Our new first-pager is an entry titled “Love Always, Lola. My comments follow and, as always, a big thank you to our brave writer. We welcome your input and insights. — PJ Parrish
I hate kids. I have to.
“Lola? Did you hear my last question?” The disembodied voice over the phone asks.
I blink, feeling for all the world like I’m about to lose my lasagna on the wood floor of my bedroom. Zoe, my mentor here at Corner House Crisis Pregnancy Home, smiles and waves her hands in the air like she’s trying to keep the tape reel going in my mind.
“Um, yes. I like kids. Enough. They’re great.” I look down at the red and white checkered quilt on my twin-sized bed, rubbing my swollen belly to get rid of the itch.
“Do you have any experience working with them?” Mr. Compton, the voice, wants to know.
“A little, I guess. I used to babysit for my mom’s church and stuff.”
“What about camp? Do you have any experience with camp, maybe family camping trips or summer camp?”
I trace a circle around my stomach with my fingernail.
Zoe plants her hands on her tiny stick hips. “Focus!” she whispers.
“No,” I blurt. “No family camping trips or anything. But I am CPR-certified.”
“Great, that’s a start,” Mr. Compton says. “Can you tell me why you’d like to work at Camp Qavah this summer?”
“Well, I feel like I have a really great connection with kids.” Like I’m carrying one right now, literally connected to her by an umbilical cord. “I’m looking for an opportunity to grow and become my own person this summer.” I’d love to run away from who I am right now. “And I’m not afraid of hard work.” I once used my former roommate’s toothbrush to scrub the suite’s toilet.
“Fantastic.” Mr. Compton seems satisfied with my answers. “One last thing—you’ll be replacing one of our other counselors who’s had to cut her commitment short for the summer. Your first day would be mid-July. Will it still work for your situation?”
He puts it so delicately, but we both know what situation he’s talking about. That situation is currently kicking my ribs like she’s a jiu jitsu master.
“Uh, yeah. I think so. I’m due around the first of June. Mid-July should be fine.”
***
First, a personal bias: I am not a big fan of novels that open with dialogue. (I know, the first line isn’t in quotes but it is what we call “internal dialogue” in that we are in the narrator’s thoughts.) So maybe this goes to a taste thing. But I wasn’t pulled into this opening. To begin with, the first line might sound intriguing but when you think about it, it makes no sense. Why does she HAVE to hate kids? And the moment we find out she’s pregnant, the line becomes almost off-putting. Either way, the question just hangs there, unanswered, provocative for sake of provocation. Second, because the first page is almost all dialogue, there was no way for me to find my footing in the world the writer was trying to conjure up. When a reader first picks up a story, they are like a coma patient—fluttering open their eyes in an unfamiliar world, wondering, where am I, when am I, who am I? The writer has an obligation to quickly and efficiently orient. (that’s how writer and teacher Benjamin Percy put it, not me, alas.)
Yeah, I know. Some great books open with dialogue. Charlotte’s Web opens with “Where’s Papa going with that axe?” And then there’s Little Women: “‘Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,’ grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.” But it’s a tough act to pull off and in this case, it backfires because the writer has provided me with so llittle context or setting. And what does that do?
Confuse me. And that’s death to a first page. I am confused from the get-go because I think I am overhearing a telephone conversation between Lola and “disembodied voice.” Then suddenly Zoe is there but where is “there?” Is Zoe the voice? Is she in the room with Lola? Is she listening in on an extension? Speed-bump. Okay, call me dense. But the last thing you want your reader to do in your first page is work hard on the little stuff.
Third thing: There’s not a lot of tension here. Maybe this isn’t a mystery or thriller but still, we need a compelling reason to follow Lola. And although her voice — cocky, cynical and sassy — is interesting in a snarky sort of way, the set-up isn’t enough. Telephone conversations are such a dead way to move your story along. You need them at times to impart info but I don’t think you want to waste your crucial opening with such a static — disembodied — device. Also, this style is pretty bare-bones spare (the only detail we have is that Lola is at a pregnancy crisis center). Sometimes openings give TOO MUCH information (ie backstory) but I think this one gives too little, maybe because the writer believes by holding back, he/she creates a sense of mystery. I forget who said this but it works for me: The only thing you hold back is what happens next.
All this said, there’s some good lines here, sharp observation, and the writer has a good grasp of how to construct dialogue. The writer has a nice touch. I just wish she/he had chosen a more compelling opening scene, something that is worthy of their talent. What Lola and Compton are talking about is pretty banal. This would work as a later scene, but only after the writer has hooked me into this character’s situation and her voice. I’d suggest the writer find some really good female protag fiction to read. I mention this only because I am re-reading Wally Lamb’s “She’s Come Undone” right now. It’s a really good job of entering a female viewpoint via first-person POV. Ditto “The Lovely Bones.” Anybody have any other good examples?
***
I hate kids. I have to. I’m not crazy about kids either but this line was sort of offputting.
“Lola? Did you hear my last question?” The disembodied voice over the phone asks.
I blink, feeling for all the world like I’m about to lose my lasagna on the wood floor of my bedroom. Zoe, my mentor here at Corner House Crisis Pregnancy Home, smiles and waves her hands in the air like she’s trying to keep the tape reel going in my mind. Not sure I get this image. And Zoe pops out of nowhere.
“Um, yes. I like kids. Enough. They’re great.” I look down at the red and white checkered quilt on my twin-sized bed, rubbing my swollen belly to get rid of the itch.
“Do you have any experience working with them?” Mr. Compton, the voice, wants to know.
“A little, I guess. I used to babysit for my mom’s church and stuff.”
“What about camp? Do you have any experience with camp, maybe family camping trips or summer camp?”
I trace a circle around my stomach with my fingernail.
Zoe plants her hands on her tiny stick hips. “Focus!” she whispers. Hard to whisper when you use exclamation point.
“No,” I blurt. “No family camping trips or anything. But I am CPR-certified.”
“Great, that’s a start,” Mr. Compton says. “Can you tell me why you’d like to work at Camp Qavah this summer?”
“Well, I feel like I have a really great connection with kids.” Like I’m carrying one right now, literally connected to her by an umbilical cord. Nice line but you might want to put these thoughts in italics because they are used in quick succession during dialogue. “I’m looking for an opportunity to grow and become my own person this summer.” I’d love to run away from who I am right now. “And I’m not afraid of hard work.” I once used my former roommate’s toothbrush to scrub the suite’s toilet.
“Fantastic.” Mr. Compton seems satisfied with my answers. “One last thing—you’ll be replacing one of our other counselors who’s had to cut her commitment short for the summer. Your first day would be mid-July. Will it still work for your situation?”
He puts it so delicately, but we both know what situation he’s talking about. That situation is currently kicking my ribs like she’s a jiu jitsu master. Nice image.
“Uh, yeah. I think so. I’m due around the first of June. Mid-July should be fine.”