Category: dialogue

I know I said I was going to talk about the first time I met Yakko Warner, but then Bryce asked a question in the comments and I thought, hey, that’s a fantastic idea for a topic. Let’s do that instead.

Bryce wanted to know…

As someone who has had numerous Audible exclusives, can you speak on the difference (if one even exists) between writing something intended to be read silently in your head versus writing something intended to be read aloud? Obviously any book can be read aloud. But when you know or expect that most of your audience will be listening to a narrator tell the story, recorded onto mp3’s, coming through little speakers we shove in our ears, how does that change the storytelling?

So let’s talk about this a bit.

I guess the first thing would be establishing what counts as an Audible Exclusive. Weirdly enough, somebody asked me about this on Bluesky the other day, and it’s a bit of a tricky question because Audible likes to slap that label on a lot of things. For example, I did two books– Dead Moon and Terminus— that were exclusive to Audible in the sense that, for six months, the only place you could get them was through Audible. No ebook. No print. No foreign editions. Nothing else. But after that six months… they spread to other formats.

But there are also Audible exclusives where “exclusive’ just means the audiobook isn’t available anywhere except Audible. For example, The Broken Room and Paradox Bound both had print and ebook versions (from Blackstone and Crown, respectively) that came out the same day as the audiobook. But Audible is sort of a one-stop place, so if they produce an audiobook you’re not going to see it show up on other sites.

Does all of that make sense? Cool. I just wanted to be clear on that moving forward, because it kind of addresses one aspect of the overall question. There’s a lot of storytelling out there that’s always aimed at audio only (a narrative podcast, for example), but it’s kind of rare to be writing a book that’s just for audio. They tend to reach other formats.

So here’s some things I’ve learned that can make my writing better in either text or audio format.

And, as always, these aren’t hard fast rules. They’re more like guidelines. There’s always going to be an exception, a time they don’t apply. But if I’m mostly finding exceptions… maybe I should take another look.

I’ve mentioned repetition here before. It can be a powerful tool, but as I’ve said if I’m not careful repetition can go from clever to annoying really fast. And because our brains don’t process listening and reading the same way, I’d guess in audio format I can reach that tipping point… maybe ten-fifteen percent faster? Like anything artistic, there’s going to be a degree of personal taste/ tolerance in there. But something that’s pushing that line in text will probably step right over it in audio. Which should make me ask, hey, why am I right up against the “annoying” line, anyway?

On a similar note… I’ve become aware of words that rhyme. Talking about the lair over there. Yakko said he was dead. Within sentences or between sentences. Sometimes these rhymes can unintentionally create a weird rhythm, so I tend to look for those and nix them. Unless, y’know, I was trying to create that rhythm. And again, it’ll be just that little bit more in audio. If it’s questionable in text, it’ll definitely stand out when we hear it.

Similar-but-different thing…I also keep an eye out for sound-alike words. There’s words we’d pass over without a second thought in text because they’re spelled differently, but when we’re just hearing them… they can hit a little differently. For example, there was a place in God’s Junk Drawer where I’d used gate and gait in the same sentence without thinking about it. I think it was on my second pass with the editor when I realized how—out loud—this could create a little mental stumble because we’d be hearing the same thing twice. It’s repetition and rhyming combined. Also, this is probably the most “audio only” thing I’m going to mention.

Another thing I’ve become aware is how long sentences can get, and how awkward they are as they get longer. In audio and text, somebody has to read all this. And keep track of it. And actually remember the beginning by the time they get to the end. That sounds a bit silly, I know, but I’ve seen people pride themselves for page-long, grammatically correct sentences (and some that are even longer). Every time my reader has to re-read something (or back up to hear it again) they’re getting knocked out of the story and it’s becoming less immersive.

And let’s talk about a big one. Dialogue. To be specific, dialogue tags. I’ve said before that I‘m a big, big believer in said, and that’s still true. Said is borderline invisible in text. Readers will absorb it and move past it without a thought.

But… when we’re in audio format, this isn’t quite as true. Again, our brains don’t process listening and reading the same way, so hearing said again and again can become repetitive and distracting.

Now, this isn’t to say audio is a good place for all those other dialogue tags. Quite the opposite. I think they might be more distracting in audiobooks because now we have to deal with the aspect of performance. Someone’s actually saying this dialogue out loud, so there’s going to be a slight disconnect if they don’t hiss, shout, exclaim, chortle, whisper, gasp, and so on. How weird would it be for be to say Yakko mumbled when the narrator just… read it? Because a big part of the narrator’s job is making everything clear and understandable.

But y’know what? When I got to work with an audiobook editor, it made me think about how often I need dialogue tags at all. And not just when I’m writing for audio. For text, too.

Y’see Timmy, one thing I became aware of is how often dialogue is a binary, going back and forth between two characters. Back and forth, back and forth. Which means I usually only need one or two dialogue tags at the start and then we’ll be able to follow the conversation. I talked about this at length a while back so I won’t take up too much time on it here, but if anyone wants an update or a refresher, just let me know in the comments and I’ll add it to the list.

Another thing I became aware of was ways to tag dialogue without, well, dialogue tags. If a character has a minor action, I tend to group it into the same paragraph as their dialogue. Something like this…
—————–
Kyle shrugged. “No, but I need to earn a few points with Hideko. She owed Barnes a favor, he needed people who knew the telescopes and the camera rigs to make sure some dumb undergrad didn’t destroy them.”
—————-
See? It’s very clear Kyle’s the one talking, right? Even though technically none of the dialogue is attributed to him.

Also, congratulations! You just got to read part of God’s Junk Drawer nine months early!

To wrap up, you may notice, a lot of these tips/ guidelines come down to breaking the flow. I think flow’s very important in a book, and possibly more so in an audiobook. We’ve introduced a new element—the narrator—between me and the audience, which is one more chance for somebody to pause or trip up and get knocked out of the story. And every time my reader’s knocked out of the story, it’s a chance for them to remember something else they should be doing. Like folding laundry. Or taking out the recycling.

And that’s not a good thing.

Hey, speaking of God’s Junk Drawer… you can preorder it now! Go down to your local bookporium and ask them to reserve a copy for you. Maybe two, just to be safe. If you’re ordering online, get at least three.

On a related note, this Saturday the 15th (tomorrow, as I write this) at 1:00pm I’m going to be at Mysterious Galaxy with a few other authors from Combat Monsters. We’ll be answering questions and scribbling in books. So come by and… y’know, ask questions. Get books scribbled in.

Next time, barring reader requests, I’ll be talking about the first time I met Yakko Warner.

Until then, go write.

So here’s an easy thing to look for. I used to do this… let’s say a fair amount in my early writing. I see it happen in other’s people’s writing—especially first big projects. And I see it happen all the time in low-budget B-movies that didn’t bother with, well, a script. It’s really common when actors start to ad-lib scenes. Enough so that I feel very comfortable saying it’s really common.

What is it? Well, wouldn’t you like to know. No, I don’t have to tell you. BECAUSE I’M IN CHARGE, THAT’S WHY! WELL THEN GO START YOUR OWN WRITING BLOG!!!

Okay, let’s just pause for a moment, all take a breath, and try this again…

NO, YOU DIE! YOU GO TO HELL AND YOU DIE!!!

Anyway…

If you spend any amount of time online, arguments almost feel like the default form of human interaction. Because let’s be honest, there are some folks out there who just want to argue. About anything. You like kittens? Of course you would. That’s exactly the kind of thing someone like you would like!

As we’ve all learned, these sort of arguments rarely go anywhere. The people starting it, well… they’re not really interested in opposing views or hearing a counter-argument. So these discussions often amount to a lot of yelling that goes nowhere. Everyone ends up more or less right where they started, position-wise. Nobody’s been convinced to hate kittens or stop carrying their AR-15 to the elementary school bus stop. So in retrospect… they’re kind of a waste of time.

When we’re writing, I think arguments are an easy form of dialogue. Lots of folks think shouting means conflict and tension and drama, so if all my characters are shouting at each other, well, my story must be filled with conflict and tension and drama. Right? Plus, wow, that just filled three pages. It must’ve been good.

So characters argue about a lot of really stupid stuff. Like, anything at anytime can set off an argument. And these irrational arguments go on and on, no matter what else is going on. There can be a kaiju stomping toward our car but the five of us will sit and argue for ten minutes about driving away vs getting out of the car and running away vs just sitting here because maybe we’re just imagining the kaiju, did you think of that?

No? Well that’s why I’M IN CHARGE!

Anyway…

I think a lot of the time when characters are arguing in a book or movie, it’s the writer trying to create a false sense of tension. Or just padding. Or both. Maybe consciously, maybe unconsciously.

Please note I said a lot of the time. Not all. This isn’t a blanket rule, and there are some fantastic examples out there of characters who have heated discussions in books and movies. Or who just, y’know, argue all the time. Because in any good story there’s going to be actual conflict and there are going to be things people have real, justified arguments about.

And, sometimes arguing can be funny. It can actually lighten the mood to see people start bickering over something really silly and irrelevant. Especially when we see the context of what they’re arguing about and where/ when they’ve decided to argue about it.

But all of these arguments have a point to them. They’re either advancing the plot somehow, or advancing the story of one (or both) of these characters. In some cases, they might even be representative of some other intense interaction…

As of late, if I find my dialogue sliding into combative arguments, I try to step back. Look at the scene and the story as a whole, not just my brilliant and snarky dialogue exchanges. What else is going on right now? What’s the actual point of this moment? Does it make sense that these people would be arguing about this? Right now? Is this really driving anything forward?

Or are my characters just arguing to make it seem like there’s some sort of conflict going on? Is it a bunch of false drama that doesn’t really make sense when you consider the characters and what’s happening to them at the moment? Am I just boosting my page count?

So if you’ve got a two and a half page argument… maybe look at it again. See if it actually makes sense. And if it’s really doing anything for the story as a whole.

BECAUSE I SAID SO, THAT’S WHY!!!

Next time… well, next week’s my birthday, so I think I’d like to put on my old white beard and blather on about some life-experience wisdom type stuff. As I have in the past.

Until then, go write.

Not a great surprise, I’m sure, but I follow a lot of writers on social media. Other authors, screenwriters of television and movies, some game writers, some journalists, an essayist or three. I love reading their random thoughts about writing-related things. Because, as I’ve mentioned here once or thrice or dozens of times, there are always other ways to do things. New angles to approach problems from. Different ways to catch problems before they go too far or grow too big.

And that of course brings us to Q getting punched in the face on Deep Space Nine and Sherlock Holmes living in New York.

There’s a screenwriter named Robert Hewitt Wolfe who (odds are) worked on at least one of your favorite genre shows. A while back on Twitter he did a list of 25 things he’d learned about writing for television. It’s a really fantastic little thread and you should check it out. A bunch of it applies to storytelling in general, not just television.

One particular bit stood out to me. Wolfe mentions giving the good lines to your main characters, not the dayplayers—what you’d probably think of as the guest stars. The folks who are just there on set for a day or two of this particular episode. He also adds on that your main characters should definitely be the ones getting the last line before the show cuts to commercial. Which all makes sense, if you think about it.

But I think this applies in a greater sense, too. My main characters should be the ones doing things. They should get the funny lines, yeah, but they should also be the ones taking the risks. They should be the ones solving deadly puzzles and and capturing the scorpions and working up their courage to ask out Dinah from accounting. Nobody watches a show (or picks up a book) thinking “wow, I hope that cashier is a lot smarter than our protagonist, because there’s no way Yakko’s getting out of this on his own…”

This really sums up what was wrong with so many of the B movies I used to watch during Saturday geekery. They didn’t know who they were supposed to be focused on. They’d give the cool lines, the big fight, the horrifying death, or the dramatic sacrifice to… well, anyone except one of the main characters.

And that means all these things are immediately diminished because they’re not happening to people we care about. I mean, sure, on a basic human level we care that the mutant landshark just chomped Hiker #3 into bloody chunks but honestly… did it get any reaction from you? Maybe a chuckle? Definitely not any concern or horror. Hiker #3 was pretty much just there to die. I mean, if they’d killed Phoebe… holy crap, can you imagine?

Maybe even more to the point, if my supporting characters are the ones being clever, being brave, and getting things done… what are my main characters doing? Are they just standing there being less interesting? Less active? Hell, they’re not even pushing the plot along by dying. If the landshark killed Phoebe, we’d be screwed right now. But Hiker #3? My main characters don’t even know he exists. He’s somewhere on the other side of the forest, barely on the fringes of our story. His death is irrelevant.

And, yeah, sure, maybe it’s an ensemble piece. Maybe I’m writing a huge epic with twenty main characters. My WIP, the thing I’ve been calling GJD, has over half a dozen characters in it I’d consider protagonists. But even then… I’ve got my heroes and I’ve got everyone else. In any given scene, it should be one of said heroes doing things, noticing things, reasoning things out.

It’s not exactly uncommon in my rough drafts to have a scene or a chapter end in a way that just doesn’t feel quite right. Maybe the beat’s there, but it’s just not landing the way I want it to. And more often than not, when I step back and look at it, I realize the problem’s usually that the beat’s landing with the wrong person. I’ve let someone else—someone we’re not invested in—make the big reveal or get in that cool last line.

So as you’re going through your manuscript, take a look at who’s talking. Who’s doing stuff. Who’s drawing the reader’s attention with their dialogue and their actions. Because it should be main characters. Not always, sure, but the majority of the time… yeah. And if it’s not them, maybe I need to reconsider who’s talking. Or who my hero is.

And that’s my last word on this topic.

Next time… be ready for an argument.

Until then, go write.

Okay, now back into it for real.

I haven’t done one of these in a while, so forgive me if I’m a little rambly to start.

There’s a dialogue issue that I’ve seen pop up in books and movies and comics, and it was something I’ve never been able to pin down. It was one of those things where I could tell the story was kind of losing its way, but I couldn’t figure out why. Definitely wouldn’t be able to explain it. What was the common thread? Why did the dialogue go from good (or at least adequate, in some cases) to eye-rolling?

And then, as so often happens in nature, a pterodactyl brought a bundle of enlightenment to my doorstep.

Two months ago I was watching this Saturday geekery movie about a group of women who were getting out of the city for what was supposed to be a bachelorette weekend and had instead turned into a “that cheating bastard didn’t deserve you” weekend. A lot of initial, awkward conversations about was it him, was it me, why didn’t I see it sooner, usually cut off by none of that, let’s drink, look, that park ranger’s checking you out. And then, y’know, pterodactyls attacked. As they do. So now this weekend in the mountains is a battle for survival.

Except…

Every time the women ended up somewhere—in a car, in a cabin, hiding behind a boulder, whatever—the conversation would drift back to was it him, was it me, why didn’t I see it sooner. Long conversations about that relationship, and relationships in general and that cheating bastard. And not, y’know, the pterodactyls stomping across the roof or gathered outside the cave or tearing apart the park ranger on the front lawn. Seriously, this happened again and again and again. Not the park ranger, the conversation thing.

It was then that enlightenment struck.

But first, one quick-but-related segue, since it’s been a while…

An idea I’ve brought up here several times is plot vs story. Plot is external. It’s what’s going on outside my characters. Story is internal. It’s all the things inside my characters that they’re dealing with.

It’s also worth noting that plot is active while story tends to be reactive. Plot is things happening, story is how my characters deal with those things and are shaped by them. My characters respond to events based on who they are, but the outcomes affect how they respond to future events. A fancier term for this is a character arc.

So the story advances the plot while the plot advances the story. When it’s done right it’s a beautiful, symbiotic relationship between the two elements, each one lifting the other to new heights. As all the links in these past few paragraphs imply, it’s something I’ve talked about a few times.

Also—one last bit—you may have heard something like this before but your college literary professor insisted “story” actually refers to the driving narrative of the protagonist as seen through the lens of something. Cool. Whatever. If you want to call these two concepts yin and yang or fabula and sjuzhet or Mirabel and Bruno, that’s all great. Whatever works for you. Don’t get hung up on what we’re calling it and ignore the idea behind it.

Okay, got all that? Cool. Let’s get back to the pterodactyls.

So in the situations I described above, there are clear, active plot events going on, but the characters are using this time to talk about our heroine’s story. Yeah, the park ranger’s being torn apart outside but what if this means I’ll never get married? I mean, so many of my relationships go bad like this. They always have, ever since high school.

And if that made you smile a little bit, the funny part is I’m not exaggerating. That’s exactly how it happened in the movie. That was the actual topic of discussion during that specific event.

Now, granted, it’s an extreme example. And I understand why this particular group of filmmakers did it. To be honest, I’ve seen them do it a lot on a few different projects. They’ve created a plot they can’t actually put on film, for whatever reason, so they’re trying to fill space with all these random deep, emotional, and completely unbelievable conversations.

But I think that’s not why this gear-shift feels so inherently fake. I mean, people talk about weird things at weird times. We laugh at odd moments. We finally remember the thing and blurt it out at a perhaps inappropriate time. There’s nothing wrong with doing it now and then. Although I’m sure the park ranger would appreciate maybe being a little more the center of attention during this difficult time for him.

So here’s my new rule of thumb for you. Not a law, not an ironclad thing that applies to every single situation. But I think it’s a good rule of thumb to keep in mind when characters start giving monologues.

Talking about plot feels honest. Talking about story feels contrived.

It makes sense when characters talk about plot. We accept it. Of course they’ll be talking about the things going on around them, the events that will have an affect on them or other people. This is believable dialogue.

On the flipside, when characters talk about story–when they’re talking more about what’s going on inside them than what’s going on around them–it often feels wrong.. Bringing up all that internal stuff, forcing it out into the world, it tends to feel… well, forced. Unnatural. Especially when none of it relates to current events.

NOW… before anyone rushes angrily to the comments to correct me, toss out an example, and point out how awesome it is when characters talk about their feelings, I’d like to point out two things. One is what I just said a minute ago. This is a rule of thumb. It’s a guideline. All writing advice is iffy at best, and I’m openly telling you this one’s a little more iffy than most.

Second is that, in most our favorite books and movies, when characters are talking about their inner feelings and conflicts, they’re using that wonderful tool we call subtext. Chris isn’t talking about their feelings, ha ha ha, no. They’re talking about the carwash, and how great it’s going to be when the mortgage is paid off and we can all, y’know, work on other things. And if Sam wants to stick around to help run the carwash, I mean, yeah, sure, that’d be, yeah, great. Cool.

Want a solid example? In Spider-Man: Homecoming, when Tony Stark tells Peter Parker to hand over his suit, is Peter actually worried about losing the suit? I mean, he still has his old, homemade one. And the web fluid and the shooters, those are his own design. As we see later, he can still fight crime, just like he did before Stark came knocking. So losing the suit can’t really be that big a deal, right?

Except we all understand this scene isn’t actually about the suit. It’s about Peter being terrified his future is suddenly slipping away from him. He’s a poor, nerdy kid from Queens who had a shot at the big leagues, at having Tony’s approval, of being part of Stark Industries and part of the Avengers, at finally being—in his mind—someone who matters. And suddenly it’s all being taken away.

But Peter doesn’t talk about being scared. He talks about the suit. And how he’ll be nothing without it.

So if I’ve got a character about to deliver a heartfelt monologue about their inner feelings and desires and conflicts… maybe I should pause and look at it again. Yeah, there’s a chance it’s perfect as is. This is one of those cases when someone can flat-out say exactly what they’re feeling with no subtext and it sounds fantastic

But maybe—especially if I’m doing this two or three or four times—it’d be better if a lot of it was implied rather than explicitly said. Maybe I could bring it out it with some plot-relevant subtext. Or maybe I could show it with their actions and decisions. Story advancing the plot and all that.

Because it just makes people uncomfortable when we talk about that stuff.

Next time, unless anyone has some other suggestions, I thought I’d blather on a bit about that other type of structure.

Until then… go write.

(wow, haven’t said that in a while)