak, as nurturing. I opened my mouth and sucked in some cool crisp air. Last time I’d been here, it’d been raining. I missed the rain. I missed the moisture up in Oregon too. Down here it was all cracked and chapped and broken. Like our family.
“I have some things to say,” I said to the grave, tracing the letters of my mother’s name with my hand. “Things are a mess. They’re a mess and I’m so angry. Noah left me; Violet is… like you; Dad’s too optimistic to realize anything is wrong; I didn’t get in to tour and Emma and Noah did and Violet tried to fix it and it’s all just… you’re dead.” I pelted the words at the slab of stone. Just a hug, just a genuine smile, a reassuring hand. Was that too much to hope for from you, Mom?
The snow drifted softlydownonto the frozen grass, the grey sky swallowing the openness of the world I like the idea and imagery associated with the sky swallowing something, but I'm not sure I understand what you're going for with "the openness of the world". I stood, staringdown hardat the tombstone at my feet. My body was calm, my pulse steady, my mind churning slowly. I feel like you might be focusing on the wrong emotional tells here? If your protag's visiting his mother in a graveyard, I wouldn't expect his pulse to be affected or his thoughts to be racing—I'd expect them to be sad (and depending on the circumstances, maybe a little angry) and be dealing with those emotional reactions. The violin case weighed my arm down, as if it had a magnetic attraction to my Mom who was beneath my feet, in the ground. I get that the violin case is there probably to tell us something about your protagonist, but logically, why would your protagonist bring their violin to a graveyard?Dead. You don't need this. We understand your protagonist is visiting their mother at a graveyard, and if we didn't, we'd get it in the next paragraph.
I set the case down, kneeling; I touched the headstone, tracing her name: “Amy Duple: Wife, Mother. 1972-2017.” No “devoted wife,” no “loving mother.” Just “wife.” Just “mother.” Is this supposed to be your protagonist's thought? The frequent switch between italics and non-italicized words threw me off here. Keeping it simple, keeping it all about image. God-forbid someone see you as weak, as nurturing. I am fortunately not versed in how words are chosen for tombstones, but isn't that something the family chooses, after their loved one has passed? If so, wouldn't that be more of a statement on the family that chose the words, rather than the protagonist's mother? I opened my mouth and sucked insomecool, crisp air. Last time I’d been here, it’d been raining. I missed the rain. I missed the moisture up in Oregon too. Down here it was all cracked and chapped and broken. This makes it sound like your protagonist is in a desert/super dry area, but you say last time they'd been there, it was raining, so I'm not sure. Is the area undergoing a drought? Like our family.
“I have some things to say,” I saidto the gravealoud, tracing the letters of my mother’s name with my hand. “Things are a mess. They’re a mess and I’m so angry. Noah left me; Violet is… like you; Dad’s too optimistic to realize anything is wrong; I didn’t get in to tour and Emma and Noah did and Violet tried to fix it and it’s all just… you’re dead.” Okay, so this monologue, to me, reads as you, the author, trying to tell the reader background information, which makes me wonder if this whole scene is only here to give background info. If so, I definitely recommend cutting this scene and starting wherever the story really starts and giving us this information through action, observations, dialogue that isn't a monologue, etc.. I pelted the words at the slab of stone. Just a hug, just a genuine smile, a reassuring hand. I found this sentence confusing at first. I get that maybe your protagonist wishes their mother did these things while she was alive, but in this context, it almost seems like your protag wants those things now which is confusing given that they are in a graveyard, alone. Was that too much to hope for from you, Mom?
.@Ava_Jae talks inciting incidents and starting in the right place in the 18th Fixing the First Page critique. (Click to tweet)
 |
| Photo credit: Victor Bezrukov on Flickr |
"Sam
Deliver to abandoned warehouse
4 miles E of city
5 pm sharp
Bring shovel.
It was the last line of Hill’s text that had made sweat drip down to my balls, not the roasting D.C. heat made worse by concrete and rush hour car exhaust. My Chevy Impala had barely crawled forward six inches in the last ten minutes. A glance at the dashboard clock showed 4:53.
Yeah, I wasn’t going to make it.
But none of that mattered as much as his weird request. Why the hell would he need a shovel? Unless the shovel wasn’t meant for him, but for me to dig my own grave. But I already did that when I was 'recruited' to work for him.
Recruited, blackmailed—same difference.
The light several cars ahead turned green, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, I might be able to creep along a whole seven inches this time.
4:54.
Shit. I cranked the dial on the radio, the speakers blaring a before-my-time Metallica song, and glanced in the rearview mirror. A crowbar and Hill’s small, brown paper-wrapped package sat on the backseat in plain sight. A crowbar, not a shovel, because my day job didn’t have one.
The car ahead pulled forward, and as I touched the gas, a perky ass to my right made me do a double-take. It stuck up in the air like some kind of supernaturally rounded homing beacon. The woman the ass belonged to stood in the middle of a crowded sidewalk with three bags of luggage surrounding her."
"Sam
Deliver to abandoned warehouse
4 miles E of city Just in terms of logistics here, this is super vague as far as directions go. How would Sam know which warehouse to take it to? Or where to even begin looking (I mean, "four miles east" could be a lot of places. Has Sam been there before? This may be something you're going to answer later, but as far as the opening goes, it's unclear to me how he would know where he was going without a street address.
5 pm sharp
Bring shovel.
It was the last line of Hill’s text thatha'd made sweat drip down to my balls (Awesome voice), not the roasting D.C. heat made worse by concrete and rush hour car exhaust. Do you mean asphalt? Concrete doesn't really reflect heat back up—but asphalt does. My Chevy Impala had barely crawled forward six inches in the last ten minutes. A glance at the dashboard clock showed 4:53.
Yeah, I wasn’t going to make it. Really like the placement and voice here too.
But none of that mattered as much as his weird request. Why the hell would he need a shovel? Unless the shovel wasn’t meant for him, but for me to dig my own grave. I don't necessarily need to know right this second, but I'm not sure if the grave comment is serious or a joke, which makes it harder for me to judge how serious this, er, job is. But I already did that when I was 'recruited' to work for him.
Recruited, blackmailed—same difference. Love this line, too. And extra points for more voice.
The light several cars ahead turned green,.and I thought that mMaybe, just maybe, I might be able to creep along a whole seven inches this time. Adjusted to remove filtering of "I thought."
4:54.
Shit. I cranked the dial on the radio, the speakers blaring a before-my-time Metallica song, and glanced in the rearview mirror. A crowbar and Hill’s small, brown paper-wrapped package sat on the backseatin plain sight. A crowbar, not a shovel, because my day job didn’t have one. More great voice! And nice clarification. A+ for voice.
The car ahead pulled forward, and as I touched the gas, a perky ass to my right made me do a double-take. It stuck up in the air like some kind of supernaturally rounded homing beacon. *snicker* The woman the ass belonged to stood in the middle of a crowded sidewalk with three bags of luggage surrounding her."
.@Ava_Jae talks NA voice, strong openings, and polishing in the 17th Fixing the First Page critique. (Click to tweet)
 |
| Photo credit: ysksmz on Flickr |
"I learned how to swim before I learned how to walk.
That’s what they do, when you’re born a couple of blocks from the beach. They teach you young.
And I swear I still remember it.
My father’s hands, big and warm on my sides, suddenly gone.
That moment of freefall, of panic—I can’t do this—
And then—
Legs kicking, arms flailing, but swimming, really swimming on my own. The tang of the sea on my tongue. Emerging gasping, coughing, into sea spray and sunlight. Grinning so big I thought I’d never stop.
The joy of it all.
I dream about it, sometimes. I smile in my sleep.
And then I remember.
Remember why I don’t swim anymore.
I stop smiling.
I wake up.
Chapter One
The spring of my senior year in high school, my mother brought a kitchen knife into the bathtub with her.
She didn’t cut deep enough, not nearly, they said. But she’d been drinking, and she lost enough blood to pass out. Her head slipped under the water, and if her neighbor hadn’t found her, she would have drowned.
I wasn’t with her. No one was. My parents divorced when I was in the seventh grade, and I moved away with my dad.
We sat in the hospital waiting room, my dad and I, not speaking.
The doctor suggested that after she was released from the psychiatric ward, it might be a good idea for someone to live with her for a little while."
"I learned how to swim before I learned how to walk.That’s what they do,After all, when you’re born a couple of blocks from the beach,. Tthey teach you young.
And I swear I still remember it. Any way you could transition into the next paragraph without using the filter ("remember")?
My father’s hands, big and warm on my sides, suddenly gone.
That moment of freefall, of panic—I can’t do this—Aand then—
Legs kicking, arms flailing, but swimming, really swimming on my own. The tang of the sea on my tongue. Emerging gasping, coughing, into sea spray and sunlight. Grinning so big I thought I’d never stop.
The joy of it all.
I dream about it, sometimes. I smile in my sleep.
And then I remember. Rememberwhy I don’t swim anymore.
I stop smiling.
I wake up.
Reading this a second time now, I'm about 99% sure I'd cut this if I were editing.
Chapter One
The spring of my senior year in high school, my mother brought a kitchen knife into the bathtub with her. Nice first line.
She didn’t cut deep enough, not nearly, they said. But she’d been drinking, and she lost enough blood to pass out. Her head slipped under the water, and if her neighbor hadn’t found her, she would have drowned.
I wasn’t with her. No one was. My parents divorced when I was in the seventh grade, and I moved away with my dad.
We sat in the hospital waiting room, my dad and I, not speaking.
The doctor suggestedthatafter she was released from the psychiatric ward, it might be a good idea for someone to live with her for a little while. This could be a good spot to transition to playing the scene out—with an actual line of dialogue of the doctor saying exactly that. Or you could transition right before this by getting into your protagonist's head as they sit next to their dad in the silent room. How do they feel? What thoughts are running through their head? Is the awkward silence something normal for them and their dad? How long has it been since they've seen their mom? This is all stuff you could give us in your protagonist's POV that could help us connect to your MC."
.@Ava_Jae talks exposition and varying sentence/paragraph length in the 14th Fixing the First Page critique. (Click to tweet)
