Dialogue (Part 6B): More Q. & A.

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A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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Writing Great Dialogue:
More Q. & A. (Cont’d)

Continued from the previous post.

• • •

Q. Can I write a novel using dialogue but without monologue?

A. You can…but I wouldn’t advise it. You’re using dialogue (the spoken word) to share vital information with other characters but also with the reader. You’re using monologue to reveal a character’s inner (secret?) thoughts solely to the reader. By truncating or eliminating monologue, you’re insinuating that none of your characters have a cogent notion that readers will find useful—unless that character’s near enough another character to initiate a verbal exchange. You’re basically telling us that none of your characters have a private opinion or an internal concern. That doesn’t seem likely.

I also question why a writer might be reluctant to delve into a character’s subconscious mind. I can understand that if one’s writing about a zombie holocaust or an invasion from Mars, internal speculation may not be high on your list of priorities—but still, I’d be surprised if even the staunchest Martian-blasting astronaut doesn’t have a thought or two worth sharing. For instance: Well, that’s a crazy notion, Muldoon thought of Tully’s idea to storm the Martian base using the last remaining ATV. Meaning that your characters are very likely occasionally sharing some personal asides with the reader, just not with sufficient depth to be considered truly “thought-provoking.”

I’ve even known a writer or two whose characters verbally mumble their thoughts aloud. “Well, that’s a crazy notion,” Muldoon mumbled to himself. I mean, sure, that option may work on occasion—but to have an entire novel filled with people mumbling to themselves might seem a bit…strange. The simplest solution, of course, is: Well, that’s a crazy idea, Muldoon mumbled to himself thought. Bingo! You’ve broken the interior monologue barrier!

• • •

Q. Can I start dialogue in the middle of a conversation without confusing my readers? In other words, can I leave out the boring parts of a conversation?

A. Leaving out “the boring parts” is an important lesson for any novelist to learn. One of the more functional (e.g.; amazing) attributes of dialogue is the writer’s ability to so utterly control what is said and how it’s said. Where omniscient narration carries a weighty set of rules that must ground the reader to conventional standards, dialogue offers far more flexibility and room to maneuver. When writing dialogue, a writer can quickly segue in and/or out of various situations or expectations, can easily infuse character development, or can alter moods—providing comical relief in stressful situations or gravitas in lighter moments. In the middle of a conversation, the fictional speaker can abruptly change subjects, can call forth past memories, or speculate upon the future. A character can whisper secrets or outright lie (to both the reader and to other characters.) One can be quite insane, and babble accordingly. A character can solve a crime via dialogue (a la Charlie Chan) or sway opinion (a la Mr. Smith in Washington.)

Dialogue is the window into your characters’ souls (so use it accordingly). With a few spoken words, a writer can jump-start a plot or add unexpected twists and turns. Dialogue can juggle emotions, upend assumptions, can fill plot holes and reveal important secrets. Dialogue is probably the single most useful, versatile, functional tool in a novelist’s tool kit. So think of dialogue as the ‘duct tape’ equivalent—meaning it has 1001 uses and can solve a lot of problems.

For instance:

“Luke, I am your father.”

Need I say more?

(Okay, so in Star Wars: Episode V, Darth actually says, “No, I am your father.” But—just like Casablanca’s non-existent line: “Play it again, Sam“—Mr. Vader’s assumptive words have become ingrained in our collective psyche. And, back to the point, a few simple words can be as potent as any epic visual or action sequence. A few words can change everything.)

As for beginning direct dialogue (the ‘he said/she said’ part) in the middle of a conversation that’s already taking place—that’s perfectly okay, so long as the reader is suitably grounded. For instance, let’s say we’ve depicted two old friends who meet, quite by happenstance, on a cross-country train.* They haven’t seen each other for many years. Grounding, in this case, means using omniscient narration to sufficiently depict their initial chitchat—maybe they embrace and casually small talk for a few minutes, before allowing direct dialogue to continue with “the heavy work”…

…..They talked about their spouses and their children and, over a nice bottle of pinot noir in the dining car, Donna told Tom about her recent divorce. Tom told Donna about his moving away from Springfield, several years before, after his wife’s sudden death. Donna had always been a West Coast girl and offered him a frown. She remembered how much he loved sailing, and how often they’d spend evenings staring off into the ocean.
…..“Do you ever miss it, Tom?” she asked. “Living on the Pacific Coast?”
…..“All the time,” he replied wistfully.
…..“And you’ve never found a reason to return?”
…..“Not yet.”
…..“Maybe we can change that,” she said with an inviting smile.

So, yes, one can narrate characters into a conversation and then switch to direct dialogue whenever the words themselves become important enough to evoke the emotion, mood, or the precision, that you desire. Could you write the above conversation without direct dialogue? Of course.

….She remembered how much he loved staring off into the ocean and asked him if he missed the Pacific Coast. He told he did, quite often in fact, gazing at her with a wistful expression. But Tom explained that he’d never found a reason to return to California. She wondered aloud if, perhaps, he’d never found sufficient reason. Sipping her wine, she wondered if she might be able to change his mind.

So, sure, it’s possible—but authorial narration doesn’t always carry the same passionate resonance that direct dialogue can impart upon the reader. Essentially, the reader is distanced by the author, functioning (often unnecessarily) as a third-party go-between. So my advice is allow the characters to speak for themselves as much as possible.

For the record, I’m more comfortable with this sort of authorial narration in a short story, where a limited word count might necessitate truncating various elements. But when writing a novel, I’d much rather drown myself in direct verbiage than a summary of characters’ emotions.

• • •

Q. What’s meant by “timing” in dialogue?

A. Timing—in a book, in a movie, in a musical piece—is simply the precision of one’s choreography, the accuracy of one’s stage direction, the smooth transition from one thing to another. For instance, consider: John hit Rocky in the nose. He cocked his fist and swung. VS. John cocked his fist and swung. He hit Rocky in the nose. The precise order of one’s sentence structure is the choreography of a character’s words or actions. A writer is directing two (or more) actors to perform (or converse) in a timely, logical sequence. One doesn’t want to “put the cart before the horse” (as my granny used to say). But one doesn’t want to put the horse too far in front of the cart either.

Here’s an example: Let’s say you’re writing a romantic comedy. The plot is this: Rick loves Lucy. Your 378 page novel is all about Rick falling in love and, at the end, about Rick and Lucy living happily ever after. However, here’s the trick: only once in your book are you permitted to utter this phrase: “I love you, Lucy!” But only once.

Ahhh…. a conundrum!

Sure, you can visualize two people falling in love in as many ways as possible—sunset beach walks, champagne-drenched evenings by a roaring fire—and Rick can spout Shakespearean love sonnets as much as he wants. But that essential utterance of, “I love you, Lucy!” is sacrosanct, pay dirt, nirvana—and, again—the line can be used only once.

So… where might those words be best utilized? Right up front, on page one? Kind of a spoiler, isn’t it? How about on the last page? That might work, but by now, Rick’s love might be so obvious to the reader that the words have lost their effectiveness. But what about that big, serious argument midway through the novel? Maybe Lucy’s upset, frustrated, walking out the door for the last time. What about then? Might those words—unexpectedly uttered in such a predicament—work their magic? Perhaps so. Or maybe not.

There’s no right or wrong answer, by the way. A proficient writer could make the phrase work in numerous situations. The key being that, where a knowledgeable writer ultimately places that line becomes precisely where it belongs. So treat those words—not to mention every other line of dialogue you write—with the same appreciation for their dramatic impact and/or significant revelation.

• • •

Q. How do I visibly differentiate dialogue from monologue on the page. Should I use ‘single quote marks’ for monologue?

A. Typically not. At least I’ve only rarely come across that format. One option is to use italics to differentiate monologue from dialogue—in cases where a character’s thoughts are short (a line or two) or when your juxtaposing two or more characters simultaneously speaking and thinking:

…..“You’re not going out dressed like that, young lady.”
…..“Why not, mom,” Carol whined. It’s not like you give a damn anyway. “Everybody’s wearing Speedos to school.”
…..“Well, you’re not everyone, Bernice.”
…..No, I’m not. Just a girl who has a Nazi commandant as a mother.

The option is to tag your characters with attribution:

…..“You’re not going out dressed like that, young lady,” Mrs. Smith said.
…..“Why not, mom,” Carol whined. It’s not like you give a damn anyway, she thought. “Everybody’s wearing Speedos to school.”
…..“Well, you’re not everyone, Bernice.”
…..No, I’m not, she thought angrily. She didn’t know any other girl in school who had a Nazi commandant for a mother.

• • •

Q. Must my characters’ dialogue be totally plot-relevant?

A. I believe dialogue should either be relevant to my plot or—as equally important—relevant to my characters. (Refer to the basics in Dialogue Part 1 should you desire.) In the early stages of a story, plot-centric dialogue may likely be considered overkill. For instance, if my protagonist will be eventually diagnosed with cancer, sitting around talking about a distant possibility of having cancer feels far too coincidental. (It’s also considered telegraphing.) Obviously, if my intent is to depict a character sitting in a doctor’s office on page one, about to learn of the test results on page two, that’s a different situation. Still…! If that’s the case, a word of concern: Knowing about a plot-motivator (in this case, cancer) before we know a bit about any specific character, may feel a little invasive or obtrusive for readers. My rule of thumb? Properly introduce characters—if only superficially—before you put them in harm’s way. Or love’s way. Or whichever way your plot is pointing.

It’s also important for readers to settle into a physical realm, so properly set the stage—both visually and emotionally. Perhaps, before cancer strikes, this rural Virginian family has been planning a long-awaited trip to Australia. Dad, mom, the three kids and the dog are excited, and so we readers have glimpsed a cheerful family, preparing for the vacation of a lifetime. And now—oops, almost forgot about that last-minute doctor’s appointment! So I’ve allowed readers to get to know my characters—hopefully to relate and care about them—before I drop them into an intense situation. If readers don’t know the central characters, the sudden cancer diagnosis isn’t nearly as traumatic than if we do know, and like, these people.

When characters are written as likeable, we’re more empathetic to their fear and concern. Conversely, when a character’s written as unlikable (for instance, an antagonist) the reader’s more likely to fear and loath their presence. Both our heroes and villains should be well-rounded and created with proper motivation and personality before the story’s too far along. Dialogue’s one of the best ways to reveal those traits.

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* Speaking of trains, If you’re having doubts about the power of dialogue, check out Alfred Hitchcock’s Strangers On A Train (1950). The entire plot revolves around a single, random conversation. Also check out the—aptly named—The Conversation (1974). Francis Ford Coppola directs Gene Hackman in an intense, dialogue-rich murder mystery.

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Welcome to 2020

Welcome to 2020—a year that seems cosmically designed to nurture and facilitate greater clarity in human consciousness. As this new year opens, many of us find ourselves navigating a period of both personal and global chaos that disrupts us spiritually, emotionally, intellectually, and physically. In short, our entire species now faces the consequences of a longstanding, compulsive fascination with attempting to forcibly control the flow and curate the content of the infinite stream of human information.

Long ago, our ancestors began to imagine that they could claim dominion over the entire universe by dissecting it and exposing its basic mechanics. Perhaps fear triggered by an unexpected global catastrophe triggered this impulse within us; who can say? Yet it seems that we have taken the pursuit of information as far as it can go and have reached its zenith, only to find that we follow a false god.

What has our pursuit of this false god taught us? That information is so easily corrupted, misinterpreted, restricted, confused, limited, and deceitfully provided that we simply cannot trust it to reveal for us the entire truth of anything at all. One by one, we are surrendering to the realization that we simply cannot use or manipulate data in ways that will allow us to control the rest of the universe for our own personal gratification or gain. At best, more information enables us to communicate better with the rest of reality, and to collaborate more consciously with life. Greater access to information does not grant us permission to assume dominion over life. Furthermore, we cannot even respond successfully if we rely solely on intellectual rationalism and objective materialism to justify our responses to reality.

If you believe at all in synchronicity, then the year 2020 suggests that we are rapidly approaching a tipping point of sorts in human consciousness. We approach the new omega point together, where clarity illuminates the darkness and clears the confusion that for so long has shrouded and stressed the human mind.

The Age of Information appears to be coming to a natural close as the structural limitations and intractable problems generated through relying solely upon information to guide our decisions are growing ever clearer to us all. The Age of Wisdom is rising, calling for an expansion of our awareness that still includes the use of information, while transcending its limitations by transforming its role in our decision-making process.

 We came to rely upon information because when we first developed the power of reason we fell in love with its contribution to us.

Understanding the world plays a useful role in the process of problem-solving.  Yet the thinking mind does not serve us best when it seeks to decide what we ought to be creating for ourselves. The mind’s proper role is to decide how best to achieve what our spirits want to bring forth, and not to decide what we need to manifest. Spirit initiates our best creative decisions based on all of life’s expressions at every level—sensory, emotional, rational and unseen. It invites our emotions to volunteer their feelings, our bodies to volunteer their reactions, and the entire world to participate in the choice of whatever comes next.

Clarity arises when we allow our personal field of awareness to expand beyond the limitations of our personal perspective by re-centering ourselves inclusively within an infinitely creative, eternally changing universe. It arises once we retrain ourselves to listen deeply and compassionately to the nonverbal cues that our bodies are constantly sending. It arises when we relax and allow ourselves to fully feel our feelings all the way through, no matter how uncomfortable they may become for a time, without discharging them aggressively or violently at others for “making” us feel them. It arises when we fall still enough to listen to the sublingual, whispering truths that flow beneath the highly excited, surface exchanges of our own beliefs and opinions.

Clarity arises when we fall mentally still, open our hearts, relax our bodies, and wait patiently for the aliveness of inspired insight to guide us, instead of relying only on the problem-solving brain to lead us through a difficult challenge. To put the brain in its proper place—to render it a congenial, co-equal branch of the body’s own regulatory system (instead of allowing it to imagine it can dictate the workings of our entire internal system) reveals to us where our structural social weaknesses also abide. As within, so without. Reason, untempered by compassion, condenses into cruelty for expediency’s sake. Punishment, lacking mercy, condenses into vengeance rather than justice. Action, lacking peaceful intentionality, condenses into selfishness rather than service. 

To realize this sets us ALL free from the limits of reason.  We come more fully alive when we align ourselves with life in trust, willingly, courageously, compassionately, kindly, patiently, and with peaceful intentionality. We become at last what we have ever been meant to become, and our consciousness flowers. The Earth looks forward to the full flowering of human consciousness. Having birthed us and having allowed us to eat from her body for many millennia, she now looks forward to watching us self-coordinate and discover what we can do once we know how we are.

I therefore wish all of you a more inspired, loving, wiser, and more graceful life experience this year.  May the clarity of 2020 vision light your way!

— Eileen Workman, Author of
Raindrops of Love for a Thirsty World and
Sacred Economics, The Currency of Life

 

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An MHP Holiday Message

As chaos erupts at the surface of things during this time of focus on the birth of Christ Consciousness, the dissolution and disarray of all social norms at superficial levels creates amazing opportunity for what nestles, seed-like and vulnerably opening, beneath the surface fractures in all of humanity’s systems.

Radical trust ignites the opening. like a seed pod opening and unfurling itself toward the sun. Seed pods of consciously-based radical trust are beginning to bloom everywhere at this time. Create your own pod or find a pod of individuals near you. Trust your intuition to guide you as to right timing and right locale. Know that what magnetizes you will not force you to remain in its orbit, but will draw you in naturally by how it manifests. Notice what magnetizes you, and what causes your heart to leap with joy, your mind to rest peacefully, and your body to relax and open wider to its own creative capacities and potential contributions.

Notice what makes your spirit SING…and do not settle for anything less at this auspicious time in the Great Internal Melting of human self-consciousness.  Decouple from any obsessive attachment to the thinking mind—not to undermine the power of thought, but to coordinate it more harmoniously with the brilliance of Spirit, with the loving heart, and with the graceful physical body.

Love all. Trust Self. Harm none.

Above all, be kind to yourselves at this time of great upheaval.

You ARE loved.

You ARE love, seeking the fullness and fulsomeness of its own expression.

— Eileen Workman, Author of
Raindrops of Love for a Thirsty World and
Sacred Economics, The Currency of Life
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Dialogue (Part 5): 1P POV

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rules-header-fullA notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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Writing Great Dialogue (Part 5):
Writing Dialogue/Monologue in
First Person POV

When I write a novel in First Person (1P) POV, I’m telling my story solely through my protagonist’s inner (as in monologue) voice, from my book’s first word to the last. My protagonist is speaking either directly to the reader, or to him/herself (much like when journaling) and, as the author, I’ve thrown the omniscient narrator out the proverbial window. There’s no unseen, omnipotent voice revealing information unknown to my protagonist. My narrator cannot be aware of what lies beyond his/her perception, nor is aware of other characters’ unspoken feelings, intentions or conspiracies.

And what really pops my bubble is this: One can also assume that any dialogue my protagonist chooses to reveal is not actually character-to-character dialogue. It’s simply my protagonist relating to the reader what words are possibly/probably being spoken. Essentially, more internal monologue. Theoretically, my protagonist might deny the reader specific information, or may even lie to the reader…should the plot dictate that the reader remain misdirected.

For instance, is the dialog below….

…..“I only arrived in town last night,” I said. “Why do you ask?”
…..“Because John Blayne was killed early Friday evening. Somebody matching your description was seen running from the crime scene.”
…..“Well, it wasn’t me, sheriff. I can promise you that.”
…..“And you have an alibi, Mr. Martinez?”
…..“Of course not,” I said with a cautious frown. “Until this moment, I didn’t think I needed one.”

…the truth or a lie? For all we know, Martinez may have killed the dude, but he’s unwilling to confess, even to the reader. Worse, he may have convinced himself that he didn’t kill John Blayne. Meaning that Martinez might be written as an unreliable narrator* Readers won’t know for certain if he’s telling the absolute truth, unless otherwise informed by Martinez himself. Crazy, right?

But I do love writing in First Person POV. It’s my favorite literary voice. I love the option of creating that potentially unreliable narrator—or at least of leaving a sliver of a doubt in my reader’s mind. I also love my ability to use a distinct (clever, cunning, cynical, crazy—and I mean like totally, off-the-wall crazy) voice. I love the option to blow off those many down-to-earth restrictions while writing in an omniscient voice.

For instance, should I decide to describe my initial, distant glimpse of the city of San Francisco as “resembling a 3-day-old birthday cake left out in the sun to melt,” I can do so with firm authority and a twisted panache. Screw those literalists who demand to see paragraph after paragraph of authentic description—all those cramped skyscrapers rising into the heavens, gleaming in the hot summer afternoon. As the book’s narrator, I can scene-set, reveal other characters’ unflattering quirks, and even unspool the plot in any manner (back to front? Sideways? Through an LSD haze?) that I damn well please. First Person POV readers aren’t expecting absolute authenticity so much as absolute personality. Conversations (e.g.; dialogue) should be very distinctive.

Okay… and that’s a new rule as well. Hence Rule #45: First Person POV readers aren’t expecting absolute authenticity so much as absolute personality. When writing in 1P, maximize your character’s personality.

As a 1P protagonist, I can whisper my secrets directly to the reader. I can hate my mother, abhor small children, kick puppies, fear the color mauve, have several dismembered bodies buried in the basement and still—by all outward appearances—appear normal, caring and actually somewhat sophisticated. The reader can be aware of these secrets (if told by the author), but unless my protagonist shares such info via dialogue, other characters won’t have a clue.

Writing in 1P, I can also dig far more deeply into my character’s psyche; into any number of psychoses (should I give my protagonist an issue or two) and I can dive wayyyyy down into the dark room of his/her soul. I can then resurface, revealing whatever jetsam and flotsam I might find there. And, when writing in 1P, I’d better find some interesting shit to divulge. That’s both the joy of writing in First Person and reading fiction in 1P as well.

Don’t be surprised if you (as author) find yourself slipping into co-habitation mode with your on-page alter-ego—whether you directly identify with him/her or not. You’re impersonating someone else, after all—for all intents and purposes, another human being. As the voice of my protagonist, I can discreetly reveal to the reader that my Great Aunt Lucy smells like formaldehyde. Or that I haven’t paid my taxes in eight years. That I’m about to murder the man who raped my sister. I can even whisper my uncertain suicidal tendencies—sharing a most profound secret with the reader, unafraid that some other character might overhear my thoughts and step in with a pat on the head and an a handful of antidepressants.

Sure, I can write about my Great Aunt Lucy similarly in 3P POV, superficially revealing much of the same information—but writing in 1P allows you (imho) to more fully share these feelings. Your protagonist can internalize a great deal more, and thus deliver a far more profound psychological impact on the reader. (Should you so desire.) Such intimacy can provide a far more profound, and personally exhilarating, writing experience. (Sometimes writing in 1P can feel pretty much like self-therapy.) Because, know it or not, you’re delving into your own soul as well.

Ah, but what about dialogue, you ask?

On the surface, one might assume that dialogue is dialogue. That writing dialogue in 3P is no different than dialogue in 1P:

…..“You’re looking lovely today, Suzanne,” Paul said.

…..“You’re looking lovely today, Suzanne,” I said.

But a funny thing happens when you begin to inhabit a 1P character who’s begun to feel at home in your brain. Writers will begin to re-think their words to better match the texture of their protagonist’s personality. In a way, it’s like channeling Elvis. So, “You’re looking lovely today Suzanne,” Paul said(.), can morph into:

…..“Have I ever told you, Suzanne, that whenever you look at me, I melt a little inside?”

I speak from personal experience. Several years ago I began writing a book about a guy living in San Diego who wanted to a screenwriter. I began writing in 3P, but my character seemed to sputter about a dozen pages in. And then I had a revelation. After all, I was a guy living in San Diego trying to write a screenplay. Feeling that sort of close, warm and fuzzy kinship with my protagonist, I began re-writing the book in 1P. For awhile I felt very self-conscious, like I’d been leaving the bedroom drapes open at night and the neighbors were clandestinely peeking in. And this guy in my head, whom I’d named Charlie, wasn’t me. He was both far braver and far more stupid than I. Yet, after a dozen or so pages, I forgot about me being me and freely gave my unconscious self over to Charlie. His manner of speaking changed. His cadence changed. Even his vocabulary changed. (That part was particularly freaky. He was using words that I didn’t even know I knew. Seriously.) And I think the story is far better for having made that transition.

I often tell people who ask that I don’t choose my characters as much as they choose me. And Charlie’s one guy who can prove it.

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* Unreliable narrator: A character or voice (most often found in 1P POV) who is, or may be, intentionally fabricating some, most or all of the story. Typically in 3P POV, the reader assumes that the story’s characters (and, of course, their sage puppet master) are telling the absolute truth—because, why the hell not? In those instances when a criminal, maniac, small child, captive…etc. is speaking, the reader can be made aware by the author (or simply through the veracity of the dialogue) that falsehoods abound. However, in 1P novels, it’s quite possible for the author to be intentionally manipulating the reader with the apparent sincerity of a saint. All along, however, and only toward the novel’s completion—if ever—does the reader discover that we’ve been fooled or outwitted by the narrator. And hopefully to the betterment of the book.



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Dialogue (Part 4): Monologue

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rules-header-fullA notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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Writing Great Dialogue (Part 4):
Dialogue vs. Monologue

“I love you, Carlotta,” he said.

I love you, Carlotta, he thought.

So…what’s the difference? To Carlotta, probably a great deal. And to the reader as well. To recap a bit, both spoken dialogue and inner monologue* are integral parts of the same revelation delivery system (with the omniscient narrator being the third option—the all-seeing author revealing anything and everything of necessity to the reader).

A fourth option also exists—and one I suggest using rarely (if ever). But more about this often unwelcomed intruder in a moment….

The key to precise communication with your readers is, of course, knowing when to use what. Dialogue is an information exchange between two or more characters. Monologue is an information exchange between a character and the reader. Omniscient narration, BTW, is an information exchange between the writer and the reader. A quick for-instance:

Dialogue: “I’m not sure you fully understand the danger,” Daniel said, rubbing his chin whiskers. “The road ahead isn’t exactly safe, Mrs. Phelps. Even if we make it, you’re not going to like what we find at the other end.”

Monologue (3rd Person): Daniel absently rubbed his chin. He wasn’t sure Mrs. Phelps understood the dangers ahead. This isn’t going to be easy, he thought to himself. Even if they made it, he wasn’t sure she’d like what she’d find waiting at the other end.

Monologue (1st Person): I’m not sure Mrs. Phelps understood the dangers ahead. I scratched the stubble on my chin, taking time to ponder the consequences. This wasn’t going to be a safe journey for either of us. Even if we made it, I wasn’t sure she’d like what she’d find waiting at the other end. (See more about First Person Dialogue in Dialogue Part 5.)

Omniscient Narrator: The road ahead would be long and arduous. Perhaps even dangerous. The driver rubbed his chin, searching for words. Neither Mrs. Phelps or Daniel McKay would like what they’d find waiting at the other end.

If plot-building is the backbone of a novel, dialogue is its heart and soul. One can destroy monsters, rocket to Mars, fall in love or join the circus—but without the ability to directly interconnect between on-paper characters and flesh-and-blood readers, there’s really no way to tell a complete or compelling story. Dialogue provides that ability to stir emotions, bonding fictional characters and living beings. The next time a work of fiction brings you tears of either laughter or heartbreak, a shudder of joy or fear—stop and look again at whatever passage is fueling your emotions. Most likely, there’s a healthy amount of dialogue involved.

Dialogue can also quickly and easily define a character’s personality. Even lacking external modifiers (expressions, physical tics or other attributes) one can pretty much infer the differences in the two personalities below:

…..“Mr. Jenkins, I’d like your permission to date your daughter. I know it sounds old-fashioned, but I just want you to know I respect Linda, and that my intentions are honorable. I’ll have her home by ten, sir.”

…and:

….“Hey, is Linda around? We’re hittin’ the Bijou tonight, once she gets her ass in gear, then maybe drive down to Paradise Cove for a little after-hours hoochie-coochie, if you know what I mean. You gotta light for my spliff, Mr. J?”

So consider dialogue as a great introduction (or addition) to initial character development. In fact, I’m not sure any character is fully realized before opening his or her mouth—and why so many fictive works begin with dialogue or else integrate dialogue or monologue within the first page or two. A character who seldom speaks is likely to be much more difficult for a writer to define, even if silence is an intended character trait.

Newspapers, Radio and TV.
(Revelation from afar)

There’s yet another form of revelation delivery—the type of communication that, if you’re a beginning or uncertain writer, I would strongly suggest avoiding. However, I’m aware of some writers who jump to use this fictive device, hoping for a quick infusion of pertinent info, so here I go…

As a reader, few gimmicks annoy me more than “a suddenly introduced outside source”—a TV or radio broadcast, a blog or newspaper article—barging into the story, intruding upon a cast of characters that I’ve slowly come to love or hate. OK, so on rare occasions, this gimmick may function as a bona fide tool, and can work successfully.** However, when improperly or indiscriminately placed, using mass media not only screams neophyte to the reader, but tends to send any impending drama or emotion in a scene down the proverbial drain.

Why? Mass media is a particularly sterile delivery system and tends to pull the reader out of the immediacy, the intimacy, of a story. Plotting is largely about questions and answers, after all—Does she love me? What’s behind this locked door? Will we survive charging into this forest filled with armed Lutherans?—and most readers will be repulsed (repulsed, I tell you!) by a lazy writer and the quick, easy cheat of stepping outside of an established story-line to drop a bit of relevant information.

But do be aware that many writers misuse these devices—delivering lengthy, rambling synopses of some plot-specific tidbit. As a reader, deluged with such a vapid delivery, I’ll glaze over after the first paragraph and either quickly peruse or skip the rest. Realize that you’re distancing the reader from both plot-tension and character nuance. So if you feel you must use mass media as a plot device, use it sparingly.

My suggestion is—rather than deliver a 100-200-word TV news report or rambling, lengthy newspaper or news-feed article—truncate the info by allowing your character(s) to becoming involved ASAP. If you’re able, bypass any direct television intrusion (in the example below) all together. For instance, and let’s say we’re writing about a cranky, old, hard-drinking PI, who’s hoping to solve a murder mystery:

…..I thumbed the remote, hoping to catch the last quarter of the Celtics game while I polished off the remnants of a quickly-warming six pack of Rolling Rock. I wanted to wash away the last vestiges of Mrs. Patterson’s troubles, and drinking myself into a stupor was a time-honored option. But the TV blinked on and there was Mrs. Patterson herself—an old photograph anyway—brooding above a Breaking News crawler.
…..I didn’t have to wait for the newscaster to explain the details—I knew the signs. The flashing lights, the meandering CSI technicians, the grimacing on-the-spot reporter; I pretty much knew that Mrs. Patterson had joined the dearly departed. So much for my theory that the woman had killed Stanley for his money. Meaning someone else had killed Mr. Patterson—and now his wife—hoping to get their hands on all those missing millions. Which more or less dropped me back at square one…

So, sure, feel free to insinuate a news source (TV, radio or newspaper) to push your plot forward—but make such an emotionless intrusion relevant to your character, who then makes it relevant to the reader. In this case, my crusty PI takes over and brings the story quickly back into his own POV, where hopefully the reader is quite comfortable by now. Now you can add a few additional plot-points (mascaraing, perhaps, as character-building) as well…

…dropped me back at square one.
…..The helpful TV news-lady droned on. “Mrs. Stanley Patterson, 72, had been one of several suspects in her husband’s disappearance and presumed death three months ago. She is survived by her two sons and a step-daughter….”

…..I took another sip of tepid brew and stared at the tube long enough to get the gist. A suspected burglary, gone wrong. Always a suspected burglary, gone wrong. Every damn time. The thing is, suspected burglars usually don’t stab their victim multiple times, and the coroner’s office appeared fairly specific in that regard. Multitude times. A pretty pissed-off burglar, if you ask me. And I was fairly certain the police would be asking me, come sunrise. Which gave me an idea….

I offer the same advice for a newspaper story. Instead of concocting a lengthy article (as fun as that may be to create!), give the reader the gist and have a character take over at the first opportunity:

…..I shuffled down the porch steps in a faded Red Sox T-shirt and tattered boxers—probably giving old Mrs. Quimbly across the street an eyeful. I was probably the only guy left on the block who read the morning paper—but I was also the only guy on the block with two cockatoos, Stan and Ollie, and I’d rather have them pooping on yesterday’s news than my counter top. I reached down for the paper and immediately saw the glaring headline: Wealthy Heiress Murdered in Brighton. I didn’t need to see more—my gut already told me that Mrs. Patterson was dead, and so much for my theory of who killed her husband…

Also note that newspaper articles (TV and radio too) don’t rely on detailed or ‘chatty’ information. So if you’re going to use mass-media, study those formats. Don’t try to sneak in clever or intimate clues, because initial reports are typically vague, incomplete and often incorrect. They don’t rely on ‘unsubstantiated reports’ or speculation by friends and neighbors. Just the facts, ma’am. So maintain the integrity of whatever medium you’re using. Otherwise, you’ll lose credibility.

But otherwise, yeah—used with a little discretion, it’s okay to give your readers a glimpse of the daily news.

One last note: Don’t confuse using mass media (as described above) with using character-centric media—for instance somebody reading a passage from a mother’s diary, a series of love letters, even a chatroom exchange—these are all tools that can be used to reveal specific info. Readers tend to be comfortable with characters writing or calling or texting.

– – – – –

* Monologue. Don’t confuse monologue (AKA: inner monologue. AKA: thinking) with soliloquy, a scene where a solitary character speaks thoughts aloud. An insane Lady McBeth’s infamous “Out, out damn spot” for instance. Inner monologue is simply a character’s unspoken thoughts—unknown to other characters, but crystal clear to the reader. If Shakespeare is lost on you, think of Tom Hanks’ longer conversational interactions with a volleyball named Wilson.

** Mass Media. My rule of thumb, when reading/editing manuscripts, is: The shorter the intrusion, the better. A headline, for instance, is OK. A brief snippet of a newscast is OK. So writing 25 words or less is fine. Fifty words is stretching the envelope. One hundred or more words is inviting narcolepsy. A few stanzas of song or poem (for instance, to infuse a specific mood), or a Want Ad (to lure an unsuspecting character to certain doom) can be worthwhile. These are scene-setting or plot-building tools. However, please understand that fabricating an entire 200-word article just to extract a line or two of worthwhile information—well, that’s taboo (…unless you have a very excellent excuse).


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