Say It, Don't Spray It

by Rachael Phillips

Playground culture in my childhood corner of the world taught me numerous new words and phrases. I learned to say “ain’t and “crik” (as in “the crik don’t rise”). We cursed each other with cooties. Talkative schoolmates with overactive salivary glands or tissueless sneezes were ordered to “say it, don’t spray it!”

 

The last memory induces me to towel off with disinfectant wipes. However, weighty literary observations can be salvaged even from such barbarisms.

I refer to the manner in which we writers assign actions, or "beats" to characters during dialogue. We do this for valid reasons: a) to inform readers of who is speaking without using the dreaded tag “she said.” b) to make readers aware of the setting and the characters’ relationship to it; c) to build emotion, especially tension, as characters act out inner thoughts and feelings; and, most important, d) to make editors happy.

They will not be happy, however, if we overuse certain expressions, spraying readers with repeated hydrant blasts of “her cheeks heated,” “he raised his eyebrows,” “she stared,” “he glared,” and “the corners of her mouth turned down.” (Do mouths have corners?)

On the other hand, writers may work too hard to avoid the mundane and instead, pelt readers with action. Upon reading a scene, including my own, I sometimes wonder if the characters would benefit from large doses of medication. They pace, sit, rise, turn, weep, babble, wheeze, sneeze and snort within the first three sentences.

Extreme efforts to produce original work may also prove self-defeating, as in “Rosalinda’s pink smile decayed into a slimy sneer.” (Eww. We need more wipes.)     

“He said” sounds positively elegant, right? It is—and so are beats, blended smoothly and sparingly into sections of dialogue. Some spoken lines may not even require identification. A carefully crafted conversation’s content will often point out who is saying/doing what without a sloppy spray of language that makes the reader want to duck.

Any say-it-don’t-spray-it advice you would care to offer? (And, by the way, has anyone ever discovered a cure for cooties?)

Gift of Gab or Dialogic Flab?

by Rachael Phillips

 Like all good little fiction writers, we attend conferences, classes, and webinars that forbid us to pad the narrative in our novels. Books and articles, too, shake a finger in our faces and demand that we keep our descriptions lean, clean, and healthy, with only a small dollop of adjectives to sweeten our offerings.

 With all the caloric concern about narrative, I’ve heard little about indulging in too much dialogue.

 Except from my critique partner. She pinpointed several scenes in my current novel—consisting mostly of dialogue—that she believed served no purpose.

I had to admit I encouraged my characters to talk because I like to talk. We find each other fascinating conversationalists. My partner, less than mesmerized, insisted our dialogue should further the plot.

But that wasn’t all. She said my last novel’s epilogue needed to shed some pounds. Half its weight, actually.

She was kidding, right? I agreed that I’d set the action in three different scenes—too many for an epilogue. But I’d crafted those last encounters between my characters to summarize the camaraderie they’d experienced in my novel. I’d put rich words into their mouths that readers would roll on their tongues for days afterward.      

My partner complimented me on my wordsmithing. But she still suggested I trim down the exchanges: “Seems like you’re taking awhile to wind it up, like you don’t want to let go of the characters.”

Tell me, what right does a critique partner have to be right?

After spending survival camp with my characters for months, huddling at 4:30 a.m., interviewing them, arguing with them, clobbering them, and rescuing them, I wanted to coffee klatch with my buds one last time. So the dialogue ran on . . . and on . . . and on . . . .

Meanwhile, the future reader would no doubt give up on the book, give in to weighty subliminal suggestions, and head for the refrigerator.

How about you? Have you ever had to put your dialogue on a diet?

Conversations That Matter

Diplomats like to use code phrases to describe what transpires in conversations behind closed doors. Examples:

“There was a candid exchange of views.” Meaning: We made no progress at all. Each side staked out its position and stacked sandbags around it.

“The talks were businesslike.” Meaning: We made a good beginning. Both sides put their demands on the table, agreed on an agenda to deal with them, and may have reached agreement on a few minor points.

“The meeting was cut short.” Meaning: We should have stayed at home. Our counterparts threw angry words (and perhaps a few shoes) at us, then stormed out of the room.

“An announcement is forthcoming.” Meaning: We’ve agreed on something rather significant. In fact, this might be one for the history books.

Thoughtful readers can discern in these communiqués whether a summit meeting made real progress or was just another stalemated “exchange of views.” So can the readers of your story dialogue.

Ask yourself these questions about each significant conversation in your narrative:

Do my characters simply state or restate their positions, or do they begin to change positions? Do they reveal their emotions or speak with cool detachment? Do they give the reader any clues about what will happen next? In fact, does their conversation advance the plot at all?

 Of course, you won’t be able to answer any of these questions if you have no significant conversations in your story, but that raises a bigger question: Why aren’t there?

Joe Allison and his wife Judy live in Anderson, IN. Joe is writing the second in a trilogy of historical novels set during the Great Depression.