Writing dialogue

I was reading a great book recently and I came across the phrase – “I knew him at school.” X bared his teeth. . . .

Now, the average teenage girl would probably not be struck by the originality of this phrase but, as this book (like most books I read) was not about werewolves or vampires, I was. (It was actually a story about two couples wanting to raise the same child, just to put the ‘teeth’ into context).  It told me everything I needed to know about how the charater felt regarding the person he was talking about.  The problem was, I then read the same phrase (or a variation, ‘he said through bared teeth’) four more times and it rather lost its impact.  That’s not a criticism of the book.  Had I ever used the phrase myself I probably would not have noticed it once, let alone five times.  However, it did bring home the ‘less is more’ truth regarding writing.  When you find a powerful set of words keep them for the right occassion – and, if possible, use them only once.

On the other hand:

“I’m bored,” he said. 

“So am I,” she said.

“Stop talking about being bored, please,” they said . . .  yawn.

At some point in every writing course I would set my students this challenge: write a decent length dialogue avoiding the – often boring – word ‘said’ altogether.  See how many alternative words you can find – minimum of a dozen.  Afterwards, go back and see if ‘said’ would actually be better in any instance – with an interesting adverb to cheer it up.  Limit of ‘saids’ is two!

If you feel like having a go, post your favourite line of dialogue with your ‘alternative to said’ word, and also one of your chosen adverbs to accompany ‘said’ or a ‘said’ alternative here.  There’s a virtual ‘high five’ as a prize to the best submission (or even a virtual hug).

There’s a bonus for body language that negates the need for a ‘speaking’ word altogether.

They went through to the study where Masgor signalled to his pupil to be seated before excusing himself briefly.  Fabiom took out and opened the history he had been studying, Chronicles of Lincius, Prince of Morene.

“Did you enjoy it?” Masgor, returning, inquired.  Fabiom grimaced.  “Not too well,” Masgor guessed.  “Nevertheless it is instructive.  No?”

“Yes,” Fabiom agreed, wondering if the moment had come to broach the matter on his mind yet not able to judge Masgor’s mood well enough.

“You have a question,” the tutor guessed.  “Out with it, lad!”

Fabiom grinned, his earlier discomfiture forgotten.  “I do,” he admitted, “about Lincius’s wife.  She was a Silvana.  Ever young, ever lovely.  Was she happy, do you think?  Were they happy?”

Masgor rubbed his chin and regarded his pupil sternly.  “You are rather young to be considering marriage, Fabiom.”

“I said nothing of the sort,” Fabiom protested.  “Though I am coming to an age when I might. . . .”

“Sixteen,” Masgor nodded.  “Tell me then: Why do you ask, if not for your own sake?  It is hardly a question pertinent to the study of politics or history.”

  “It’s not important,” Fabiom muttered.  “I just wondered.”

Something in his voice made Masgor relent.  “I should imagine that they were happy enough.  I have rarely heard of a man who won a Tree Lady for bride who was not happy.  As for the Silvanii themselves, it seems to be their nature to be cheerful for the most part; if you exclude those who haunt yew trees and the like.”

Fabiom shivered involuntarily, “Yes, we will exclude those.”

“Yet I would not have you getting ideas,” Masgor continued, “for every man who wins such a wife there are three destroyed in the attempt.  If you have studied the first chapters of the Chronicles properly, Prince Lincius’s early exploits should have led you to expect that he would make the attempt; his talents and his charisma made it unsurprising that he should succeed.  He was a quite extraordinary individual.”

“I know,” Fabiom agreed quietly.  “That I know.”

From Silvana - book 1- The Greening

A big Thank You to Mizz Winkens at Green jam jar (http://greenjamjar.com/) for nominating Bronwen's Dowry for the Kreativ Blogger Award.  If that doesn't inspire me to be creative, what will?  Actually, it has to be said that the very talented lady behind Green jam jar has always inspired me to be creative, so many thanks - not just for the nomination x

Now for the fun part - I have to pass it forward.  Oh, decisions, decisions.

Character development is one of my favourite aspects of writing.  Characters should not exist merely to move a story along.  As a writer, you are going to spend a lot of time in these people’s company so you owe it to yourself as well as your readers to make them interesting.

It is not always easy to write knowing that what you are writing is not intended for inclusion in your finished work.  It almost seems a ‘waste’ of effort – as if every word that flows from our pens (or, more likely these days, is keyed into our computers) is of such value it must be shared with the whole world.  However, I would urge every would-be or improving author (in other words, everyone) to word-sketch, as a painter might sketch, in order to learn as much as you can about each and every character you create before you commit them to the final draft.

If four of your characters were having a conversation, could you tell who was speaking without identifying them by name?  In other words, does each have their own voice?  That might include different use of language as well as a unique point of view.

Test this out – write a dialogue about anything (this is just for you, remember).  Let them speak.  You might find one of them says something that can be incorporated into your story that you had not previously thought of.

Similarly, write a letter or a diary entry for several characters.  Write a shopping list, or what they might pack in a suitcase if they were going on holiday.  What would each one save if their home was on fire?  Why?

Incidentally, these are great exercises to do if you ever feel the dreaded ‘writer’s block’ coming on.  They free your mind and lead you away from worrying about where your story is going and you will, as often as not, suddenly write something that is the solution to whatever has been blocking you and off you will go again.

More basic but just as important, make sure you have a written physical description of each character.  If you have more than half a dozen in your story it is very easy to get muddled as to who has a beard and who is tall and who has twisted their ankle and who has a new tattoo.  I simply copy and paste any interesting comment I make about a character into a special file and then I have a complete record for future reference.  It also means that if I decide to change something I can find it easily.  Trust me, these sorts of thing really save time in the long run and you can see at a glance whose character might need fleshing out or how one might be the ideal person for a particular role or who might end up romantically involved with another character, and so on.

In Silvana, I was faced with the problem of having two major characters with similar physical characteristics, backgrounds and social position, of the same age, with the same dream who had to be very much ‘themselves’.  Fabiom and Lesandor – father and son – at age sixteen both dream of winning a Silvana as a wife; both are excellent archers; both love the wildwood; both are only sons being trained to inherit the Holdership of Deepvale, and so on.  I think it was this challenge that made me realise just how essential proper character building is.  And how satisfying it can be.

One of the key techniques is to use what are known as ‘hooks’.  These are special characteristics – to do with any aspect of a person – which helps make them stand apart from others.  So, for example, Fabiom loves poetry – both to read and to write:

Nalio was genuinely shocked.  “No one in Morene could be behind something like that.  It’s bad enough that a local trader was involved at all.  Selling amber, maybe.  Collecting it!  Never.”  He actually shuddered at the thought.

“Their tears flow like gold, from a well of deep sorrow.  

Our own are mere water, and dried are forgotten, 

While tears of gold linger and last and endure, 

Forever and then one day more and one more.”

Nalio snorted derisively.  “Well, it’s good to know Deepvale is in capable hands.  The heir to the Holding can quote at length from the most obscure poetry.  But, can he remember the date of the last uprising in Gerik, or the name of the last Gerish ambassador to Morene?  No, he cannot.”

“Yes, he can,” Fabiom muttered darkly.  “After yesterday, and the rollicking I got from Masgor, those two facts are inscribed on my mind for all time, believe me.”

“Daydreaming again, Fabiom!” Nalio mimicked their tutor perfectly.  He flung his arm around Fabiom’s shoulders, “Never mind, you only got a rap across the knuckles.  Our friend in today’s trial had his silk trading licence revoked, so he’s lost his livelihood, and he was fined and the court imposed two years extra Service on him.  Hard service at that.”

“Tarison made an example of him then.  Good.  It’s only a pity there are no marble quarries in Deepvale, as there are in some of the other Holdings,” Fabiom mused regretfully.

“Oh ho!” Nalio stepped away from him.  “I’ll have to watch myself.  You’re bound to be made a magistrate as soon as you’ve done your official Service, if not before.”

Fabiom shrugged.  “There are no guarantees.  It depends on whether I impress the Assembly with my knowledge of poetry, or appal them with my historical inexactitudes.  Anyway, what are you planning to do that will land you before the court?  Poison any of your patients who don’t pay you promptly?”

from Silvana - Book 1 - The Greening

Lesandor walked in Deepvale’s woods with Fabiom, revelling in the simple pleasure of being home.  Autumn had come late that year and the leaves were only just turning, soft golds and reds among the green.  The afternoon was warm and the breezes wafted delicate scents towards them.

“I used to take all this for granted,” Lesandor sighed.

“I too, when I was your age,” Fabiom chuckled.  “There’s nothing like a year away from home to make you appreciate what has been around you all the time.”  He plucked a sprig of honeysuckle laden with purple berries and studied it closely.  “Every single blade of grass, every flower, is unique and yet the whole never seems to change.”

Lesandor smiled at that, remembering Masgor complaining only that morning, “Your father still thinks like a poet rather than a politician.”  His old eyes shining with delight nevertheless.  

from Silvana - Book 2 - Midsummer

Petron did not believe Lesandor had saved his life.  But what he believed would not be held in much account if the matter ever came before a tribunal.  He knew he would have to tread carefully.  

In the days that followed, thinking to humour Lesandor, Petron asked him about the Silvanii, bemoaning his lack of knowledge and listening with interest to whatever Lesandor would tell him.  Not that he learnt over much.  Although Lesandor answered all of his questions he volunteered little besides.  Nevertheless, Petron was genuinely impressed.  He even read an old copy of The Chronicles of Lincius, Prince of Morene that Lesandor had found in the bottom of an old chest hidden away in a storage room.  In the chest had been many other books, including a copy of Fabiom’s first published collection of poetry.  The books had since been removed and now were all safely in the small study Yasdon had given Lesandor for his own use.

from Silvana - Book 3 - The Turning

“The historian Jerynn was right, Silvanan blood he called it.  Poetry is all very well but tears that are spilled can be dried.  Blood is another matter.”  Fabiom toyed with the amber paperweight on Ravik’s desk then replaced it carefully, holding out his hands palms upwards as he turned to face the prince.  “And my hands are dripping with it.  It will not wash away.”  

from Silvana - Book 3 - The Turning

Silvana - prologue (final part)

In the morning he had no trouble finding the Dancing Glade, he simply followed the rippling laughter of the woodmaids.  His father was already there.  

Tawr wept with relief as he scooped his son into his arms and hugged him tight against his chest.

“I should be very cross with you,” Deepvale’s Lord Holder whispered fiercely.

“They frightened me,” Fabiom explained, big blue eyes filling with tears.  “Have they gone away yet?”

“Whatever frightened you is gone, I’m sure,” Tawr muttered reassuringly, distressed that anything in the woods should have scared the boy.

“Back to Windwood?” Fabiom persisted.

Tawr let him down to the ground and then knelt before him so that their faces were level.  “Nimo and Khime.  Is that who scared you, Fabiom?”

Fabiom nodded.

Tawr’s brow creased, his jaw tightened, then he brushed his hand over his son’s dark curls and grinned.  “Don’t you worry about them.  I think a day cleaning out silk worm trays should keep them from any more mischief, don’t you?”

Fabiom laughed as his father stood and swung him up onto his shoulders.  “Smelly silk worms,” he chortled.  

And laughter, like leaves in the wind, echoed him.

Writing Hint # 2

Write what you know.  Every writer has heard the saying.  But what does it really mean?  Obviously if you’re writing non-fiction it needs to be taken literally.  But what about fiction writers?  

Bronwen’s Dowry was about a journeyman shearer and his seamstress wife travelling the land, scratching a living while he dreamt of winning a music contest.  Now I don’t pretend be be musical or any good at sewing and, at the time I wrote the story, I had had little hands-on experience with sheep. So what did I know that made me feel that this was my story to write?

Well, firstly, Bronwen’s Dowry is, on one level, a retelling of the Parable of the Talents.  Bronwen has a gift, a talent, that she uses to the best of her ability and it yields many-fold. I am a theologian and, furthermore, that parable – encouraging everyone to realise their full potential –  is my favourite. Secondly, I did actually know a little about shearing, just enough to make the story believable: for instance, I knew that, unlike many outdoor workers, shearers have very soft hands, because of the lanolin in sheep wool.  A simple fact like that can make the difference between bringing readers along with you, or losing them.

Of course, Bronwen’s Dowry was a short story (albeit a long, short story). So when I wrote Silvana, which has far more detail, I needed a lot more knowledge to draw from.  Fabiom is an archer, a poet, a magistrate and the somewhat reluctant owner of a silk mill.  His best friend is a physician who uses a wide range of herbs. The story is set in the woods and the trees and other life there play a huge part in the story. I am not an expert in most of these subjects either. Yet I do know some things. Fabiom is an archer and not a swordsman because I know nothing about swords – how they are made, how they are used – but I do know how to shoot an arrow from a longbow and I know how a wooden bow is constructed. And so on. The details in the book are things I have a keen interest in and some, even if limited, experience of.

My advice to any beginner-writer is to compose a list of ‘What you Know’: every temporary job; every adventure or misadventure you have had; every situation you have encountered that has impacted on your life in any way; any time you have stepped outside your comfort zone; every incident that you thought noteworthy enough to share with friends after the event – if you have ever said, ‘you’ll never guess what happened to me. . . .’ then whatever that was should go on the list. So should the funniest, saddest, most embarrassing things that ever happened. And don’t stop at yourself – if you live with someone who is always regaling you with stories of their working life then you probably know enough about that to set one of your characters up in the same line of work and make it seem real. You will be surprised at how long the list will be, unless you have spent your life in a cave or are under five years old. And don’t just think about it, do actually write this list. The exercise of itself will be inspiring. I defy anyone not to come up with at least 250 entries.

/ SILVANA \  prologue (continued)

A tawny owl drifted past on silent wings.  Fabiom smiled, despite his predicament.  He was not really afraid of the woods, even in the dark.  There was nothing about the wildwood of Deepvale he did not love, except perhaps the nettles, he decided, as he rubbed his elbow with plantain leaves.  The brambles he forgave, despite the damage they had inflicted on  him.  Soon he would be able to enjoy their sweet berries; that was worth a few scratches.

‘Fabiom –’

The crushed leaves fell from his hand.

‘Fabiom –’

The voice was enticing, sweet and kind.  Leading him away from the path, over grassy hillocks and through dense bracken.

‘Fabiom –’

He followed without hesitation, until he came out into a small grove of well spaced ash trees.  Between the trees, the gently undulating ground was sprinkled with violets and anemones growing in profusion.  

Though he was uncertain whether he had really heard the voice calling his name, or had just imagined it, Fabiom had no doubt that the giggling he heard now was real enough.  His mother had told him stories of the merry and mischievous woodmaids, denizens of holly and hazel, whitethorn and rowan and other small trees of the wildwood.  

And they had led him here. . . .

Awed, he stood staring at the ash trees towering above him.  They had to be Silvanan.  Why else would there be woodmaids here?

“I would have brought some flowers, if I’d known,” he whispered.

Laughter like dry leaves in the breeze greeted his words.  Fabiom paid the woodmaids no heed.  He would be safe here, that was certain; and the roots of one of the huge trees formed a circle, like arms, where he could sleep.  He was hungry and sore, but most of all he was tired.  With a whispered word of thanks to the Silvana of his tree, he curled up in the woody hollow and fell asleep almost at once.

Dreams came in the night.  He was in a dark, tight space, not even sure which way was up.  There was no way out.  His body jerked and he cried out.  Suddenly he was out of the basket and running, but they were chasing him and they were catching up, trying to put the basket over his head again.  He glanced over his shoulder as he fled.  They had heads like wild pigs, with tusks and fierce red eyes and through their piggy mouths, with squeals and grunts, they called his name.  A branch lay across his path, too late he saw it and tripped.  Triumphant squealing bore down upon him. . . .  And then silence.

He had not heard her sing to him but suddenly only soft and gentle sleep was his.  And the song remained in his mind – for the rest of his life.

/ SILVANA \  prologue (continued)

“Nimo, you idiot!  You scared him.  We could have grabbed him while he was on his knees.  Now we’ll never find him.”

“I don’t know what you’re fussing about, Khime.  He’ll go home soon enough.  It’s getting dark.  He’s not going to want to stay here much longer.”  Nimo, fourteen and the older of the two brothers by almost two years, looked around and shuddered.  “I certainly don’t.”

“Oh, right.  So we just go back and tell Lord Tawr that his four year old son is lost somewhere in the middle of the wildwood.  But we’re sure he’ll come home soon?”

For a moment Nimo poked distractedly at a hole in a tree with a stick, then he grinned.  “Not quite.  We’ll tell him that Fabiom said he wanted to show us something deep in the woods and then he ran off and left us to find our own way back - that’s why we’re so late.  We’ll be all surprised that he isn’t already home, laughing at us.”

“We might get away with it, if he doesn’t decide to tell Tawr or Vida what really happened,”  Khime snorted.  “He’s such a pathetic little mouse.”

“Yes he is, isn’t he?” Nimo guffawed.  “It was so funny when you put him in that basket and put the lid on it and he couldn’t work out how to open it again.”  He threw his stick at a chaffinch above his head, and missed.  “Maybe we shouldn’t have sent him into that gully to pick strawberries and then pretended to be wild pigs coming to get him though.”

He looked at his brother for a long moment until the two of them doubled up with laughter.

“Oh, yes, we should!” Khime spluttered.  “Whatever Herbis does to us for it, it’ll have been worth it just to have seen the look on Fabiom’s face.”

Fabiom stopped running.  Short, useless breaths were burning his throat while his chest longed for air.  Blood was oozing from his knee where he had tripped over a root and had fallen, hard, onto a stone.  He wanted his mother, but he would not go home, not while Lord Herbis and his two horrid brothers were still there.  

Fabiom had not wanted to play with them.  But when Herbis asked Fabiom’s parents to show him around Deepvale’s silk mills, the two boys offered to look after him while the adults went off.  They promised to take good care of him.

“Watch that he stays in the garden,” Tawr had warned them.  “He’s a terror for going off into the woods on his own. . . .” 

At four, Fabiom was far too young to recognise the look of malicious glee that had passed between the brothers at that moment.

“Ooh, Fabiom.  You mustn’t go into the woods.  A Silvana might see you.  Out she’d come from her tree and swallow you up!” Nimo tried, as soon as the adults were out of hearing.

Fabiom laughed.  “Silvanii don’t swallow people,” he told the older boy disdainfully.

“Her roots and branches would wind around you though, and you’d be trapped, stuck fast in her tree, deep in the woods, where no one could hear you cry for help,”  Khime elaborated.

Fabiom giggled at that.  “Don’t you know anything about the Silvanii?” he asked.  “They won’t hurt you unless you hurt them.  They’re nice.  They sing and they dance.”

“And they take your mind and you go mad, mad, mad!”  Khime looked at the little boy, who was still laughing.  “D’you know where they dance, Fabiom?  Bet you don’t.  Bet you’d be too scared to go there even if you did.”

“No I would not.”  Fabiom smiled innocently.  He would not tell them that he knew exactly where the Silvanii danced.  That was his secret; his and Tawr’s.  Not even his mother knew he had persuaded that information from his father.

Earlier that summer, after days of pleading, Tawr had finally brought him to the Dancing Glade.  Twice since then he had gone there on his own, despite strict instructions about staying in the garden.  It was easy to find, once you knew the way.  So how had he got lost?  All he had to do was follow the stream and he was bound to arrive at the Dancing Glade.  How had he lost the stream?

The unending canopy no longer seemed so friendly.  It really did seem as if it went on and on, that there was nothing else in the world besides.  He sniffed loudly.  Somewhere near here there was a wide grassy glade, encircled by trees, with a stream running through.  It did exist, just as his father’s House existed and Deepvale and all the towns and villages and Holdings beyond existed.  

Standing there, lost in the evening gloom, surrounded by towering trees, he was not entirely sure that was true.

Branches arced over Fabiom’s head and the branches of each tree grasped those of the next to form an unbroken canopy that went on - forever.  Wildwood.  That was the entire world.  Unbroken, unending, safe.

Here he was safe.

The last light of day gilded the leaves of autumns past so that he trod a golden path between the burnished trunks of ash and elm that supported the living canopy above him.

He was not going home.

Evening chorus rang out from amid the branches as the daytime birds of the wildwood prepared for the night, calling their final farewell to the sun and a warning to their neighbours that all territorial disputes were merely on hold and would be resumed at first light.

The boy tried to impersonate the chaffinch, as his Uncle Tarison had taught him, “chip chip chip, cherry-erry-erry.”  And the stream running alongside the path chuckled and gurgled as if in amusement at his efforts. 

The stream could laugh at him, he did not object to that.

As he got down on his knees to take a drink a shrill voice shattered the tranquillity of the woods, silencing the birds. 

“I see him!  I see him!”

Fabiom took one, startled, look, scrambled to his feet and ran as fast as he could, regardless of the briars that tore at his clothes and his skin or the nettles that burnt him as he hurried past.  He knew where he was going, where he would be really safe. 

SILVANA - prologue

The first draft of Silvana was some 34,000 words.  It began with the sixteen year old Fabiom’s decision to risk his life, or his sanity, by attempting to win a wife from among the Silvanii – the tree spirits that dwell in the wildwoods near his homeplace – and ended with his death, many years later; favourite of the Ruling Prince and father of Lesandor and Elzandria.  The final draft is 40,000 more than the original – and that’s only Part 1.  In proper fantasy style, Silvana is now a trilogy.  

Silvana grew slowly, over a number of years.  The better I got to know the characters and the world they inhabited, the more pieces of the story came to light.  However, the original story remained unchanged.  It feels like history, not fiction; I can’t change it, even if I wanted to.  About half-way through, Lesandor, whom I have watched grow up on the pages before me, is distraught: terrible things have befallen him.  I can’t read it without wanting to cry.  Every now and again I say, ‘I must save him from this, he doesn’t have to endure it,’ and then I stop myself at the last moment because what I have written, what I am reading is what really happened.  Having reached that stage I know the time had come to stop creating and let the story loose.

It wasn’t difficult to grow the story from novella to full-length trilogy.  There were incidents crying out for explanation or elaboration; there were characters who deserved more of their own stories to be told, there were places that needed to be explored.

There’s a prologue now that didn’t exist before – the story of how the four year old Fabiom found Casandrina’s tree for the first time.  That incident was referred to in the original but only in passing; so too the trip Fabiom and Prince Ravik made to Varlass where the prince meets his bride-to-be.  Fabiom’s favourite book, Tales of a Woodsman, no longer simply exists as a title but is quoted quite extensively (and writing a book to appear within a book is an interesting exercise in its own right.  It is essential that it has its own voice.)

I could have gone on . . .  and on.  Somewhere, somehow, you’ve got to call a halt.  The story spans a lifetime, 600 pages hardly begins to scratch the surface!