“I love writing dialogue,” he said.
“Really?”
she asked. “How come?”
“Well,
first off, the lines are short, but it takes up tons of space.”
“In
other words, you can crank out a lot of pages with less effort than straight narrative.”
“Bingo.”
“Isn’t that cheating?” she asked.
“Not
if your reader enjoys the experience.
Who hasn’t quietly closed a book when confronted by a giant hunk of
exposition, when tidy bits of dialogue might’ve kept things rolling along?”
“My
mother. She liked Dostoyevsky.”
“!”“That explains your penchant for lugubrious literary tomes.”
“No
one says ‘penchant’, ‘lugubrious’ or ‘tomes’ in regular speech.”
“I
do, but you make a good point,” he said. “Actually instructive. Keep that dialogue simple and unadorned.”
“That
feels a little doctrinaire.”
“Simply
advisory.”
“I do like my doctrines to be somewhat flexible,” she said.
“Then
you’ll hate this: always write the way people speak. Can’t, not cannot; don’t, not do not; isn’t
not is not, you get the idea.”
“You
never met my Professor of Medieval Literature, circa freshman year. Contraction-free. An eight o’clock class, no amount of caffeine was enough.”
“Leave
him, and others like him, out of your book.
Better to waste time listening to Miles Davis.”
“Now
there’s a right turn without a signal.”
“Not
really,” he said. “He’ll teach you a
masters class in meter, tempo, rhythm and dynamics, all applicable to fluid and
effective dialogue.”
“I
lean more toward Bruno Mars.”
“Just
as good. ‘Julio, get the stretch.’ And the master of them all, Chuck Berry.”
“You haven’t mentioned poetry,” she said. “All this talk about meter, tempo, rhythm and dynamics.”
“Don’t forget brevity. Too many words spoil the conversational broth.”
“Haiku. The fewest words to convey the idea, none
that don’t.”
“Though
beware of double meanings,” he said. “Or triple and quadruple, if you happen to
be T.S. Elliot.”
“Please
don’t banish innuendo. It’s my stock in
trade.”
“Never. I’ve seen Casablanca. Innuendo is the match that lights the
fuse. The straw that stirs the drink. The sauce that inflames the pasta.”
“So
tortured metaphor is okay,” she said.
“Not if the metaphor cries out in pain. As I just demonstrated,”
"They say to show not tell. Same with dialogue?"
"Especially with dialogue. Which is why adverbs are verboten (see Elmore Leonard)," he said, imperiously.
“All
this clean and simple might slip into dull and boring. Just saying.”
“Hemingway’s
dialogue was simple, but no one ever said it was boring.”
“That’s
an overstatement,” she said. “My mother
thought he was not only boring, but simple minded. To say nothing of misogynistic and egomaniacal. I also prefer my dialogue with a bit of
garnish. A flip of the wrist, a
scattering of bon mots, a little storytelling, a gush of passion followed by
self-deprecating wisecracks. A full-bodied
dose of sincere confession, delivered without restraint or censure. An outpouring, a geyser, a revealing hemorrhage
of pent-up feelings. This requires some
narrative elbow room, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oui. Just don’t lose the reader in the deluge,” he
said.
“I
can’t tell if you’re a liberator or a killjoy.”
“You
can do anything you want as long as it works.
Rules are for scolds and scaredy cats.
Break them at will. You just have
to figure out if the gamble was worth the outcome.”
“So you don’t hand out instruction manuals.”
“Elmore
Leonard ruled you should only use ‘said’ in dialogue. If you use any verb at all. He thought a good enough writer could convey
everything through the strength of her writing alone. I’m not so sure. He also wrote you shouldn’t over-describe
settings. He obviously hadn’t read much
Lawrence Durrell or Robert Silverberg.”
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Chris Knopf |
“Can
you at least share some inspirational examples of great dialogue?” she asked (properly
defying Leonard).
“Watch
His Girl Friday and read Robert B. Parker. Casablanca, to my earlier point, is another
movie to pay attention to, and anything by W.B. Yeats. Not exactly dialogue, but you asked for
inspiration.”
“You
said to avoid dialogue that’s too long.
Can it ever be too short?”
“No.”