Notes on writing dialogueDialogue can be one of the most challenging components of writing fiction. Often, the conversations come off feeling too forced or too clunky, lacking in natural rhythm.
However, improving one's dialogue-writing skills is well within anyone's reach, especially considering that there is an art form solely devoted to dialogue: plays/screenplays. We are going to look at how to take tips and pointers from these things, and apply them to our own writing.
He would never say that!
Have you ever watched a movie or seen a play and thought, “Geeze, no one would ever say something like that.” Or maybe, “Why would they word it like that?” You know what I mean; where the delivery of the line is directed more toward the audience rather than the other character in the scene.
Maybe it's just poor acting; more likely, it's that the writer was lazy and didn't care if the line was out of character, or the writer simply added too much information
Write What You Know
Once upon a time, a young woman was so in love with books that she decided she wanted to become a writer so she, too, could create loveable stories. She read everything she could about writing. Then, one day, she found herself in a book store where she bumped into an old man among the shelves. Turning to apologize, she discovered it was a venerable, much-loved author.
As soon as she could find her voice to speak, she said, "Oh, sir! I know you are very busy, and so I would just like to ask you one small question: what is the best piece of advice you have for a beginning writer?"
The old man smiled and said, "Certainly, young lady. In fact, I will write it down for you." He took out a small slip of paper and a pen and jotted something down. Then he handed the paper to her.
She thanked him profusely and moved out of his way so he could go about his business. Then she looked at the little paper in her hand. She frowned.
"Write what you know."
Well she was very disappointed. In fact, it m
He turns on the boarding dock. He is trying to smile; the corners of his mouth twitch. Shifting his duffel bag from one arm to the other, he raises a solemn hand to her.
She rubs her eyes. Everything blurs for a moment.
I want to turn back time, she'd told him.
So do it.
He is at her side. They trudge up the subway stairs, their fingers entwined. Lights stream by under a darkening sky. They return to her apartment, sit at the table in day-old clothes. He covers her hand with his when she reaches out. Steam drifts above their coffee mugs. They make a promise.
They drag themselves down to the first floor. She puts her mail into the box at the stairwell's foot. They swing the doors at their backs and it is night.
It is night and they are winding through the park. They leap up on a park bench and dance, dance like they are young and foolish. Then her feet are on the asphalt; he has her arms in his and he is coaxing with a smile. He jumps down with her. They meander in their s
So I am once again a river
swollen at its shores; yet
it's a hollow thought that
life is fertile within me.
Better to have lips of frost
than a flooded field; those
bits of rooms swept away--
a chair, a tattered doll.
In my waning, I do not
forget moon language;
this eternal push and pull,
the experience of blue.
Time and Place
My dear one,
If you asked me how I am, now, what I am up to, I would have so much to tell you. It has been a dry summer so far, and the sun's arc across the sky is a lazy, lolling one most days. Even the water from the well is not as cold as it should be. Our cats stretch their lengths on warm limestone showing in bare spots in the yard and they sleep for hours. Otherwise, you'd think this place was without life at all, for every other barnyard creature hides from merciless heat. The garden is not doing so well; we bring water for its nourishment, but it was a late year for planting. The celery is small and withered yellow. The tomatoes are tiny, too---hard, still green. Our melons have died. All the flowers hang their pretty petals. But I drift across the grass when I go and unfurl my body in the shade-trees' cover. I do not write or draw. That urge in me is waiting like birds not yet stirring at dawn. There are whispers, though---promises.
Thus I am not without hope. My dr
FFM6 - Two for One
"I'll tell you what; have a bite and see if you like it first. There's no harm in that, is there? You want to try a hobby out before you go to the trouble of getting all the materials for it, don't you?" He searched her eyes in earnest.
They stared back, empty.
"All right, bad example. But trust me on this, yeah? By the way, did anyone ever tell you, you have the most beautiful eyes? What is beauty! You can't judge a book by it's cover, am I right? Well, sure, bad example. But I'm certain that what's behind those eyes is even more alluring. You're a fine lady, a lady of depth and decision. So, how's about it?"
She stared, but her hand crept out ever so slightly. There seemed to be an uncertainty in the way she swayed on her little white feet.
This encouraged him. "That's right, love. That's right. Work with me Oh, the delights you'll experience! You can't even begin to imagine! I know, I know. Life can be so dull. But when you try new things, when you put yourself out on a
Saturnalia Word War round III part 2The alleged shooter stood before the bench. Everyone had expected him to plead guilty, but when it came time for it, he looked very honestly at the judge. "I did it, your honor, because I didn't know guns could kill people. I was always told only people kill people."