Tag: dialogue

Video Saturday – Quentin Tarantino on #Writing Dialogue

I’m going to just leave this here. 🙂

So, after watching that, who are your dialogue influences?

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Video Saturday (Repeat) – Elmore Leonard’s Advice to Writers

As many of you may be aware, Elmore Leonard passed away this last week.  There have been a ton of folks posting tributes and notes and tips that he gave on writing.  And we’re going to do the same.

Unleaded posted a Video Saturday about a year and a half ago of the American screenwriter and king of the hard-boiled novel.  It’s a great video that really lets you see his love of dialogue and voices and gives you a hint of how he brought his characters to life.  Definitely worth a repost.

So let’s raise a glass and toast Mr. Leonard!  Safe journey.


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Video Saturday – Robert McKee’s 10 Problems to Avoid with Dialogue

I have Robert McKee’s “Story.”  Actually, to be honest, I used to have it.  I loaned it out and it was never returned.  That would be my second copy.  🙁

Robert McKee, is a creative writing instructor who is widely known for his influential “Story Seminar” and his book “Story: Substance, Structure, Style and the Principles of Screenwriting” which is sometimes thought of as the “screenwriters bible.”  It’s a great if THICK and analytical tome.  As described in Wikipedia (the font of all Internet knowledge…when you’re in a hurry), it describes the book thusly: “Rather than simply handling “mechanical” aspects of fiction technique such as plot or dialogue taken individually, McKee examines the narrative structure of a work and what makes the story compelling or not. This works equally as well as an analysis of other genres or forms of narrative, whether as a screenplay, or short story, or novel, or even non-fiction as long as they attempt to “tell a story”.”

For those of you who may be skeptical, McKee’s former students include 36 Academy Award winners, 164 Emmy Award winners, 19 WGA (Writers Guild of America) Award winners and 16 DGA (Directors Guild of America) Award winners.

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Dialect and Disability

Note from Day: For those of you just coming to Unleaded: Fuel for Writers, the post below is from Unleaded contributor Robb Grindstaff.  As mentioned in Saturday’s post, his debut novel, Hannah’s Voice is now available.  Robb also took the time to add to Unleaded’s collection of Writerly Tips.  

Dialect and Disability in Fiction

Hang with me, and I’ll connect these two unrelated topics.

Using dialect or accents in fiction can be treading dangerous ground. In my novel Hannah’s Voice, the story is set in a small town in North Carolina. I needed the characters to realistically speak with a southern accent, use local idioms, and generally sound as if they were from North Carolina.

I lived in North Carolina for several years, so I know what a Carolina accent sounds like, and I know how it differs from a Texas or Oklahoma accent, where I’ve also lived. The accent in the central Piedmont is different from the Blue Ridge mountains. Fishermen on the coast sound completely different than bankers in Charlotte or NASCAR fans in Greensboro. Even in one town, people will speak with different degrees of accents and use different phrases depending on their age, gender, occupation, income and education level. The accent can even fade in and out depending on who they’re talking to.

In fiction, every character also must have a unique, distinguishable voice. If every character sounds exactly the same, it’s hard to tell who is speaking. So I needed to write each character with a true-to-life dialect for that character. I wanted the dialect to help ground the reader in the setting, in the tone of the novel, and give each character his or her own voice.

But have you ever tried to read a novel or short story where the writer accurately portrayed, or at least attempted to accurately portray, a strong dialect? It doesn’t matter if it was a southern accent, or an Old West novel, rural New England or an urban black setting.

When the dialogue is in too heavy of a dialect, it can be almost impossible to read and very irritating. If you happen to be from that area and speak that dialect, it will feel like the writer is making fun of you. Exaggerated southern accents are common in movies and television, and usually with the sole purpose of showing southerners in a less-than-favorable light – the ignorant redneck syndrome. Isn’t that just as bad as overdoing the stereotypical African-American dialect or an ultra-heavy Hispanic, Asian, or Arabic accent?

Dialect is a strong spice in fiction. A little bit goes a long way. Too much, and it becomes so overpowering that you just can’t get it down without gagging. You can sprinkle a little cinnamon on your apple pie, but don’t try to swallow a spoonful of cinnamon. You can choke to death.

Finding the exact right amount of dialect spice is tricky. Too much, it becomes unreadable. Too little, and you lose the flavor. I’ll use a couple of examples to illustrate. This first one I’m just making up:

“Wa-al, howdy y’all. I was jes’ a-fixin’ up some vittles. Y’all come in here and set a spell afore I puts on da grub, den we’uns will stuff our faces with dese here homemade biscuits ‘n’ gravy.”

Could you read an entire novel where all the characters spoke like that and the writer spelled out all the words in a phonetic replication of an accent? Readers will stumble over every word, every sentence, have to stop and re-read on occasion and try to translate what the characters are saying. At least until they give up and throw the book across the room.

Second example, from Hannah’s Voice, where her Sunday school teacher says this about Hannah:

“What on Earth has gotten into this child?” Mrs. B stood in the middle of the living room, rubbing her hands together as if she were washing them in a sink. “Running out into the storm like that to grab a pile of snow. That just ain’t natural.”

In the North Carolina setting that’s already been established, Mrs. B speaks in a manner that fits the town and the character. But nothing there is overdone or attempts to sound out a southern accent. It should read easily and natural, whether you’re from the south or from North Dakota or California. Can you hear the accent? I hope so.

The second type of dialect I had to deal with in Hannah’s Voice was that of a six-year-old child, the first-person narrator in a book that is aimed at adults, not children. Again, I wanted to go with light flavoring, just enough to make it clear to the reader that the story is being told by a six-year-old for the first half of the book. The second half jumps ahead to when Hannah is a teenager. But if I’d precisely mimicked a six-year-old’s voice for 150 pages, it would have been as unreadable as the exaggerated southern drawl example above. Neither could I write it narrated by an adult voice and tried to keep it in real time from a six-year-old’s perspective.

I went for relatively simple, straightforward language, but I let Hannah’s voice and her internal thoughts rise a little older than a typical six-year-old, sprinkling in a little of the phrasing and idioms and thought patterns of a child to keep the reader grounded in the character and her age.

Several trusted beta readers pointed out things that a six-year-old would never say. A writer-friend who is a child psychologist gave me a lot of tips on the thought processes at age six, and I tried to blend those in naturally to help create a believable six-year-old, but with a voice that an adult could read without distraction or irritation.

Later in the book, the story jumps ahead to Hannah as a teenager. Also a bit tricky here to keep her voice consistent, and yet older, more mature in her words and thought processes, yet clearly recognizable as the same girl.

When Hannah goes to college, she is paired up with a deaf roommate. I didn’t think, “Oh, I need a character with a disability.” What I needed was a character that would play against Hannah’s character. Hannah stopped speaking when she was six, way back in chapter two, and hadn’t spoken in twelve years. Um, yes, by the way, I had to write a first-person narrator who doesn’t speak. But that’s a subject for another day.

So Hannah doesn’t speak, and the college matches her up with a roommate who can’t hear. That’s why I needed a deaf character. Ginger, the roommate, can read lips, but that doesn’t help since Hannah doesn’t speak. They have to figure out how to communicate.

Ginger can speak, however. As many deaf people do, Ginger spoke with a dialect—the natural voice of someone who has learned to speak but has never heard her own voice or the voice of anyone else.

Back to the dialect thing. I wanted to accurately convey Ginger’s voice, her dialect, the way she pronounced words, the extra sounds she would throw in. I wanted to show that sometimes people had trouble understanding her.

But I didn’t want to make it so hard to read that it became irritating to the reader. Neither did I want to make it so exaggerated that it could be construed as ridiculing the way a deaf person speaks. I wanted just enough of that spice to create the character’s voice in the reader’s head.

I went stronger with Ginger’s dialect when she is first introduced to the reader:

The dorm room wasn’t quite like the orphanage. The orphanage was a little nicer. It looked more like the shelter—block walls and worn vinyl tile floors. I covered most of the floor with a rug Suzette had given me, and stacked my textbooks for the first semester on the shelf. First in alphabetical order, then I took them all down and put them in order of my class schedule.

“Yo kind ah vanal, awn’t yo?”

I didn’t understand Ginger’s words. I shook my head and motioned for her to say again while I looked at her, like that would help since I didn’t read lips.

“I say-ah-da,” she enunciated and exaggerated each syllable, “‘ou kind ahv ay-nal, awn’t ‘ou?”

Just organized, I wrote, and she giggled.

Here, I wanted to establish her voice, and I wanted the reader to have trouble understanding that first sentence the same way that Hannah had trouble understanding it.

As the story progresses, the degree of that dialect quickly fades as Hannah (and thus the reader) grows accustomed to Ginger’s way of speaking.

Ginger told me Warren was upset.

“He finally worked up the ner-vuh to ask ‘ou out, and now ‘ou awn’t coming back-uh. He is kind-uh cute, don’t ‘ou think-uh?”

It’s still there, and much stronger than the southern accent used throughout the book for all the characters, but it’s lighter than at the beginning. Even with this lighter version of Ginger’s dialect, I couldn’t use it much. She’s a minor character who only appears in a few scenes. If she’d been a major character throughout the book, I would have gone much lighter on the dialect.

Give your characters unique voices that fit the story, the setting, and each character. Use dialect when appropriate to your story, but be very careful not to overdo it. Let it flavor the voices lightly, not overpower the dialogue. Don’t make readers work to hear the voice or have to decipher what the characters are saying. A little goes a long, long way.


WWW: Out Loud!

I had something that I was going to talk about today.  And it’s my own damn fault for not creating a draft when the inspiration hit me, because now something else has hit me.  Hard.  The trees have started to bloom, and my nose must look like the sexiest lady tree around because they’re all frantically trying to copulate with it.  So here’s what I think I was going to talk about, which might not make sense when processed through a brain that feels packed with gauze.

We short story and novel writers produce stories that are meant to be read, which in most cases (unless we’re writing children’s books or score a sweet audiobook deal) means someone sitting down and quietly reading the story to him or herself.  And thus we can easily get in a trap where we never stop and consider how our words sound when spoken.  Have you ever tried reading a segment of a work-in-process out loud and realized that the words are all wrong and you trip over them in the effort?  Yes you have, and you damn well know it.

I’m not going to sit here and say that absolutely every piece of every work needs to be read out loud to find errors, but it’s often a great way to discover sentences that don’t flow quite as well as you hoped.  Let’s face it, part of the reason that almost everyone is their own worst editor is that we all know what we meant to say.  And when reading something to yourself, it can be easy to transpose a poorly written sentence into the right one without noticing.  When reading out loud, you’re going to start stumbling over these sentences, and realizing that there’s a problem.

Also, there are two times when reading something out loud is key: dialogue and it’s close cousin first person.  This can be especially important if you’re trying to get the voice right on a character or narrator.  Read it out loud, even enlist other people if need be.  Adopt the voice of the character as you hear it in your head, over emphasize it even.  It’s silly, but it gets the job done.  If you or someone else can’t read the line in the character’s voice, something is wrong and needs to be fixed.

Over on my blog this week, I had a follow-up to last week’s world building WWW post (which may become a series), and I posted the new Fortnightcap.

WWW: “I am,” I said.

I’ve seen some dialogue advice running around the internet lately, and not even advice along the lines of distinct voices for characters, but just how dialogue should be presented in a story.  Dialogue is one of my favorite bits of any story, and what I tend to get my best feedback on, so I thought I’d pass along what I’ve run into, then allow myself a little indulgence by adding my own advice.

What got me kicked off was edittorrent’s list “Marks of the amateur,” shared on Twitter by Cat Vacuumer Emeritus Andrew B (name dropped here on Unleaded for the second straight day).  While the whole list is worth reading, two of the points specifically have to do with dialogue:

1) Improper dialogue formatting. That’s first for me, because, uh, if you’ve been reading for decades and never noticed there’s a comma after the quote tag and before the quote mark, and a capital letter starting the quote, and the punctuation INSIDE the quote mark, and a new paragraph with a change in speakers, well, you are apparently not really absorbing writing conventions as you read. That will make the work of editing this rather onerous.

4) Clumsy quote-tagging. Everyone agreed on this. I am the most lenient (yes, really– I am a positive libertine compared with Some Sticklers Recently in Yorkshire), as I don’t mind the infrequent “hissed” or “grumbled” if that’s in fact what the speaker sounded like. But the default for tagging your dialogue should be “he/she said” or an action.

The second one is difficult.  As a writer, I detest using then reusing the same word that I just used the last time I needed to use a word with similar usage.  See?  That really hurt.  But said is one of those words you shouldn’t be upset about ending up in your top 20 words used, along with your common pronouns and articles.  Mixing it up with the occasional flowery synonym should be done sparingly, especially since these things can probably be better handled with action.  And there’s the real way to mix things up.  As long as it’s clear who is talking, you may be able to get rid of all but one or two “said”s per conversation.  Characters should be doing something while they’re talking, even if it’s as simple as drinking a cup of coffee.  It breaks up walls of dialogue, and gives you a way to establish a speaker without explicitly using “said.”

Also, unattributed dialogue.  This can work in very limited applications.  It works best when two characters have a rapid fire bantering, distinct voices, and I find it works best if it doesn’t go beyond three pairs of lines, six lines of dialogue total.  Beyond that it starts to become work to keep track of the conversation, and work is the last thing we as writers want to impose on our readers.  If you’re going with this type of dialogue, recognize that it’s the conversational equivalent of an action scene.  It speeds up the conversation, so each line of dialogue in an unattributed section should be short and punchy.  Much as how writers can convey action by shortening and simplifying sentences.

The other bit of advice comes from my favorite new Tweep, @AdviceToWriters.  Quoting novelist Elmore Leonard, “Never use an adverb to modify the verb ‘said.'”

He said jauntily.  He said gruffly.  He said expectantly.  He said quizzically.  Some of these ideas are better expressed in the dialogue.  He said quizzically?  If the dialogue is a question, it probably was said quizzically.  Some of the others are better handled with a short action.  Show, don’t tell.  He said jauntily?  No.  He said, doffing his cap.  Now he’s being jaunty, and we’re seeing exactly how he’s being jaunty, all without actually using the word.

Said is not a four letter word.  Well, it is, but not in that sense.  Don’t be afraid of it.  And if you’re looking to get rid of it, don’t be cute about it.  Take action, instead.

And now, time for my weekly cross promotion.  Over on my blog this week I explained my reasoning for walking away from a generation ship anthology, and then in a complete coincidence put up a flash piece about a generation ship.

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