Delicious dialogue (an exercise)
My last post was about bad dialogue and how to avoid it. (Kelley made an editcast to go with it.) This one is about great dialogue and what we can learn from it.
I’ll discuss a series of examples from one of my favourite books, H.M.S. Surprise, by Patrick O’Brian, third in a 20-volume series that is essentially one long novel. I’ve talked about these books before. They tell the story of Jack Aubrey, a sea captain, and Stephen Maturin, a physician (and intelligence agent) as they sail together through the early years of the Napoleonic wars. It’s a novel of friendship between two very different men.
Here is Jack Aubrey, captain of a H.M.S. Surprise, as he comes on deck first thing in the morning in an Indian port.
“Pipe the hands to breakfast,” he said. “And Mr Church, be so good as to let Killick know that if my coffee is not on deck in fifteen seconds he will be crucified at noon. Doctor, a very good morning to you. Ain’t it a pure day? Here is the coffee at last–will you take a cup? Did you sleep? Ha, ha, what a capital thing it is to sleep.” (p.318)
We learn that Jack is a booming kind of fellow, full of animal spirits–utterly at ease with himself and his world. (He doesn’t pause to think; he doesn’t consult; he’s clearly relaxed.) We see that he’s naturally in charge, confident of his place and others’ understanding of same (threatening to crucify his steward–who understands the captain speaks in jest, but who nonetheless produces the coffee with alacrity). That he is from a particular class, the very conventional English landed gentry (be so good, and ain’t, for those who read English class systems, is brilliant coding). That he delights in the simple, physical things of life: coffee, sleep, fresh air. He is a man’s man who is oddly naive away from his ship (for example, his idea of seduction is to smile hard and edge his chair closer to the object of his affection). Note that O’Brian did not feel the need to stop and spell out for us that Stephen is on deck, or that Killick approaches with the coffee, or that the sun is shining. It’s all implicit.
Stephen is a very different animal: thin, pale, subject to melancholy, a bastard born to an Irish father and aristocratic Catalan mother, burning with many secret desires. Here he is ashore in India.
“Be so good as to call me an elephant,” said Stephen.
“Sahib, at once. Does the sahib prefer a male elephant, or a female elephant?”
“A male elephant. I should be more at home with a male elephant.”
“Would the sahib wish me to bring him to a house of boys? Cleaned, polite boys like gazelles, that sing and play the flute?”
“No, Mahomet: just the elephant, if you please.”
The enormous grey creature knelt down, and Stephen looked closely into its wise old eye, gleaming among the paint and embroidery.
“The sahib places his foot here, upon the brute.”
“I beg your pardon,” murmured Stephen at the vast archaic ear, and mounted. They rode down the crowded Chowringhee, Mahomet pointing out object of interest. “There lives Mirza Shah, decrepit, blind: kings trembled at his name. There Kumar the rich, an unbeliever; he has a thousand concubines. The sahib is disgusted. Like me, the sahib looks upon women as tattling, guileful, tale-bearing, noisy, contemptible, mean, wretched, unsteady, harsh, inhospitable; I will bring him a young gentleman that smells of honey. This is the Maidan. The sahib sees two peepul-trees near the bridge, God give him sight forever. That is where the European gentlemen come to fight one another with swords and pistols. The building beyond the bridge is a heathen temple full of idols. We cross the bridge. Now the sahib is in Alipur.” (p. 337)
In this one passage of dialogue O’Brian conveys setting, history, culture clash, and the assumptions people make. By showing that Stephen is the kind of man who would beg pardon from an elephant yet doesn’t feel the need to chat to his guide, O’Brian also hints at Stephen’s internal preoccupation. (He achieves this partly through focus change, too: the way Stephen notices details in close-up–the eye, the embroidery–while the guide rambles on about the wider world as Stephen sits silent.) It’s also apparent that Stephen is used to culture differences. (Imagine for a moment how bluff and hearty Jack Aubrey might have coped with the suggestion that he be brought to a house of boys…)
It turns out that Stephen is on the way to the house of a woman he loves, a widow called Diana Villiers, who had spurned him in England and run off with an important, married man of business called Canning.
“What the devil are you about, sir?” cried Canning from the open door.
“What is that to you, sir?” said Stephen, turning sharp upon him.
“Mrs Villiers is under my protection,” said Canning. He was pale with fury.
“I give no explanations to any man for kissing a women, unless it is his wife.”
“Do you not?”
“I do not, sir.” (p.340)
Again, we learn an enormous amount in just a few lines without O’Brian having to hit us over the head. He doesn’t tell us Canning arrives; he doesn’t tell us Diana and Stephen are kissing. He doesn’t need to. By using extremely formal language he shows us just how tense the situation is. (Difficult and delicate situations demand diplomacy and extreme care. Imagine the way you talk to your boss about a pay rise; imagine how you talk to your sweetie about what’s for dinner. Very different modes.) Note how all but one of the dialogue tags are ’said’ and, as a result, ‘cried’ carries weight. Note, too, how Canning doesn’t flush with fury, he pales. This is what happens in that first adrenalin rush: the blood drains to the long muscles, readying them for fight or flight: this is a potentially violent moment.
Dialogue is the star of O’Brian’s novels. He is pitch-perfect. His characters’ word choice and grammar indicates their knowledge base and socio-economic class. Their modes (formal, relaxed) show us their state of mind. What they do or don’t notice tells us what they are or are not concerned with.
With dialogue, word choice is critical. Vocabulary, metaphors, and phrasing should all match the character’s age, sex, upbringing, class, culture, intelligence, self-confidence levels, and so on–as well as the character’s mood. Stephen, an Irish physician, doesn’t always talk as though he’s Irish, or like a doctor. Sometimes he’s a lover, sometimes a tourist, sometimes a friend. And when he is a lover, sometimes he’s ardent lover, sometimes spurned, sometimes ready to fight. Similarly, your scientist might not always talk like a scientist, your adults might not always sound grown up, your CEO might not always want to be in charge.
So here’s an exercise. Imagine two characters of different backgrounds (class, age, race, religion, sexual orientation, anything–you choose). Imagine they’ve both witnessed a traffic accident. Write the scene where they are telling a police officer what happened (max 300 words). Your goal is to give the reader an idea of what happened, who these two people are, what emotional state they’re in, whether or not they know each other, and at least a notion of the time and place.
It’s a lot to do in 300 words, but that’s the beauty of dialogue; it’s multi-talented. Start your engines!
All quotes from H.M.S. Surprise, Patrick O’Brian (Norton, New York, 1991)
Posted by: Nicola
Excellent examples. Thank you!
Thanks. O’Brian is so very, very good.
Rubberneckers coming home from the game crept past the blue lights strobing on the day-bright boulevard.
“I’m sorry,” the teenager blubbered, digging through her purse for a tissue. Her mascara was making dark clouds on her blotchy cheeks.
The man in the Armani suit rolled his eyes for the benefit of the police officer and sighed. “I think it’s pretty obvious what happened. She’s already admitted—”
“My Dad’s gonna kill me.” She raked her hands through her hair and glanced mournfully at the crumpled bumper of the Kia.
The officer grimaced uncomfortably. “Miss—“
“We needn’t exacerbate the situation. Certainly there’s no need for a ticket—”
Her eyes widened. “A ticket! My Dad…”
The passenger door to the crippled XJ opened, and a statuesque woman in a Gucci evening gown stepped out.
“Everything’s fine dear,” Armani suit called. Then, to the officer, “My wife. She’s a bit—“
“Herbert, whatever are you doing to that poor girl?” She used the sidewalk like a fashion show runway. “I told you you were going too fast.”
Her husband blanched. “She’s kidding. Emily, tell him you’re kidding.”
“If you’d pay as much attention to the road as you do your silly i-Phone.” She produced a handkerchief from her silk clutch and handed it to the girl. “Don’t worry dear. We’ll take care of everything.”
And since I didn’t come anywhere near my 300 words, here’s the payoff:
Herbert sulked in the back seat of the town car. Emily contemplated the city lights as the driver navigated through traffic.
“How could you?” he asked finally. “I didn’t — She cut me off. And now they’ve taken my license?”
“Oh, Herbert. Do cease your endless prattle. It was our anniversary.” She eased back into the butter-soft leather and closed her eyes. “The least you could’ve done is hire a limo.”
“Do you know the driver, ma’am?”
Edna read the tag on the policewoman’s shirt. “No, Officer Santana.” She pulled her shoulders back and gripped her cane tightly. “Do you suppose that because I’m old, too, that I must somehow know her?”
“Just asking ma’am. How about you?” she said, turning to the young woman.
Lindy pulled out her white earbuds and stuffed them into the pocket of her jeans. “Huh?”
Officer Santana repeated the question.
“Nuh uh. But she burned rubber before hitting the building. It was sick!”
Edna tsked. “Perhaps she was ill, I don’t know. But there was certainly no burning of rubber.” She adjusted her eyeglasses. “It looked to me as though the vehicle may have malfunctioned.”
“Did she look sick to you?”
Lindy snapped her gum. “It’s an expression. You know, like, cool. I mean, man, if it had happened a split second sooner, I’d be dead. I’d just come out of the store. Next thing I know, she’s blowing past me and ‘crash’ right through the front.”
“She was nowhere near you,” Edna said. “I had a much better angle, parked right here in the handicapped space.”
“So what makes you think the car ‘malfunctioned’?”
“Well…”
“Aw, she’s covering for her. Doesn’t want more bad press for the old farts who shouldn’t be driving anymore.”
“I’m not even going to dignify that—”
“Please just tell me what you saw.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve been driving for more than seventy years, with not so much as a scratch. My husband relies on me—”
“Ma’am, I’m not questioning your ability. I’m asking what you saw.”
“Ha! She saw a senile old lady mistake the gas pedal for the brake.”
“Tell me, young lady, how is your driving record?”
Lindy scowled, gum snapping furiously.
Dianne, nicely done! It seems clear to me that this is Herbert’s point of view, so I’ve made that a little stronger (and taken out a phrase at the end where you slipped into Emily’s POV). Also I’ve front-loaded some of the information (Kia, XJ, etc.) so that the reader doesn’t have to constantly revise her internal movie of events. You’ll see I’ve questioned the use of the word statuesque, and altered the punctuation here and there to show more clearly the relationship between Herbert and Emily.
Rubberneckers coming home from the game crept past the strobe-lit scatter of glass around the
day-brightKia and XJ angled across boulevard.“I’m sorry
,” the teenager blubbered, digging.” The teenager dug through her purse for a tissue and wiped at her mascara blotchedHer mascara was making dark clouds on her blotchycheeks. “I’m sorry.”The man in the Armani suit rolled his eyes for
the benefit ofthe police officerand sighed. “Ithink it’sprettyobvious what happened. She’s already admitted—”“My Dad’s gonna kill me.” She raked her hands through her hair, looked at
glanced mournfullythe crumpled bumper of the Kia, and started crying again.The officer grimaced
uncomfortably. “Miss—”Armani used his board room voice. “We needn’t exacerbate the poor girl’s situation. Certainly there’s no need for a ticket—”
Her eyes widened. “A ticket! My Dad…”
The passenger door to the crippled XJ opened, and a statuesque ['statuesque' is a subtle word; it carries, for many people, connotations not only of beauty and height, but also a certain heft--not model skinny; is this the effect you are looking for?] woman in a Gucci evening gown stepped out.
“
Everything’s fineI’m handling it. Dear,” Armanicalledsaid. Then, to the officer, “My wifeShe’s a bit—”“Herbert, whatever are you doing to that poor girl?” She used the sidewalk like a fashion show runway. “I told you you were going too fast.”
Herbert’s
husband blanchedsmile tightened. “She’s kidding. Emily, tell him you’re kidding.”“If you’d pay as much attention to the road as you do your silly i-Phone.” She produced a handkerchief from her silk clutch and handed it to the girl. “Don’t worry dear. We’ll take care of everything.”
——
Herbert sulked in the back seat of the town car. Emily contemplated the city lights as the driver navigated through traffic.
“So. Now they’ve taken my license.
How could you?” he asked finally. “I didn’t — She cut me off. And now they’ve taken my license?”“
Oh, Herbert. Do cease your endless prattle.It was our anniversary.” Sheeased back into the butter-soft leatherleaned back and closed her eyes. “The least you could’ve done is hire a limo.”Nicola –
Thanks! Interesting comment about statuesque. I would consider Rebecca Romijn (5′11″), Brooke Shields (6′0″), and perhaps Aud “statuesque.” I don’t see any of them as anorexic (at least, not these days) but they could definitely rock a runway.
Elaine –
Great contrast between the language and mannerisms of three women!
I do think you may’ve overdone it just a shade with “You know, like, cool. I mean, man…” I’d also prune and organize a bit for dramatic purposes:
“It’s an expression, like ‘cool.’ I’d just come out of the store and next thing I know, she’s blowing past me — crash! — right through the front. A split second sooner and I’d be dead.”
Dianne, yes, they could. But they’re not the kind of figure you expect to see on a runway–they don’t look like spindly models–and so your use of the word ’statuesque’ is at odds with the image conjured by the use of ‘runway’.
Elaine, this is good, but I think it needs a little less dialogue and a little more interstitial information. (This is often the case when pronouns aren’t sufficient to distinguish the players.)
“Do you know the driver, ma’am?”
Edna read [this might be an opportunity to give us information--does Edna 'peer' or is her eyesight fabulous with correction?] the tag on the policewoman’s shirt. “No, Officer Santana.” She pulled her shoulders back and gripped her cane tightly. “Do you suppose [I think she might use the word 'assume' here] that because I’m also old,
too, thatI must somehow know her?”“Just asking ma’am.” The officer turned to the young woman [where is the young woman? behind? to her left?]. ” How about you?”
she said, turning to the young woman.The young woman
Lindy[if the old woman, Edna, is the VP character, we have no way of knowing Lindy's name at this stage] pulled out herwhiteearbuds and stuffed them intothe pocket ofher jeans pocket. “Huh?”Officer Santana repeated the question.
“Nuh uh. But she burned rubber before hitting the building. [This doesn't seem to follow. Try something like, But, whoa, she was burning rubber! which makes it sound as though Lindy is saying: didn't know her, but, wow, kinda wish I did!] It was sick!”
Edna tsked [put this in italics]. “Perhaps she was, indeed [it keeps her voice persnickety] ill. I don’t know. But there was certainly no burning of rubber.” She adjusted her eyeglasses. [How, exactly? Push them up? Straighten them?] “It looked to me as though the vehicle may have malfunctioned.”
“Did she look sick to you?” [Who says this?]
Lindy snapped her gum. “Sick, like cool.
It’s an expression. You know, like, cool.AndI mean, man, if it’dhadhappened a split second sooner…, I’d be dead. I step’d just comeout of the storeand. Next thing I know,she’s blowing past me–and ‘crash, right through the front.”“She was nowhere near you,” Edna said. “I
had a much better angle, parkedwas right here in the handicapped space.”The officer turned back to Edna. “
So wWhat makes you think the car malfunctioned?”And so on. Take a closer look at your verbs. They can be great conveyors of information.
Is it ok if I write mine in first person?
Sure, Jo, your protagonist can be a first person POV. Go for it!
Post-brain damage I am having a hard time grasping punctuation mark usage in conjunction with quotation marks. If I’ve got it wrong, somebody please tell me . . .
“Officer, Mrs. Wright put her foot on the gas instead of the brake accidentally,” the boy said, gripping his picket sign.
“Accidentally my ass – it was a freakin‘ hate crime. Dolphus was riding his bike across the street, sir. That woman didn’t even slow for the stop sign – she sped up and plowed right into him.”
“Mrs. Wright is a woman of God -”
I snorted. “You’re picketing a gay bar, one of you runs one of us down without batting an eye, and it was an accident?”
“Could you see the driver’s face, Miss James?”
I swallowed. “No officer, but the car didn’t hesitate at all – it just sped up.”
“Officer, we’re here to help these people, not harm them.”
“How long have you known Mrs. Wright?” This time it was the boy’s Adam’s apple that bobbed, and I took pleasure in every second of it. Freakin’ Christians.
“About a week, sir.”
“Thank you both, that will be all.” The officer walked away. I turned to go but the boy caught my arm.
“Please – you don’t have to be a slave to sex and Satanism.”
“I’m Pagan, thanks, and screw sex – I’m here tonight to talk to a friend about a roommate.”
“But you don’t have to trade sex so you have a place to stay.”
“What is it with you and sex? Some shovel jockey who’s new in town can’t afford a hotel and is going to crash on the spare bed in my room at my friend Megan‘s. Do you mind?” Apparently he did, because his face turned ashen. Turning, I saw Megan hurrying up to us.
“Corbin. I thought we had an agreement?” Megan said, her eyes on the picket sign. Corbin blushed. “Lucy James, meet Corbin McCaffey, your new roommate.”
Jo –
Looks good. No problems with the punctuation.
Lucy’s three statements (below) say pretty much the same thing –
“That woman didn’t even slow for the stop sign – she sped up and plowed right into him.”
“one of you runs one of us down without batting an eye”
“the car didn’t hesitate at all – it just sped up.”
You could feed the information to us piecemeal (so she’s not repeating herself) or give Lucy something more to say about Dolphus or Mrs. Wright.
This statement is awkward because there’s so much information:
“Some shovel jockey who’s new in town can’t afford a hotel and is going to crash on the spare bed in my room at my friend Megan‘s.”
Try rephrasing, cutting it back, or giving it to us in parts (I know my rewriting changes the meaning a bit, but you can use your words instead):
“What is it with you and sex? My friend Megan –” I took a deep breath. “Her cousin’s new in town and needs a place to crash. I offered my couch. Now do you mind?”
@Dianne – Cool, thank you :).
Thanks Nicola and Dianne. I couldn’t figure out how to do italics in the post. I also realized after posting that I’d blown the POV. I didn’t give anyone but Edna a name at first. The officer gets explained, but not Lindy. Good edits. And “interstitial information.” I like that! I always find it hard to see it as a reader, someone who doesn’t have it in their head already.
Thank you!
Elaine, you’re welcome. That’s what a reading community is for: to see writing from another perspective.
Jo, the contrast between two worldviews couldn’t be more clear. Well done. However, the characters feel very similar in their intensity. Did you intend that?
As this is first person, it would help the reader to get that perspective immediately; move it up if you can. Also, it wouldn’t hurt to vary the pace a little–perhaps give us just a moment of introspection. (After all, that’s one of the strengths of first person.) Pay attention, too, to word choice: ‘ashen’ feels a little formal in comparison to the POV character’s spoken language.
But I’m beginning to get a picture of your shovel jockey…
@ Nicola – thank you very much :).
I had intended Corbin’s and Lucy’s intensities to be similar – I thought it would make for a more interesting story if they both had a lot of self-work to do, rather than having the Pagan save the Christian or the Christian save the Pagan. I’m interested in seeing how they can both grow from the wisdom in each other’s spirituality. Of course, this could be a bad call on my part – I’ve never written a book before barring one sf attempt in high school. If you think that a similar level of intensity is a bad idea, please let me know – y’all are the ones who know what you’re doing – I certainly don’t :P.
I’ve got writing for work to do right now, but I’ll try to have a rewrite up tonight or tomorrow. Thanks for posting the challenges – I’m enjoying them and learning quite a bit.
You are most welcome.
In terms of matching intensities, I think it could work–as long as you’re aware of the challenges. For one thing, you’ll have to be careful about how you wield your POV. First person weights everything towards the ‘I’ character–I think it would be easy for the 3rd person character to become a lesser reflection of that if you’re working with similar personal characteristics. Another challenge would be the lack of variety–readers like variations in pace and intensity. So: challenging, but possible.
I’m delighted that you’re finding this stuff useful.
I’m finding it invaluable, actually. I have done extremely little with this story – the one I was working on more intensely I have had to shelve because of needing research in texts for which I don’t yet have enough comprehension. So everything is very fluid and changeable at this point.
Tell us what you need–info on POV, tenses, grammar, narrative grammar, voice, etc–and we’ll bear it in mind when coming up with blog posts.
That goes for everyone: tell us what you’d like us to discuss here. We can’t promise anything, but it’s good to know what would be useful.
@ Nicola –
I have a rewrite, but I’m finding it hard to stay under 300 words if I’m putting introspection in. I wrote it as I would normally write it – my method is to overwrite and then cut – but I’m not sure what to cut. May I post the long version?
Sure. Perhaps someone around here will be kind enough to cut it for you…
@ Nicola – I’m sure they’ll find plenty to cut :P.
.
In the rainbow glow of the Kaine’s Bar and Grill sign I could see small black rivulets dripping from the picket sign’s lettering – ‘God loves the repentant’. I guess if you’re going to lead the world to salvation it’s best to invest in something better than tempera paint. If the word of your God can be wiped out by a small April flurry, you’re in trouble – or at least that’s my philosophy. The boy shifted his gloved grip on the picket. He was about my age – twenty-fiveish – but taller than me, which of course just about everyone is. His face was filled with that innocent earnestness that suggests supreme gullibility. I waited for the excuses to start flowing.
“Officer, Mrs. Wright must have accidentally put her foot on the gas pedal instead of the brake,” the boy said – earnestly of course. “Mrs. Wright is a woman of God and would never hurt anyone.”
“Oh, accidentally my ass,” I snorted. The picket crowd tittered at my word choice – see the evils of the heathen dyke! “It was a freakin‘ hate crime. Dolphus was riding his bike across the street, sir. That woman didn’t even slow for the stop sign – she sped up and plowed right into him without batting an eye.”
“Could you see the driver’s face, Miss James?”
I swallowed. “No officer.”
“Officer, we’re here to help these people, not harm them.”
The officer seemed unmoved. I knew I was. He clicked his pen irritably. “I haven’t seen you with Divine Mission before. How long have you known Mrs. Wright?” This time it was the boy’s Adam’s apple that bobbed, and I took pleasure in every second of it. Freakin’ Christians.
“About a week, sir.” The boy shuffled his feet, though whether from embarrassment or trying to keep warm I wasn’t sure.
“Thank you both, that will be all.” The officer walked away. I turned to go but the boy caught my arm.
“Please – you don’t have to be a slave to sex and Satanism.”
Un-freakin‘-believable. Where did they find these people? “I’m Pagan, thanks. We don’t even believe in Satan. Next time research your infidels? And screw sex – I’m here to talk to a friend about a roommate.”
“But you don’t have to trade sex so you have a place to stay.”
“What is it with you and sex? Let me make it simple for you – some new shovel jockey can’t afford a hotel. He’s going to crash on the spare bed in the room I rent at my friend Megan‘s. Platonically. Do you mind?” Apparently he did, because his face turned ashen. Turning, I saw Megan striding up to us with a less-than-happy look on her face. More a you’ve-betrayed-my-trust look, but I wasn’t sure what I’d done to deserve it.
“Corbin,” she said, and I swear the air grew even colder around us. “I thought we had an agreement?” Megan said, her eyes on the picket sign. Corbin blushed.
“Agree- oh hell, no Megan – ”
“Lucy James, meet Corbin McCaffey, your new roommate.”
Okay, I’ve done a first pass to bring it down to 300 words.
In the rainbow glow of the Kaine’s Bar and Grill sign I watched the picket sign run and drip. ‘God loves the repentant.’ If the word of your God can be wiped out by a small April flurry, you’re in trouble.
The boy holding the sign was about my age, twenty-five, and his face shone with earnestness. “Officer, Mrs. Wright must have put her foot on the gas pedal by accident,” he said. “She is a woman of God.”
“Accident my ass,” I said. The picket crowd tittered – wicked heathen dyke! “It was a hate crime. That woman didn’t even slow for the stop sign – she plowed right into Dolphus without batting an eye.”
“So you saw the driver’s face, Ms. James?”
“Uh, no.”
“Officer,” Earnest Boy said, “we’re here to help these people, not harm them.”
The officer clicked his pen irritably at him. “I haven’t seen you with Divine Mission before. How long have you known Mrs. Wright?”
“About a week, sir.” He looked at his feet.
The officer wrapped it up soon after that and left, but when I turned to go the boy caught my arm. “Please – you don’t have to be a slave to sex and Satanism.”
I shook him off. “I’m Pagan. Satan’s your problem. I’m here to talk to a friend about a roommate.”
“But you don’t have to trade sex so you have a place to stay.”
“Let me make it simple for you – some new shovel jockey can’t afford a hotel. He’s going to crash on the spare bed in the room I rent at my friend Megan‘s. Platonically. Asshole.” He paled.
I turned, and saw Megan striding over with a less-than-happy look on her face.
“Corbin,” she said to the boy. She nodded at his picket sign. “I thought we had an agreement.”
The boy–Corbin–blushed. Megan turned to me. “Lucy James, meet Corbin McCaffey, your new roommate.”
You’ll see that the biggest changes I’ve made are to Lucy’s dialogue. In one or two places it changes her presentation (but to me she was coming across as less sure of herself than I think you intended; if you did intend her insecurity then by all means, change it back). If this were mine, I’d take those changes a lot further, but you have to make those choices. Anyway, now that it’s cut to a reasonable length, take a look, see what you think.
@ Nicola – you rock. I can’t believe you’re taking the time to help me. Thank you :).
I’m so new to this story that I’m not yet sure of Lucy’s level of security – it’s something I’m still debating. Playing around with writing her different ways is helping. I know that she has a bit of an attitude problem with straight men, and a definite attitude problem with Christians. Lucy is pretty live-and-let-live until you try to tell her how she should live, at which point she gets belligerent and bull-headed. I know she has a couple of deep insecurities, but they’re a bit buried and at the beginning of the story she’s unaware of them. I also know that at the beginning of the story she believes that her spirit cannot be broken. The rest I’m still working on . . .
I definitely like your rewrite. There are a couple of small things I think I would alter but I’m not sure yet. I need to let it gel a bit.
Thank you again.
No problem. Good luck with the jelling.
Well, since Jo wrote her entry in first person, I’m going to try mine in it as well J Ok, on with the preamble, 16 years old, dyslexic, only one English class, you get the picture ya? Ok I know, not exactly to specifications, but it was the closest and kept with the lot of the story…
I walked through the small village, constantly on the lookout for anything suspicious. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a smear of black. I clutched my sword hilt and turned quickly to see Eletta sneaking off into the cottage.
“Letta dear, what are you doing?”
I admire her curves as she tends to the sleeping Gwen.
“Um, nothing Ava!” I noticed her tense up, and stiffen as she tried to hide something from my sight.
“Damn it, Let! Did you pilfer another cloak for her? How many times do I have to tell you stealing is wrong?”
“Well Ava, darling, love, we have no money to buy this stuff that she needs! Poor dear is freezing to death!”
I sighed and shook my head, “Letta, that doesn’t make it right.”
“Oh, I’m sorry would you rather her die then?”
I stiffened, of course I would never want a child to die, much less her daughter who was like my own child as well. Yet, I couldn’t let her go on stealing. Her blackmail was cutting me to the core.
“Besides, who are you going to turn me into? Are you going to cut my hand off? Your lover? Please, you’re under my finger when it comes to this. You may be the face of justice, but you wont do a thing against me.”
Donna –
Your writing is good, so stop apologizing for your work ahead of time.
One thing I’d recommend is try to be consistent with your verb tenses — either past or present. It’s rare that an author can pull off flip-flopping back and forth. (The book of Mark from The Bible is an example.)
Most of this selection is in past tense: “I clutched my sword hilt and turned quickly,” but “I admire her curves as she tends to the sleeping Gwen,” is present tense. Go with “admired” and “tended.”
Try to find specific action verbs to tighten up your writing. Words like “looked,” “walked,” “went,” are generic and don’t tell us a lot, so we have to use extra adverbs and adjectives to explain how they looked, how they walked, etc.
Here’s how I might do it, but when you rewrite, use YOUR voice, not mine.
I
walked throughpatrolled the small village,constantly on the lookout for anything suspiciousever wary, ever vigilant. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a smear of black. I clutched my sword hilt and spun. It was Eletta slipping back into the cottage.(either put a space here to indicate this is a new scene or write a sentence to indicate that Ava has followed her inside)
I admired her curves as she tended to the sleeping Gwen. “Letta dear,
what are you doingwhere’ve you been?”“
Um, nothingAva!”I noticed her tense up, andShe tensed,stiffened as shetrying to hide something from my sight.“Damn it, Let! Did you pilfer another cloak for her?” How many times did I have to
tell you stealing is wrong?warn her about stealing?“Well Ava, darling, love, we have no money.
to buy this stuff that she needs!Poor dear is freezing to death!”I
sighed and shook my head,felt my jaw clench “Letta,That doesn’t make it right.”“
Oh, I’m sorry wouldYou would rather see her die then?”I stiffened,
of course I would never want a child to die, much less her daughter whoGwen was like my ownchild as wellflesh and blood.Yet, I couldn’t let her go on stealing.HerEletta’s blackmail was cutting me to the core.“Besides, who are you going to turn me in to? Are you going to cut my hand off?” I wanted to wipe the smug grin from her face.
Your lover? Please, you’re under my finger when it comes to this.“You may be the face of justice, but you wont do a thing against me.”Oops, I had posted the wrong draft! My proofreader had pointed out a lot of the tense shifting, and I must have copy and pasted the wrong one! Thanks though :) But, in your version, Ava comes off as harder, and angerier than I want her to, she’s actually a big softie and it doesn’t feel right with her, and she isn’t mad, just well dissapointed. Also, I though I needed to indicate that Gwen is Let’s child in there somewhere in order to explaing who she was.
Donna —
Dianne is right. You don’t need to apologize for your work. You’re doing a great job, as is everyone who posts here, and Sterling Editing is always a safe space for people to “work in public.” Everyone will get honest feedback, and it will also always be respectful feedback (and we certainly aim for it to be helpful!).
I understand what you’re saying about Ava being a softie, and you’re the writer, so you’re in charge. But I encourage you to think about always having high emotional stakes for your characters. A scene in which someone is disappointed is fine, as long as their disappointment is significant for some reason — a last straw, a case of really bad timing, the behavior is putting everyone in some kind of bad position, etc. In this case, Ava’s internal thoughts are about “blackmail” (which is a nice strong emotional choice) and “stealing” (also a strong choice). I’d like to see her interaction with Letta reflect more of that emotional turmoil — or, conversely, I’d like to know that she’s struggling not to show Letta how strong her internal turmoil is. When you make the stakes higher, your readers see not just this one interaction, but also get a sense of the history of the relationship and the conflicting values of the characters.
I’ve had a lot of caffeine today (smile) so let me know if this doesn’t make sense, and I’ll clarify.
@Kelley and Dianne, Yes I know, I really need more self-esteem and such; Jo is trying to pummel that into me. I just feel better if someone thinks it’s shit to have them see the reasons. If that makes any sense at all… My mind is foggy with a mix of caffine and other substances.
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Quote
““Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it is raining, but the feeling of being rained upon. – E.L. Doctorow.
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