Write the Daydream

Posted on June 20, 2022 by MHP

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

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Write the Daydream
(Intro to Plotting)

What’s a novel, but a daydream or fantasy we write down and embellish, expand and hone into something coherent, dramatic and hopefully entertaining?

Sounds simple enough, in theory. But how does one begin? How does one even attempt to begin?* How do so many fragmented and rudimentary thoughts (Hey, I’ll call this dude Romeo. I’ll name his girlfriend Juliette. They’ll live happily ever—no, wait, I have a better idea!) emerge to produce a provocative story? Maybe we gaze longingly at books like A Game of Thrones, or The Lord of The Rings, the Harry Potter series or The Time Ships, and think WTF!? How do people create such rich, complex, creative narratives? What were they thinking? What were they smoking? I could never begin to craft such an incredibly detailed epic adventure! Until I figure it out, I guess it’s back to watching reruns of The Gilmore Girls.

Do realize that before we sit down and actually put words to paper, we may spend weeks, months or sometimes years concocting and babysitting a concept that feels as if it could become a story. And yet some novice or wannabe writers will ponder or percolate (or else procrastinate) for years, waiting either patiently or frantically for Just. The. Right. Moment. to shift from creative daydreaming to actually beginning that first draft.

But until you begin actively writing that first line, that first page, that first scene, that first chapter—let’s face it, you may be lost in an uncertain Twilight Zone between creative inspiration and cranking out pages. Procrastination is a very real issue in a writer’s world and, yes—most writers subliminally know when they’re stalling, hiding behind the veil of “My story needs more research.” Hey, we all procrastinate a bit—but if you’ve spent years yearning to write, and you’ve yet to put a word to paper, you might want to tap out a few pages, just to see what all the fuss is about. (You may surprise yourself and feel an overwhelming sense of pride, or awe, or self-gratification.)

Conversely, some beginning novelists—heads filled with so many exciting possibilities—believe they can plop down one day in front of a notepad or a PC and simply begin to scribble or type out a coherent, fully-developed story. Most of those writers don’t realize that stream of consciousness writing will only get you so far….but then what? Writing a novel requires an incredible amount of pre-prose strategy, of organization and finesse. And most of us will likely require a working roadmap (see Outlining) so we don’t lose ourselves along the way. A few lucky writers are able to simultaneously craft a comprehensive story inside their heads as they write, but that’s an ability most of us do not enjoy.

But let’s back up a sec, to the aforementioned …but then what? Three of the most important words for a writer to comprehend. Because most, if not all novels begin with a single What if…? notion or premise. A novel is a logical, sequential series of What if…? scenarios. No sooner than you’ve answered one, another What if…? question should arise—a series of dramatic questions and answers that end only when your story concludes. Just realize that story-telling (e.g.; novel writing) employs the same cerebral techniques as does daydreaming. And more about What if…? questions in Plotting (Part I). One coherent thought leads to another sequential thought, to another thought that provides forward momentum of one sort of another:

Gee, I wish I could fly. What would I do if I could? What might I accomplish? What if…? Or, Linda doesn’t even know I’m alive. If I could only make her notice me! What if…? Or, I love to realm build! Dragons and castles and wizards and dark magic! But where do I start my story? How do I inhabit such a wonderful place. What possibly could happen that will interest readers? Hey, what if a young knight bumps his head, develops amnesia and then….? These fragmented notions, in the hands of a creative mind (or in the mind of creative hands), might easily become the core of a superhero thriller or romantic comedy or epic fantasy—or a thousand other fictional possibilities.

Can’t think of a daydream suitable to become something more? Sure you can. They’re everywhere—snippets of this idea, fragments of that idea— just waiting to be found. Quick—think of something dramatic! Or unexpected! An inciting incident can be as simple as a knock at the door or as ominous as a giant asteroid, hurling toward Earth. What about chance meeting in a park? Or somebody in the wrong place at the right time? A lottery ticket found on the ground. Or what if that meteor crashes to Earth with a talking hamster inside. (Hey, I’ve read worse!) Maybe Aunt Judy’s just turned into a flesh eating zombie.

…but then what?
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* Don’t know where to start? See the appropriately named Where To Start.

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Obstacles

Posted on January 12, 2022 by MHP

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

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A Few Common Obstacles.
(And a few possible solutions.)

I’ve been hanging out in Reddit.com/r/writing for a few years now, lurking and occasionally offering comments and suggestions (as u/writer-dude) to new, struggling and/or curious writers. What I’ve discovered on Reddit are many of the same concerns and issues that I’ve confronted while editing clients’ manuscripts. Typically, I can assist confused, foundering or sidelined writers by presenting modest solutions to these six prevalent obstacles. Often times, a writer can self-identify (and overcome) such potential roadblocks and pitfalls. For anyone who might feel lost in the fog, allow me to point you in the right direction. In order of increasing concern:

6. Overcoming Inhibitions. The fear of failure is real. So is the fear of success. A fear of ridicule. The fear of isolation (AKA: Squeezing out sufficient writing time). The fear of upsetting friends or family. The fear of not writing a perfect novel can stop a writer cold. Some call it ‘writer’s block’. Or procrastination. Or ‘waiting for inspiration.’ But the myth of a perfect novel doesn’t exist. Are you a perfectionist? LOOK HERE.

5. How to write effective (or scintillating) dialogue. Oddly enough, extended dialogue can be the culprit, can wander off-track in various ways, and it’s sometimes difficult to find one’s way back. Trimming dialogue can help—keep what’s pertinent and save the rest (the plot-essential chitchat) for another scene/chapter. Not sure? LOOK HERE

4. Overcoming one’s own ineptitude. Don’t have a clue how to write a novel, but starting out anyway? Afraid you’ll never have what it takes to start or finish? The best way to learn is actually to begin writing. You need not begin a novel or a short story, simply write what comes to to mind. Experiment and explore. Make mistakes and discover ways to improve. However, comprehending the fundamentals of being an author (LOOK HERE), as well as digesting filmmaker Noel Burch’s The Hierarchy of Competence, can be an essential guideline to perfecting your craft.

3. Plowing helter-skelter through one’s plot with little regard for scene-setting (equally as important) and character-development (ditto). A great novel should seamlessly blend plot momentum with sufficient scene-setting (where/when/why are we in this particular scene?) and character-development (or else why should we care about these uninteresting people?) Unsure? LOOK HERE.

2. Motivation. (Finding it, Keeping it). There exists two separate (but equal) qualities a writer must possess to write — and finish — a work of fiction. The first is creativity. We’re either born with it or else we take great pains to develop it. (See: Fundamentals.) Creativity is all butterflies and daffodils, rainbows and unicorns. We concoct a lavish daydream, refine and embellish it at our leisure (and that’s the fun part) until we eventually <sigh> attempt to reveal our visions to the world.

The second quality is persistence. (AKA, patience, perseverance, perspiration. A bunch of other P words.) And this is when shit gets real. A writer must begin to dissect, develop and revise that daydream, word by word, page by page, chapter by chapter. For some of us (most of us?) that’s the long haul. The marathon. The sojourn toward potential madness. And yet it’s that excruciating exactitude that a novel demands of a writer. Creativity is a right brain attribute. Developing and writing our daydream is pretty much left brain. A writer must ultimately decide to spend long hours, making tedious decisions, dealing with criticism, confronting many IRL issues (all those pesky things like jobs, family, trepidation and self-doubt.) We all face such challenges, and many writers won’t prevail. Some do. But to complete a novel, we need to engage both the left and right sides of our brain.

1. Getting Stuck. The most prevalent obstacle (by far) is a novice writer beginning a novel (or story) but very quickly becoming mired in the enormity of such a venture. Many newbies have a vague idea or a partial concept in mind and begin to write in earnest—sometimes 3 pages, sometimes 30—but then what? Once the inciting incident (usually a novel’s opening) plays out, how does one proceed to create an entire, enticing, integral book-length manuscript?

Maybe you sincerely yearn to write a novel. Let’s say that you have a nifty premise about a giant asteroid hurling toward Earth. So you create a nice scenario—a young protagonist who’s perhaps an amateur astronomer and who discovers that pinprick of light hurling toward our planet. The inciting incident in the 1998 flick Deep Impact, BTW. And without creating a definitive inciting incident, you may find yourself spinning your creative wheels.

Once you’re able to define your story’s beginning, and know or intuit a potential ending, entire new worlds of possibilities will open up. So many options. So many tentacles. Will the asteroid strike? Will it miss? Will we send astronauts into space with nukes? Or launch a rag-tag team of unlikely geologists to save the world (a la Armageddon)? How does once successfully stitch together a coherent, dramatic, conclusive tale? By writing one page at a time. When you find yourself stymied or cornered or fresh out of new ideas, and you’re still midway through Chapter 1, sometimes writing those next 300-400 pages can feel insurmountable. So take a deep breath and stay in the moment. (Worry about all those other pages when the appropriate time comes.)

One possible solution! If you’re writing in linear, chronological order (as most of us do) and you’re feeling increasingly bogged down, perhaps skip a few scenes or even a few chapters. Pick up your story line at some exciting future point, finish that scene/chapter and then see if you can connect the story from where you’ve left off. I’ll also often write or draft out my final chapter as soon as my ending becomes reasonably clear. I find that by having an ending in place, even a vague outline—it’s far easier to continue my story toward that goal. If I know where I’m going, and why, and my characters know where they’re going, and why, it’s far easier to get there without any wrong turns or unexpected obstacles.

Another potential solution! If you find yourself midway through a decent story, enjoying the ride—but suddenly find yourself lost or writing toward a dead end, stop writing! If possible, give yourself a short break (a few days or a week to clear your mind). When you return, delete (or put aside) your last scene or chapter and restart your story from there—but in an entirely new direction. Give yourself a few options. Maybe outline a few possible ideas that bypass or eliminate the obstacle.

Occasionally a writer may stray off the path of righteousness and suddenly we’ll find our sorry-ass brains mired in the cerebral muck. So by backtracking a few pages (or a few chapters, if necessary) and discovering that proverbial fork in the road, we can choose another way forward. Because very often this change of direction (or detour) will break the log jam. I’ve often used this tactic, and usually with success. However, you must be okay with cutting entire scenes, even chapters, and maybe killing a few darlings along the way. But it’s certainly worth the loss if it gets you back on track.

Other possible solutions….

Q. So, how to proceed?

A1. Outline.

A2. Step away from the project for a few days or weeks, then come back with a fresh perspective. (You can still think about your story, just don’t write until your creativity returns.)

A3. Try approaching the issue from a different character’s POV.

A4. Stop thinking about your story in its entirely. Forget what might happen 100 or 200 pages from now. Focus on one scene, or one page, at a time. Stay in the now. (See: Focus On The Now).

Q. Still feeling creatively stymied?

A. See: More Common Obstacles

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Dialogue (Part 8:) When Not to Use Dialogue

Posted on August 3, 2020 by Dave Workman

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

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Writing Great Dialogue (Part 8)
When not to use dialogue.

By now you’re probably aware that I love dialogue. I love its texture, its allure and ambiance, it subliminal mood enhancement (e.g.; the squeal of joy, the cry of alarm, the subtle whisper.) Both the impeccably placed, “I love you more than life itself, my darling Rosette,” and “You’re dead to me, Alfredo,” work exceptionally well on my tender psyche. I love the spoken word’s ability to fully explain (or subliminally alter) a character’s mood or emotion, or to more completely develop a character’s true nature. I love its ability to turn the plot on a dime. For instance:

…..“I love you more than life itself, my darling Rosette. You are the most beautiful, intelligent, wonderful woman I’ve ever—” Pierre paused, his attention suddenly shifting beyond Rosette’s beautiful, intelligent, wonderful shoulder. “Say, isn’t that Mssr. LeBeaux’s missing Rembrandt hanging over your fireplace?”

Meaning that, unlike omniscient narration, where the writer often may need pages of careful planning and a deft hand to shift momentum or to change a story’s direction, dialogue can provide a sudden, unexpected pivot. In a line or two, dialogue can provide a cliff hanger, spill a secret and/or reveal essential plot momentum. Dialogue is a writing tool with 1,000 uses.

However…!

After spilling countless buckets of digital ink extolling the virtues of dialogue in several previous posts (Refer again to Dialogue (Parts 1-7), I’m here to reveal dialogue’s seedy underbelly, its subversive or toxic presence in any novel. It is a tool, after all. And one doesn’t hammer nails with a hacksaw. Because, yes, misguided dialogue can cause writers a world of hurt.

Here, then, are those areas where I believe dialogue (or rather, a prolonged use of dialogue) may not be your best bet. Those six scenarios where I’d advise against using dialogue, are:

1. Don’t use dialogue as an alternative for action.

…..“Look at that volcano, Avignon! Have you ever seen such a magnificent eruption in your entire life? Look at all that smoke. Look at all that belching fire. Look at the village burning! Isn’t it breathtaking!”

As a reader, I don’t want to be informed via dialogue about an important visual. If you’re writing about any sort of dramatic incident or event—a passionate kiss, a sinking ship, an erupting volcano—realize that readers want to live those moments, as close to the action as possible. We want to experience the earth trembling, the heat of the spouting lava, the yearning or the terror or the joy. I want Avignon, and the reader, to be right up there on the side of the mountain, smelling the sulfur fumes and feeling the heat. So show me the volcano, don’t simply tell me second hand. Show me the battle. Or the love. Or the brain-sucking zombies. As a reader, I want to feel, smell, taste and observe every crucial detail for myself.

Sure, sometimes dialogue can be necessary to prime a potential plot, and that’s okay. Consider (early in Act I, perhaps) this sort of spoken set-up:

…..“Doug’s grandfather was a Marine on Okinawa during the war,” Ben said. “He saw his share of Japanese soldiers charging at him with fixed bayonets. His best friend, Walter, was killed right in front of his eyes. According to Doug’s gran’pappy, three days before Walter died, he found this map.” Ben stared down at the tattered parchment lying on the table between them.
…..“See that little red X in the middle, that’s Sui Gushiku,” Ben continued. “Shuri Castle, it’s called today. The place was destroyed during the war, and rebuilt as a school. But Doug’s grandfather told him a hundred times that Walter swore he’d discovered some sort of secret tunnel shortly after they landed in ’45. The access is hidden in a nearby forest, hard to find, and leads to an underground chamber beneath the school. That faded X is where Walter supposedly found the statue. Swears it’s solid gold, life sized Buddha. Treasure chests, too. Dozens of them. Doug thinks there’s a good chance all that loot’s still there, unknown and untouched for nearly a century. Hey, pass the rum, willya?”

So yeah, dialogue can work as a tease. As a prompt. But as a reader, I better soon be following Doug and Ben on an adventure and experience that secret chamber for myself.

2. Don’t drop long-winded or intense dialogue in the middle of action. (Refer again to Action VS. Information). If in doubt, schedule important scenes of lengthy dialogue immediately before or after scenes of intense action. Snippets of relevant dialogue are, of course, okay during dialogue. “Duck!” shouted Sgt. McBucko as enemy artillery shells rained down around them. I’d certainly consider that acceptable. However, in that same precarious situation, Sgt. McBucko’s long-winded reflection about his mother’s delicious homemade apple pie, including the recipe, is not.

3. Don’t use dialogue as an RDS (Rapid Delivery System). Dialogue can be quite useful as a convenient and conversational way to hasten along all sorts of character development or plot momentum. If done well, a reader won’t even realize that they’re downloading a significant bit of data. However, one should avoid writing a summation of events using dialogue. The fictive summary—basically an abridgement or synopsis of a plot, of a scene, or of a character’s complicated rationale—becomes a passionless, tension-lacking device to quickly whisk readers from Point A to Point B. If a scene appears in your book, then it damn well deserves to be told with both passion and panache. The summary lacks these two qualities, and (imho) is often the result of lazy writing. If you’re unwilling to paint a complete picture, why should a reader be willing to spend time struggling to enjoy such a limited view? For instance:

.….“How did you manage to survive, Penelope?”
…..“It wasn’t too hard. During the summer months, when the zombie hoards were decimating most of the city, we just kicked back and watched TV. Since zombies don’t have a clue how to use elevators, my cousin Kenny and I lived in the penthouse suite of the Ritz Carlton and every week or so I’d take the express down to the basement and raid the kitchen. I mostly lived on cans of soup and, until the power died, frozen beef patties. Oh, sure, the meandering dead eventually found a way in. One of those damn zombies killed Kenny and another ate my dog’s brain, so that’s when I left. And here I am.”

Wait—they killed Kenny? They ate Spot’s brain? Sounds like a great deal was indeed happening up in the penthouse. And yet so much potential drama is told in summation. Meh! As a reader, I want to know how the zombies discovered the penthouse! If Kenny or Spot were important characters in your book, I’d expect a far more dramatic and heartfelt sendoff than a brief word or two. Show us the terror. Show us Spot’s brain in all of its delightfully gory detail.

4. Don’t use dialogue to introduce reader-feeder. (Reader-feeder being too much information, too quickly compressed, or else information that the writer attempts to reveal to the reader via characters already aware of that info…and thus without any other logical necessity to do so.)

For instance, let’s say we’re writing a novel that centers on twin brothers, Ed and Ned, living in a small Midwestern town—and they’re desperately trying to solve their father’s murder. A few pages in, Fred and Ned barge into the sheriff’s office and say, “Sheriff, our murdered father, Stanley Jones, was being forced to sell the farm to Edmond Fitzgerald, his second cousin, to build his shopping mall!” Even if readers don’t yet know much this information, the revelation—as written—comes across as stilted and unrealistic (a.k.a.: reader feeder.)

The quick fix is by tweaking the dialogue to more discreetly reveal such info:

…..“You’re Stan’s twin boys, aren’t you?”
…..“That’s right, sheriff,” Fred said. “And we’re here to ask you what you’re doing to find our father’s killer.”
…..“Trust me to do my job, boys. Rumor around town is that your daddy was about to sell the farm. Isn’t that right?”
…..“He didn’t want to,” Ned told him, “but cousin Eddie wouldn’t take no for an answer. We think he was trying to blackmail our daddy.”
…..“Rumor has it,” the sheriff said, absently rubbing his chin stubble, “that Edward wants to build a shopping mall up your way, isn’t that right?”
…..“Our father was the only hold out,” Ned said. “The last thing I heard him say to Eddie was, “Over my dead body.”
…..“Well now, ain’t that interesting,” the sheriff mused.

Or through monologue:

…..Our dad, Stanley Jones, didn’t have an enemy in the world. And yet, somebody shot him seven times and left him in a ditch off the Interstate. It was no secret that Edmond Fitzgerald was after our father’s farmland. Wanted to build some sort of gigantic strip mall. But daddy wasn’t going to sell. Not for a million dollars. Truth is, Ned an’ me, we think Mr. FItzgerald had our father killed. No matter how long it takes, me and my brother intend to prove it was him who had him our daddy killed. That damn Sheriff of ours doesn’t care a lick that our daddy’s gone, but me and Ned, we’ll have our pound of flesh.

Or through omniscient narration:

…..Stanley Jones didn’t have an enemy in the world. Except somebody had shot the old man several times, then left his body in a ditch near Interstate 95. Fred and his brother Ned suspected Old Man Fitzgerald—who’d been bullying their father for months about selling the farm to put up a strip mall. Edmond Fitzgerald owned most of the town, and the brothers knew that the man was bound and determined to own their land as well. The sheriff didn’t seem too interested in solving the case, so the brothers had vowed to discover themselves who killed Stanley. Or else die trying.

5. Don’t use dialogue as a shortcut for a writer’s fear of emotional depth. As odd as this may sound, some writers (me among them, although I’m getting better) have a subliminal habit of forcing emotions upon characters.

Calvin told Susan that he loved her. She hugged him tightly and, through cascading tears of joy, Susan told Calvin that she loved him too.

So what’s wrong with this? In some situations the line may work quite well. (This tactic also works in short works of fiction.) But do realize that you’re distancing the reader from visualizing those emotions playing out on the page. Real emotion isn’t always easy to express, and some writers may feel that a simple “I love you,” cuts through all that sticky red tape of oozy emotions. But consider a simple line, such as:

Calvin brought Susan a small vase of flowers from the garden that morning, the same way he’d brought her fresh flowers every morning for the last twenty-five years.

If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is. But by depicting random acts of love in this manner you’re allowing readers to gradually—and more fully—comprehend the depths of Calvin’s affection. A writer can conceivably pen a brilliant love story without ever uttering the words “I love you.” It’s the old show, don’t tell theory of novel writing.

In certain situations, there’s nothing wrong with: Calvin told Susan that he loved her… Should circumstances dictate, using a more passive narration may create a mood that better fits your intentions. But realize that this sort of skimpy dialogue can distance readers from the immediacy and passion of the moment. And, after 357 pages of gradually building foreplay in a smoldering, epochal love story, this:

He told her that he loved her.

…ain’t nearly as mind-blowingly fulfilling as:

“I love you more than life itself, Rosette.”

Trust me.

6. Don’t use dialogue when monologue would better suffice. Basically, when a character speaks, that’s dialogue. When a character has a private thought, that’s inner monologue. (AKA: thinking.) Obviously, when a character’s alone on a page, that character will seldom speak aloud—I mean, why bother?

“I shouldn’t really be doing this,” Irene mused aloud, cautiously reaching for the attic door. “Daddy told me never to go up there after dark.”

A single line or two? Sure—I mean there are times a character may actually speak aloud when alone (especially if afraid or excited)—but use this trait sparingly. If Irene blathers on for another paragraph or two… too much! One can work around the issue with a clearly defined thought bubble. For instance:

I shouldn’t really be doing this, Irene mused to herself, cautiously reaching for the attic door. Daddy told me never to go up there after dark. Irene realized that her fear of ghosts… etc.

Or, as authorial narration:

Irene was well aware of the old legend. Her father had told her a hundred times never to venture into the attic after dark. Taking a deep, uneasy breath, she stepped forward and reached for the door.

Realize that characters who routine mumble to themselves may seem a bit…strange, perhaps? But monologue is no less important than dialogue in a story, and if you’re writing in First Person voice, monologue may actually become your most common, even favored, approach to communicating with the reader.

Some developing writers will attempt to find another character to fit into a scene, simply to force a dialogue whenever communication is necessary. I’m not sure why. A writer should never be off-put by a character’s personal thoughts. And adding an unnecessary character, simply as a convenient sounding board, has its own disadvantages. (Does he/she have any other purpose in your story?) And, let’s face it, a solitary character can’t help but have private thoughts—even in scenes crowded with people, everyone has private moments, so monologue is a very functional tool when communicating with readers. Monologue can be (and should be, imho) an integral part of character development. (Also refer to: Dialogue vs. Monologue.).

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

Posted on December 8, 2019 by Dave Workman

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

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Writing Great Dialogue (Part 6a)
The Q. & A. Page

If you find creating dialogue difficult or frustrating, realize that most fledgling novelists don’t naturally begin their careers writing great dialogue. Dialogue’s a bit of an art, but also a bit of a science. It’s a potpourri of plot momentum, of character revelation and also of helpful scene setting. (And quite simple, once you get the hang of it.) But how to begin? How to improve? I sincerely believe the best way to learn about writing great dialogue is by listening.

My advice is to listen to IRL—”real world”—conversations around you. Listen to angry people. Listen to cheerful people. Listen to people in crisis. You’ll be horrified to discover that probably 70-80% of anything you hear isn’t germane to any particular topic. In a fictive conversations, 90-95% should be essential to your story, or else integral to character development. So determine what conversations are necessary—and disregard what isn’t.

Another suggestion? Don’t worry about fine-tuning dialogue in your first draft. Get the plot-basics down and worry about nuance later. But, yes, do eventually worry about nuance!

To re-it (because I do believe your characters’ spoken words—and/or inner thoughts—to be essential info), dialogue should accomplish one of three tasks: scene-setting, plot-relevance or character development. Coherence is, of course, paramount. So is the passion and resonance of any character’s words. In contrast, most of our real-life, daily, casual conversations are largely superfluous or redundant or random. Totally off-topic. (And, no, don’t write your novel this way. A bit of clever, idle chatter won’t hurt…but use judiciously.) And by all means, delete all those ubiquitous ‘um‘s from your page.

Another factor? Dialogue must be timely. In other words, at what point a conversation appears in your story is as important as the dialogue itself. Meaning that it’s imperative that you reveal each puzzle-piece of relevant information at the precise moment. Would any particular piece of dialogue be better served if spoken in an earlier scene or later chapter? It’s an important consideration.

Unlike omniscient narration, dialogue need not follow any precise choreography (as in: A before B before C before D…etc.). Dialogue is far more fluid, more random, more easily shuffled. Characters can chat about the future, about the past, alternating freely—and if those conversations are not properly executed (as in bringing conversations back to the here and now in a logical fashion) your characters may seem to lack logic, their dialogue out of place or insignificant. So, yes, timing can be as important as execution

You know you’re getting close to understanding dialogue is when you (as writer) begin to better understand the various characters vying for your attention. You’ll begin to listen—seriously listen—because your book’s characters will actually tell you what they need to say.

Sounds like some sort of voodoo magic, right? But it’s true. You’ll come to superficially know your characters while writing an outline or first draft—and they will ultimately begin to more fully reveal themselves as you continue to write. They will begin to develop cadence and style and a speech pattern that feels real. Some may keep secrets. Some may reveal secrets. But sooner or later they’ll begin to feel like very real people. And that’s when you’ll begin to write great dialogue.

Writers who don’t (or can’t) listen to either their characters or their fellow humans, aren’t often published. Because, yes—plot-essential and/or character-essential dialogue is really that important. Grab hold of a book or two that you absolutely love. Look at nothing else but dialogue. See how it’s done. You may be amazed to discover why a favorite book is indeed a favorite book.

But I digress. Over the years, I’ve come across various concerns about writing dialogue (of the “should I?” and “should I not?” variety), and I’ve gathered those that feel most significant.

• • •

Q. Must I include dialogue in a novel?

A. The short answer is: Yes. Absolutely! Without dialogue, I’m not certain any character can be adequately developed for the reader. Situations can’t be fully revealed or portrayed. Nuance established. Direct dialogue also eliminates the middleman—and that would be you, the author. Dialogue is a conversation directly between a character and the reader. Sure you can circumnavigate direct dialogue (or monologue) with omniscient narration, but the author’s voice doesn’t carry the same intimacy as direct dialogue. For instance, which feels more sincere:

“I love you, darling! I’ve always loved you, since the first moment I met you.”

VS:

He told her that he loved her. That he’d always loved her, since the first moment they’d met.

Certainly, there’s nothing wrong with occasionally using omniscient narration in place of spoken words (and a book should include both variations), although a novel lacking any direct dialogue may feel aloof or impersonal. It can be done (in avant garde writings) but not always successfully. Short stories can also navigate successfully using omniscient narration. But try to find a modern novel that doesn’t include dialogue. Readers are used to seeing active dialogue and, finding none—well, that’s a chance I don’t want to risk. Not to mention that my characters always have so much to say.

• • •

Q. Can I open a novel with a conversation (e.g.; dialogue)?

A. Certainly. A line, a scene, an entire chapter… absolutely. For instance, one can use an omniscient narrator—an unseen, ethereal presence—who speaks directly to the reader. (The Stage Manager in Our Town, for instance.) Or one can provide a Shakespearean-esque soliloquy to set out various facts and conditions before the story begins. (Think of the now iconic scrolling yellow text that opens Star Wars: Episode IV.) The information could as easily have been spoken to the audience by a young Skywalker. A writer can also jump into an as-yet introduced character’s deep and meaningful thought process. (Stephen King often opens his books in such a manner.) Or open in the midst of a conversation between two or more unmet characters. Readers will intuit that introductions will be forthcoming and will wait patiently, so long as they find purpose and sufficient provocation in such a soliloquy.

One word of caution however, when opening on a lengthy monologue or dialogue: I find that many writers, when opening a novel with scenes of dense dialogue, often forget to adequately scene set. While I find it clunky to intrude upon any scene-opening dialogue for a lengthy narration, certainly ground your readers with a few essential visuals. You can more fully set the stage once the dialogue concludes. Consider the scene-setting (or lack thereof) delivered in these two similar dialogue-heavy novel openings:

BOBBY LELAND felt himself drifting toward a peaceful sleep, his thoughts fading when the woman beside him said, “Here’s what I want, Bobby. Are you listening to me? I want you to kill my husband.”
. . . . Silence.
. . . . “Did you hear me?” she asked. “Bobby?”
. . . . “I heard you,” he said. “You want me to kill Elliot.”
. . . . “I want us to kill Elliot. You and I together.”
. . . . “Both of us.”
. . . . “Yes.”
. . . . “You could always make him dinner.”
. . . . “Bobby, I’m serious.
. . . . For some reason, he wasn’t surprised.

Did you intuit that these two characters may be together in bed? Perhaps. But very little is visualized. How does this lack of scene definition effect the passage? Now consider:

BOBBY LELAND felt himself drifting toward a peaceful sleep, his thoughts fading when the woman beside him said, “Here’s what I want, Bobby. Are you listening to me?” Her finger tickled a path across his chest, her breath a hot whisper against his ear. “I want you to kill my husband.”
. . . . They lay naked in chamomile-scented satin sheets, in a room with a marble fireplace, French doors opening to a balcony that overlooked the distant Pacific. Because he and Erica had made a kind of full-throttled reckless love for the last forty-five minutes, Bobby felt mellow to his toes.
. . . . “Did you hear me?” she asked. “Bobby?”
. . . . “I heard you,” he said, safely cocooned in the darkness behind his eyelids. “You want me to kill Elliot.”
. . . . “I want us to kill Elliot. You and I together.”
. . . . “Both of us,” he said, half wondering if he were already dreaming.
. . . . “Yes.”
. . . . He gave it a few seconds, remembering Erica’s previous evening’s attempt at microwaving Cordon Bleu. “You could always make him dinner.”
. . . . Her tongue tutted. “Bobby, I’m serious.
. . . . For some reason, he wasn’t surprised.

Personally, the upper version feels far too “plot-frantic” to properly ground the reader in the “where” and the “why”. (There’s really no right or wrong choice, BTW, simply a stylistic preference.) However, since this is the opening scene of a novel, I find the latter version to offer more grounding, while offering the same plot essentials. A book’s first few pages will often not only introduce various characters, but will also establish the book’s pacing. The top passage feels more kinetic, but also lacks specific nuances that I believe important to further developing those characters—certainly while the reader’s still settling down, getting to know the bare bones of the story.

The continuation of that opening scene then can further enhance both plot and characters (without dialogue), and further establish the book’s overall tenor. We have an idea of their personalities—with dialogue’s help, of course—so now it’s OK to further set the stage.

. . . . …Her tongue tutted. “Bobby, I’m serious.
. . . . For some reason, he wasn’t surprised.
. . . . At 42, seven years older than Bobby, few people could have guessed her age by looking at her. Long and sleek and perfect, happenstance and heredity had gifted Erica Garmond a graceful neck, high cheekbones and hypnotic azure eyes; platinum blonde hair that fell straight, curling slightly inward where it brushed against her throat, and lips poised on the verge of a chronic pout. Erica seemed to be one of those women who’d simply stopped aging. Not that she didn’t work hard to maintain herself: up for aerobics at 6:15 every morning, her afternoons occupied with tennis or jogging. Almost too rich and certainly too thin, the way Stan Muca described her. Stan was an artful observer and carouser himself, head pro and Bobby’s boss back at Rancho Madera Tennis Club.*

Now (imho) the reader has sufficient grounding, so any remaining dialogue can continue with little interruption. Realize that, if the situation warrants, any initial conversation can continue for pages before switching to the omniscient narrator’s voice. So chat away, if the situation dictates. But give the reader sufficient grounding ASAP—even in dialogue-heavy scenes and certainly when beginning new chapters. Sufficiently grounded, now the writer can return to the conversation at hand—in this case a conversation that firmly establishes the first act of the novel.

• • •

Q. Can I use dialogue to express action? (That is, using dialogue instead of depicting specific action to your readers.) An example: Lily said, “That volcanic eruption was the most amazing experience I’ve ever encountered! It was horrible. The lava flow devoured an entire town. You should have been there!”)

A. Sure, you can tell us via second-hand dialogue, but why? (Because, yes, we readers indeed should have been there.) Using dialogue to pass along urgent or visual info to the reader can feel distanced and less relevant. As a reader, if I’m watching an intense action flick about an active volcano, I better damn well feel the heat for myself. What I don’t want is some talking-head narrator standing in front of a potted plant, telling me, “That volcanic eruption was the most amazing experience….” Keep the ‘talking-heads’ (see below) to a minimum. If plot-essential narratives are important, run your characters ahead of the lava flow for a few pages, find a safe spot for a terse, tense conversation, then get them moving again. (See Simple But Exciting Part 1.)

Remember, you’re always pushing your characters toward drama (a fictive inhalation)—i.e.; showing us characters in peril on a volcanic island, watching the eruption, screaming their fool heads off—or pulling them away again (a fictive exhalation)—i.e.; escaping by motor boat at the last possible second with relieved sighs, and now, yes, let the earnest conversation begin…before the motor sputters and dies, and now you’re back for another round of nail-biting action.

This is important enough to be a rule. Thus is born Rule #48: Don’t use dialogue as an alternative to directly depicting action or drama. Show us the drama, don’t expect a character to tell us about it second-hand. (See examples and details in When Not To Use Dialogue.)

• • •

Q. What are ‘talking heads?’

A. David Byrne aside, a ‘talking heads’ scene is as implied: The writer is using dialogue as a device (often a sign of ‘lazy writing’) to explain action or information instead of taking readers on a memorable, impactful visual experience. Remember all those old superhero flicks where the villain has captured the hapless hero and, before dropping Super Protago into a boiling vat of snake oil, embarks on a five minute soliloquy to explain—to the audience—all of the story’s loose ends? And during which time, our protagonist usually finds a way to escape? Well, that’s a talking head scene. And it’s far less exciting than…well, than just about anything else one can choose to write on the page.

With a bit of preparation and forethought, most or all of those low-energy explanations and unrevealed issues can and should have been previously explored—either through shorter snippets of dialogue or action sequences. If you find yourself writing pages that attempt to “explain” persnickety plot-holes, you’ve probably missed various opportunities to have previously (and often actively) imparted that information to the reader.

If you must include a talking heads scene, do it the way George Lucas, Willard Hyuck and Gloria Katz developed Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Remember the dinner scene with the maharaja? The scene with the monkey brains, the moist beetles the deep fried scorpions? That’s an example of a talking heads scene—necessary information transmitted to the audience—and yet most viewers had no idea, otherwise transfixed by a comical depiction of a rather gruesome meal. So instead of being bored by a constant barrage of idle conversation, we’re visually entertained while absorbing crucial plot info.

If you find it necessary to divulge crucial information, don’t just drop two characters into a hay field and let them babble on. Find a way to visually stimulate the reader. Distract us with literary brilliance!

• • •

* Excerpted from On The Edge. By yours truly. The uppermost version was more or less my first draft effort. By the time I’d laid down another four or five drafts, I had gathered sufficient knowledge of who these two people were to offer more intimate details to readers. The topmost effort (at 93 words) might suffice some readers’ expectations, although I believe the latter effort (using only 35 additional words) more aptly visualizes their environment and personalities. The latter scene is my final draft and published version of the book’s opening chapter.
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Continued…

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Dialogue (Part 5): 1P POV

Posted on September 1, 2019 by MHP

A 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.

– – – – –

* 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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