You Talk Too Much: Balancing Dialogue and Narrative

I’ve just returned from a trip home to Texas. I took with me plenty of pens and paper, books and ideas; once I touched down and hooked up with family I hadn’t seen in years, though, everything but the loving fell to the wayside.

So this Wednesday, I give you a re-post of an old post on a topic that never gets dull: dialogue versus narrative.

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I pride myself on being a quiet observer: in a church pew, during a staff meeting, behind a muffin and a steaming cup of coffee in a cafe. Most days, it takes me a long time to warm up to any conversation. But, stick me in front of my laptop (and smack-dab in the middle of rewriting a story) and suddenly I’m all talk.

At least, that’s what I’ve noticed lately with my work-in-progress. The early drafts of my novel were heavy in exposition and light in conversation. Now, I have a clearer vision of the plot, and I know my characters better. And, dialogue comes easy for me. The problem is that once the characters start talking, I let them go on and on. In rewriting another section last week, I noticed a whole page of chit chat. All that character banter started to tug at my writer’s gut, which suggested I should rethink my use of dialogue.

Beware: dialogue abuse.

g_fullxfull.36171Nathan Bransford posted on the Seven Keys to Writing Good Dialogue, in which he pin points one area of concern:

A good conversation is an escalationCharacters in a novel never just talk. There’s always more to it.

In all writing, each character, scene, and piece of dialogue must move the story forward. I practice that in my short stories and flash fiction. But, in this novel rewrite, much of the dialogue I’ve written just fills up space. Though realistic, it reads flat and doesn’t necessarily propel the story.

Janet Fitch (author of White Oleander) has her own post, entitled “A Few Thoughts About Dialogue,” where she carries this idea of flat conversation even further. She says, “Dialogue is only for conflict…You can’t heap all your expository business on it, the meet and greet, and all that yack…If someone’s just buying a donut, nobody needs to say anything.” Then, she throws in a quick example of unnecessary talk: in response to a character asking, Want a cup of coffee? she writes, “No. I don’t. Ever.”I’m guilty of that kind of dialogue: in the span of one chapter, my characters have discussed getting a cup of coffee or tea twice. That’s a lot of “coffee talk.”

But, careful with the exposition.

Sam McGarver, in his article, “10 Fiction Pitfalls,” (which appears in the May 2010 issue of The Writer) talks about too much weight on the other end of the writing scale: :

Entertainment today is visual—movies, television, the Internet, cell phones. To compete, fiction must also be visual, using scenes, action, description and dialogue to show a story, rather than narration to tell it. A story should consist of one scene following another, connected by narration.

I don’t want to nix half of the conversations in my novel just because I want to avoid too much talking, but I don’t want to go on and on with narrative and put readers to sleep.

So, what to do?

After reading Bransford, Fitch, and McCarver, I found three different techniques for balancing dialogue and narrative:

  • From McCarver’s article: Find a particularly long narrative section and see how it might be broken up into more of a scene with dialogue.
  • After reading Fitch’s post: Find a section in the story where the characters have a whole conversation, and then cross out the dialogue that is commonplace. Because, as Fitch says, “A line anybody could say is a line nobody should say.”
  • From Bransford’s post: If the dialogue does carry the story forward but still feels “thin,” look for places to add gestures, facial expressions, and/or any details from the scene that enhance that section. Bransford says, “gesture and action [are] not [used] to simply break up the dialogue for pacing purposes, but to actually make it meaningful….”

How do you balance your story with narrative and dialogue? Do you talk too much?

Photo credits: lovelornpoets on Flickr.com

Three Lessons for the Traveling Writer

Even though we knew we couldn’t get into the onsite events at AWP, Victoria Flynn and I went to Chicago last weekend anyway. We had a hotel. We had ambition. And, my goodness, we had a great time.

Lesson One: Whenever you can, take the train.

There’s something romantic about boarding the train, about climbing the narrow, metal stairs, suitcase in tow. About following the pull to your left and turning into a cabin full of rows and promise. You take your seat, gaze out the window, and float along with a landscape enveloped by the season. On this day, by a heavy snowstorm; the city streams by in a soft, white glow.

Quiet. Like a dream.

The conductor asks for your ticket. He punches twice, smiles once, nods and moves on. You take a picture to mark the moment.

Lesson Two: Whenever you can, take a friend.

Certain bits and pieces of life are best experienced in the presence of someone who puts you at ease, as you move through new spaces. Someone who’s traveling that same journey with you, who shares in your excitement about the future, about the things you want to do and the stories you want to write. Someone who looks you straight in the eye after you’ve said there’s no way you could apply for that two-week writing residency. Ever. Life would never allow for such extravagance, you say. To which she says, Maybe not right now. Reminding you that now isn’t the same as never.

Lesson Three: Whenever you can, take risks.

Say Yes to a late-night dessert. Order the gelato drizzled in salt and olive oil and find yourself saying, “Oh, my. Who knew.” Stay up until two-thirty in the morning, even though you know what “tired and over forty” feels like.

Soak up the fancy of a hotel you might never have visited before, except by the random choice of an online reservation site. A hotel dressed in straight lines and sharp angles and silver and lights and – somewhere in your room – hidden disco balls. A hotel with mirrored tiles that fracture your image and make you believe for a second that you really are living out a dream.

Make a list of all the things you will do this year, ignoring the committee in your mind that presses you with “impossible” and “come on!” and “who do you think you are?”

Write about “gasp-able moments”, sage advice learned from a writer friend’s young son.

And on the ride home, when you realize the train will travel backwards the whole way, sink into your seat and take in the irony of it all, how you’re being pulled out of the dream and back into the day. As if to say, Grab hold: of the energy, of the inspiration, of the call to take risks. Why not, you think. Here we are, only once, There’s no guarantee you’ll succeed just by trying, but there’s promise to fail if you don’t.

 

 

 

 

When Writing and Life Intersect: Hidden Treasures

A few months ago, I wrote a post about Peter Brown’s book, The Curious Garden — a story about a young boy who turns an abandoned piece of land into a place of beauty, creativity and community. If you read the Author’s Note in the back of Brown’s book, he talks about the inspiration for his story: The High Line, and old rail line that was used to carry freight trains above Manhattan.

I don’t know which came first, Brown’s book or the High Line Park. Either way, both are beautiful.

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From The Morning News: “…[T]he beauty of the High Line lies in the evidence that, even in Manhattan, plants can and do just take root and grow. Coneflower, lamb’s ears, onion grass, and clover. “

I’ve been to New York City once, years ago. If I ever get back there again (especially in the summer), you’ll know where to find me.

Will you use the faith you’ve found to re-shape the world around?
(from the hymn, Will You Come and Follow Me)

What’s hidden in your city?

photo credits: “high line” by apasciuto on Flickr; in the trees by Barry Munger (via The High Line website image gallery)