A solicitation for a First Chapter writing contest caused me to restart work on a Ghosts of Ancient Vidura follow-on — now at eight chapters, too sketchy to submit to a competition much less post any of it on my website, although that’s what I’m about to do.
Why? Because feedback is valuable, and one never knows where it’ll lead. As to the contest in question, even if the manuscript was ready-for-reading, terms of service didn’t stipulate sharing of judges’ notes with authors. Feedback is unlikely. I’ll save my twenty dollars for a better offer, but thanks for making me start writing again.
Meanwhile, I was curious enough to read the submissions of prior contest winners and runners-up, a reminder not to care a whole lot about what publishing gatekeepers are looking for in works of fiction. Thematically, not what I’m doing. In terms of voice, the experience left me uncertain about my approach.
I don’t wax lyrical in early chapters. I could. I know how to do it, but I don’t. In my view, and that of many authors, opening lines are best dedicated to arrival at the inciting event. Tell the reader what the grass smells like after you’ve dragged him into the story.
Here's my sketchy first chapter, first draft. The book is yet untitled. What do you think? Should this passage be more evocative? Tell me in the comments.
Chapter 1
The White House, Washington DC — April 2026
Eight months after the revelation that off-worlders had been homesteading on Earth since the last ice age, Carmen Benequista brought her deceased husband up to date on the particulars.
She concluded by saying, “Imagine you didn’t know about Italy, and all of a sudden you have Italians.”
Anton showed no interest in the topic. He said, “I thought you’d died, and I was here to greet you.”
Her husband’s face was ruddy from years playing golf, a life-ending melanoma on the left cheek curiously missing from the picture. It made her wonder if the experience was real. “I’m asleep, dreaming.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.” It was difficult to focus on anything except the two of them. Surroundings were indistinguishable. Information bubbled up out of order. “I ran for President. I won. I’ve been in office two years.”
“Is that how you’re able to speak with the dead?”
“It’s a temporary side effect, from a medical procedure.” Doubt crept in. Maybe I died.
“Surgery?”
“I received a neural implant.” No. I didn’t die. “It’s growing into my brain, taking root in the same places where the soul connects.” There were words to explain it, kind of. “Quantum sockets. Spacetime convergence.”
Her husband rocked on his heels. “Why would you get such a thing?”
“I have fighting machines in my security detail, rented from a company on Jivada.” She held hands a foot apart. “About this big. They fly on anti-gravity.”
He blinked. Confusion preceded cognition. “Aliens. I almost forgot. You’re in cahoots.”
“Yes. I am.” Carmen tried to touch his hand, but couldn’t quite manage it. “Is the between-life a good place?”
“Is that what this is? It’s lonely. I’m having a hard time forming thoughts. I don’t know how long I’ve been here.”
“Thirteen years.” Tears stained her cheeks. “If my friends are right about reincarnation, you’re coming back, someday.”
It was Anton’s turn to reach out. His hand passed through hers. Disappointment filled the moment. “You need to move on. Find someone to share your life, before you’re too old for it to make a difference.”
Carmen Benequista, President of the United States, woke into dark solitude, heart full of sorrow, a reply on her lips. “Aging isn’t a problem. The Anye have a cure for it.”
Image by Ryan McGuire from Pixabay
John Dyer Writes 
The only thing that felt “missinf” was a bit of reflection on her place in history — what she expected that to mean when she sought the office, what she thought it meant before she knew about aliens, and how it was changing under the pressure of new awareness.
Maybe you want to address it later, or maybe that’s not who she is?
A curt “she’d never been the type for philosophical hand wringing” would naik down that aspect of her character.
What do you think?
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That’s a thoughtful observation, one I’ll follow up on, and thank you. Funny story … Linda reads my essays only under duress. I pleaded. She read it. Linda says the President seems bored by it all, the scene lacks energy, and surely I can do better. I think you’re both right. It’s my intent to develop the President’s character quite a bit more in this book, and I absolutely can write a more exciting opening for the story. I’m thinking a bit of space opera is called for. What say you?
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If you want more energy, and I definitely agree that would make it better, I would say wake her up with something more interesting than a neural implant coming online.
Bored is one way to describe her. Or perhaps a bit crabby, which makes sense if she’s been awakened at 3 am for something so mundane.
I’m having trouble with a president who lacks a healthy sense of legacy. I want to know how she feels about the changes she’s making to US government. Has she wanted to do these things for a long time and now has the opportunity?
Had she envisioned reforms but never imagined they could or would happen on such a catastrophic scale?
I mentioned a healthy sense of legacy. What if she’s obsessed with the idea of legacy? The best characters have flaws, sometimes fatal. Their flaws often threaten their own objectives.
I say go for the space opera. You can always tone it down in revision if you need to. My bet is you won’t.
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