Category: dialogue

March 22, 2012 / 1 Comment

What is ‘Real’? How do You Define ‘Real’?

            Pop culture reference.  Easy one, cause it’s been awhile…

            So, one thing we all strive for in our writing is realism.  We want our characters to feel real.  We want our dialogue to sound real.  We want our settings to have that level of detail that only comes from authentic knowledge and experience.
            To do this, writers will people watch and eavesdrop and travel to obscure places just to get an idea of what the air smells like.  They’ll labor over the dialogue to make it as real as possible.  They’ll add random events to their narrative to give that sense of uncaring fate.  They will make their story as close to reality as possible.
            Here’s the problem, though…
            Nobody wants reality. 
            Not real reality, anyway.  Oh, they may say they do, but that’s kind of a lie.  Most people want fictional reality.  They want clean dialogue.  They want characters who win (maybe not cheerfully or without scars, but they do win).  They want things to make sense.
            Allow me to explain.
            When people talk in reality, they make false starts and pause a lot and trip over their words.  They can drone on for several minutes at a time.  They talk over each other.  If you’ve ever looked at an unedited transcription of a conversation, you know that real dialogue is the worst possible thing for fiction.  People would claw their eyes out, and everything would take forever to say.  When I used to interview writers for articles, it was just understood that I was going to clean up their words a bit to eliminate all that stuff.  It would just be incredibly distracting in an article.
            So fiction writers don’t write real dialogue.  They write “real” dialogue, lines that have a certain verisimilitude, if I may be so bold, which appeals to people.  They get cleaned up and tightened and measured out.  These are the lines that make readers say “Wow, her dialogue felt so real, like she was someone I’d meet on the street.”  That’s what we all want, right?
            Did you catch that, by the way?  The dialogue wasn’t real—it felt real.  Think of how often things get phrased that way.  An open (and often unconscious) admission that this isn’t how real people talk.  But it feels like how real people should talk. 
            As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve made this mistake.  I copied real people’s speech patterns into The Suffering Map, then had two different editors mention that as a specific reason I was being rejected.  It didn’t matter that it was real dialogue, because it wasn’t “real” dialogue.
            Make sense?
            On a similar note, odd, unbelievable stuff happens in reality all the time.  There are amazing coincidences.  Lucky breaks.  Unexplained things just happen.  Heck, people die in freak accidents and that’s it.  Story’s over, no matter how many things are left unresolved.
            I’ve interviewed several screenwriters who did biopics or “based on true events” movies, and one thing most of them talked about was the material they didn’t use.  The events that were so ludicrous people just wouldn’t believe them.  A few different folks have said that the difference between fact and fiction is that  fiction has to be believable, and these writers realized that.  So they removed true events that would’ve made their story seem silly or implausible.
            Here’s another example I’ve used before (and will continue to use again)–  Vesna Vulovic.  She was a flight attendant back in the ‘70s (which technically means she was a stewardess) on a flight that was bombed by terrorists.  Vesna fell six milesthrough the air and survived.  Not in the sense of held alive in an iron lung on life support, mind you—she’s out there today walking, talking, having drinks with friends and laughing about things.  She wasn’t even in the hospital for three months.
            Is that the kind of event I should include in my realistic fiction?  Of course not.  Nobody would believe that.
            Should I kill my characters at random, leaving their arc unfinished and their secrets unrevealed?  Will readers applaud me for my daring and realistic writing?  Not a chance.  When I’m a writer I’m the God of my world, and if something doesn’t serve a greater purpose I’m a piss-poor god at best.
            Y’see, Timmy, reality is a messy thing.  Every aspect of it.  And I don’t want my writing to be messy.  I want it to be clean and polished and perfect. 
            Even when I’m making it “real.”
            Next time… well, I’m on a diet right now, and it’s kind of gnawing at me.  So I’ll probably end up talking about that.
            Until then, go write.
characterdialoguerealSuffering Map
March 16, 2012 / 5 Comments

What Lies Beneath

            First off, a little poll for all of you reading this.  I’ve been thinking of taking a bunch of the posts here and making a condensed, somewhat more organized document that might pass as a book on writing.  If I put something like that out in ebook format for $1.99 or so, would anyone have any interest in such a thing?  I’m also thinking of pairing it with The Suffering Map, released as a cautionary tale about first novels, probably for just a buck.  Does any of that sound vaguely interesting to anyone?  Let me know in the comments section.  

            Now, on to a long-overdue rant about dialogue.
            I’ve said here once or twice or thrice that dialogue can make or break a story.  That’s because dialogue is how we learn about the characters, and they’re what the story’s all about.  So if my dialogue is good, it can lift an okay story that much higher.  If it’s bad, it can sink even the most Pulitzer-worthy piece.
            A key element in great dialogue is subtext.  A couple years back I got to interview actor Chris Eigeman about his screenwriting/ directing debut, and he told me a wonderful quote by Edith Wharton, which I’m now about to butcher for you because I’m quoting someone who quoted a quote to me.  According to Wharton, dialogue is the foam at the tip of a wave.  The wave—all the stuff under the foam and supporting it—is your character, their backstory, their motivation, and everything going on in the story.  But no matter how big that wave is, the thing we all see–the thing that always draws our eye—is that foam.
            On the flipside of that, most bad dialogue has no subtext.   To stick with our previous imagery, if good dialogue is foam on the tip of a wave, bad dialogue is a stagnant tidepool with no motion and no life in it.  Not all of it mind you—some people are very creative and unique in their badness.  But I’d say a good sixty or seventy percent of the awful stuff I’ve seen would vanish if people weren’t so on the nose with their writing.
            I’ve mentioned that phrase a few times here, and some of you may have seen it on feedback forms (for other people’s manuscripts, of course).  On the nose dialogue is when someone says precisely what they mean or what they’re doing without any subtlety or characterization whatsoever.  It comes across as flat because… well, there’s no depth to it.  There’s nothing implied, no innuendoes, no meaning at all past the words themselves.
            If you think about it, most of us are subtle in real life.  We prefer to imply things rather than say them aloud, and when we do speak a lot of us skirt around the things we’re trying to say.  We’re inherently big on subtext and body language, and people who are too straightforward kind of creep us out.  Consider some recent conversations you’ve had.  Think about what you said vs. what you meant.   
            There was a wonderful show on years ago called Keen Eddie, where the Human Target was forced into sharing a London apartment with the Baroness from that god-awful G.I. Joe movie.  At least once an episode they’d shout “I hate you!” “I hate you, too!” back and forth at each other, and while it was pretty dead-on the first few times, it soon became more of a habit with them.  Eventually, even though they kept using the same phrase, it became pretty clear they didn’t hate each other at all, and were using “hate” instead of another word. 
            And then Fox cancelled Keen Eddie.  Because that’s how things go when your show’s on Fox.
            But I digress.
            Check out this example.
            “Hey, fellas,” said Wakko, “what do you think of my new painting?”  He turned the easel to his brother and sister.
            “It’s very, ummm… colorful,” said Dot after a few moments.
            “Yeah,” said Yakko.  “Yeah, I was going to go with colorful, too.”
           
            Now, considering that I didn’t really describe it at all, do you think Wakko’s painting is any good?  Do you think Dot and Yakko like it?  Probably not, because most of us pick up on little things.  There was that pause before they answered, and the kind of stammer to Dot’s response.  We’ve all been in this situation, and we all understand the little white lies (or maybe big, whopping lies, depending on the painting) that are being told here.
            Here’s a few more examples of statements with subtext…
            “Rico, you’re like family to me.  That’s why I’ve chosen you for this job, because I know you won’t disappoint me.”
            “Actually, the partners and I have talked about it, David, and we feel you’d probably be more comfortable in a different position—something with an easier pace.”
           
            “Hey, it’s not too late.  Would you like to come up for a cup of coffee?”
            There’s a hidden message to each of these statements, and again it’s one most of you probably picked up on immediately, even out of context.  This is the other thing about subtext—it lets the reader feel smart.  When my characters are spelling out every single thing they’re thinking and doing, it comes across like I’m over-simplifying things for my audience.  Another way to say “over-simplifying,” of course, is “dumbing down,” and we all love it when people think they need to dumb stuff down for us, right…?
            I’m not saying every single line has to be packed with subtext, mind you.  That kind of writing becomes impenetrable because it requires too much effort on the part of the reader.  As I said above, though, consider how often your own words are layered in real life.
            Because when your characters start talking like real people, that’s when they become real people.
            Speaking of which, next time I wanted to talk real quick about reality vs. reality.
            Until then, go write.
dialoguerealsubtextSuffering Map
February 24, 2012 / 6 Comments

Listen Up!

            Look, I don’t have a lot of time this week, so I need to make this one kind of quick.  We’re about due for a short one, anyway.

            I’ve mentioned once or thrice, how as you know is a good sign that an unrealistic, often unnecessary exchange is going to happen between two characters.  It’s a flag to look for on your second pass through a manuscript.  Today I wanted to mention two other flags my lovely lady noticed one day while she was working her way through a pile of contest scripts.
            Probably seven out of ten times, if I start a line of dialogue with look or listenI’m either about to perform an expository infodump or state something that’s already apparent—or it should be apparent and I’m getting it across with exposition instead.
            Check out these examples…
            “Look, we’ve got to set these charges before the Nazis reach this bridge or the whole mission’s a failure.”
            “Listen, I don’t like this situation any more than you.”
            “Look, if I can reach the ranger station by sundown everything will be fine.”
            “Listen, you’ve never given up on anything in your life and I’m not going to let you start now.”
            “Look, I’m in love with her, okay?”
            There’s nothing wrong with any one of these lines individually, but using lookand listen can become a habit.  And that habit means my writing ends up filled with lots of exposition and on-the-nose dialogue. 
            Go through your manuscript and check for look and listen.  Are those sentences really adding anything, or are they just repeating something characters and readers already know?  Are they adding anything that couldn’t be expressed better through subtext or actions?  Some of them are probably good, but I’m betting a few of them could get reworked.
            I’m probably not going to get to rant next week because I’m a guest down at ConDor Con in San Diego.  I’m on a few panels, so if you happen to be there, stop by and listen to me… well, rant about writing and storytelling.  But when I get back I should have something interesting to talk about.
            Until then, go write.
dialogueexpositionflagsobvioustips
November 10, 2011 / 3 Comments

Tone Deaf

           So, I wanted to talk to you a bit about G.I. Joe.

           Not the cool cartoon, mind you.  Or the toy line.  No, I’m talking about the completely God-awful, live-action movie.  It had problems.  Lots of problems.  Not the least of which was a  complete failure to remember sixth-grade science class.
            The big issue I’d like to address, though, is the weight.
            Doc Brown and his assistant Marty taught us that some things are heavy.  They have weight.  They have, if I may use a literary term (sorry), gravitas—a certain dignity and importance and bearing.
            Stephen King, on the other hand, taught us that some things are soft and squishy and bleed a lot when you shove knives or claws or fangs into them.
            And let’s not forget the Wachowski Brothers, who taught us that some things get shot.  A lot.  In slow motion.  While doing kung-fu.
            What do all these things have in common?  And what do they have to do with weight?
            Well, let’s think about it.  Doc Brown and Marty didn’t think everything was heavy, just a few key revelations that came to them across three movies.  Stephen King doesn’t kill everyone in his stories—all in all characters in his books have a pretty decent survival rate (The Stand notwithstanding).  The Wachowski Brothers might have pioneered “bullet time” and virtual camera array shots in film, but there’s also a lot of stuff in The Matrix that follows basic camera set-ups—master, overs, coverage, done.
            And then there’s the G.I. Joe movie.  Which was cool.  Super cool.  Cool action, cool characters, cool lines of cool dialogue uttered coolly in cool situations.
            Saying cool that many times is kind of lame, isn’t it…?
            Anyway, keeping that in mind, I’d like to perform a simple experiment.  Please pay attention to the next paragraph.  Take notes if you feel it might help you recall things.
            LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA!!!!
            So… what parts of that stood out to you?
            Odds are none of it did.  Well, maybe the fact that it ended.  In fact, you probably skimmed it, didn’t you?  Any sane person would’ve.  It was a bunch of LAs, that’s all.
            Here’s another example, one which will probably drive my point home.  Have you ever heard a tuning fork?  Have you ever felt compelled to listen to one for hours?  Tuning forks are perfect, y’know.  If you have a middle-C tuning fork, it will hit that note and hold it for ages.  Why wouldn’t you want to listen to constant perfection?
            Because it’s boring!
            A tuning fork plays one note.  That’s it.  It’s the musical equivalent of LA LA LA LA LA LA.  Middle C is great, and any musician will tell you it’s invaluable to performing almost any composition, from Ludwig Beethoven to Lady Gaga.  But it isn’t the only note.  It’s important because it’s part of a system of highs and lows that we call music.
            Stories work the same way.  A story that’s just all the same thing is the literary equivalent of a tuning fork.  It’s neat for about a minute and then it starts to wear on your nerves.
            Comical and serious.  Loud and quiet.  Horrific and reassuring.  Thrilling and mundane.  Failure and success.  If you look at any good story, you’ll see that it swings back and forth between extremes in a series of low troughs and high peaks.   
            Yeah, The Matrix had tons of kick-ass visuals and amazing action sequences.  It also had a scene of Neo getting berated by his boss, mocked by an old woman in a kitchen, and a lengthy discussion about the true nature of “Tasty Wheat.”  Some of these scenes were vitally important to the plot.  Others were just interesting character moments.  They all had different weight.
            This is what the creative folks behind G.I. Joe didn’t get.  You can’t have all cool lines and allcool action all the time in a story.  If everything is set to ten, it all has the same weight.  Another way of saying “all the same” is that it’s monotone.  And monotone is boring.  It’s boring whether it’s all set to three or five or ten or eleven.
            Y’see, Timmy, it’s the back-and-forth, up-and-down nature that makes for interesting stories.  A good story has a baseline that the reader can relate to.  It’s going to have pitfalls that sink below that baseline, and maybe some really tragic potential consequences.  And it’s going to have some parts that grab the reader’s attention, shoot high above the line, and make the heart start pumping.
            Because if it doesn’t have these back-and-forth elements, if it’s all the same, then it’s just a line.  It doesn’t matter how high the line is.  It’s just a flat line.
            And I’m sure most of you know what “flat line” is another term for…?
            Next time, I have three things I’d like to talk about.
            Until then, go write.
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