THE DETAILS ARE IN THE DIALOGUE

By El Ochiis

When critics read my writing, they comment that it reads like a television or movie script.  Both genres use dialogue judiciously. What’s most interesting is that I didn’t have a television growing up – I did have an imagination that produced a lot of imaginary characters.  Though conversations between people appear to be a natural to me, I still rely on some key tools to write good dialogue:

1. Keep characters completely unenlightened

One book that every writer of fiction should read is Michael Shurtleff’s Audition. His advice equally applies to actors and writers.  Shurtleff observed that actors often play a scene as if they know the scene’s ending beforehand. For example, at the climax of one particular scene of a Tennessee Williams’ play, an insane person puts out a cigarette in the palm of the hand of the nurse who’s trying to help her.  But the nurse, according to Shurtleff, wrongly played the whole scene as if she didn’t like the patient.  Shurtleff told the actress: “If you treat the patient really nicely and kindly throughout the scene, and you show the audience you like her, and you’re trying to help her, it’s a thousand times more powerful if she then turns around and puts that cigarette out in your palm.”  That makes a lot of sense.  If you know the how the scene will end before you start to write it, don’t let your character act and speak as if they know where it’s going.  Preserve surprise and the scene will be much more efficacious.

         2. Become the Character

Amy Tan stated that her when she wrote dialogue, her technique was to stare at her shoes until she suddenly became the character.  I use a version of this; I pretend to be each of my characters whilst I drive – this is tricky because I wouldn’t want to be in the character of my villain when I order tea at Starbucks.

         3. Leave Transcripts for Court Reporters

Superb dialogue sometimes just happens, but most often, we have to sit there for a long time until we get exactly the right words we want.   At an audition, a director told me he’d deduct a hundred dollars from actors’ pay for each word they uttered that was not in the script.  As a writer, you aren’t in charge of getting down every single word the characters might say – you just have to report the dialogue that’s most important to the story.

         4. Make Every Word Count – Like You’re Being Charged for Them

Here’s the dialogue on the first page of Amy Tan’s Joy Luck Club:

[Mother:] “Auntie Lin cooked red bean soup for Joy Luck. I’m going to cook black bean sesame soup.”

[Daughter:] “Don’t show off.”

The daughter’s three little words tell us a lot about both characters:  1) the mother was trying to one-up Auntie Lin; 2) the relationship between mother and daughter is combative; and, 3) the nature of the daughter who’s hard - she isn’t always nice.  So, when the mother comes back with this retort: “It’s not showoff.”  We know the mother is hurt, we also know that the spelling means the speaker’s first language is not English – “showoff” instead of “show off”.  Use dialogue to provide the evidence of who your characters are and let the reader draw the conclusion.

         5. Read Your Dialogue Aloud, into a Tape Recorder

When you speak your own dialogue, you suddenly know which lines need attention and which lines are fine.

 

BREAKING WRITER’S BLOCK

By Sharon May

Writer’s block is one’s inability to move to the next phase of the process. The writer is stuck. Is it a mental or emotional problem? Really doesn’t matter unless we believe deep analysis will fix it. By the way, it may help but it won’t cure us. Actions help us break though the block. 

Remember that job you hated? Did you ever get blocked while at work and unable to perform the next action regardless of what was going on in your mind? Probably not. We turn on auto-pilot and do our best. 

Auto-pilot and acting as a writer break a block. If you have a writing routine, you need to follow it, and if not, create one, at least temporarily. Routines are important because they train us to respond in a certain way. In this case, we start to write despite ourselves. 

Whether I produce words or not on a given day, I follow my routine. Hygiene, breakfast, set goals over a glass of unsweetened tea, go to the office, sit at the computer, and type. Something. It really doesn’t matter what during the first few attempts to break through to good writing. Just keep writing. If you can’t write at that moment, maybe it’s time to organize your pens. Any mindless task will help prepare for writing. 

Most writers try to avoid writing when they are blocked. That’s like trying to learn how to play the drums without ever touching the drums. Others wait on the muse to provide them with magical writing that doesn’t require revision, editing, or the hard work required for good writing. We all need and have a writer’s toolbox to rely on when the muse isn’t cooperating. The tools writers use include everything from reading to writing exercises to brainstorming with other writers. 

The longer writer’s block goes the more writers doubt their talent. This is when we need to separate skill from talent, and focus on practicing skills as you draft. Apply your talent in revision and editing. 

When stuck, writers want it to be a linear process. At times we have to think in other geometric forms – circles and spirals are good. Draft a character study. Plot out the end though you are miles away from it. Such plans are not set in stone. They are goals. Sometimes they get replaced by better plans along the way to the end. 

A key to overcoming a block is accepting what words do come. Maybe it’s an idea for a new story, not the novel you have been working on for years. Don’t fear, taking a respite from a project is good, giving the mind time to incubate and resolve issues. You will be re-energized to come back to the earlier project. 

The worst idea for curing writer’s block is to stop writing. Sometimes you have to spew garbage to purge the system. A block can lead to renewal if you don’t let it destroy you.  

 

 

NOT a FLASH in the PAN

By Raegan Teller

The first time I read flash fiction, I immediately thought of my much-older brother, who was a professional photographer. When I was a young child, I watched him take shots with a large camera that used a flash bulb. It would light up the room and capture a brief, but meaningful, moment in time. That’s how I view flash fiction.

In recent years, short-short stories have been called micro fiction, sudden fiction, and other names. James Thomas titled his 1992 anthology, Flash Fiction: 72 Very Short Stories, because his editor said his stories were flash fiction that would fit on two facing pages of a literary magazine. Thomas is thus credited with the term that later became accepted usage. Of course, the form itself existed long before then. Ernest Hemingway’s famous six-word story, “For sale: baby shoes, never worn,” was written in the 1920s on a dare to pen a story using as few words as possible. He insisted that using the minimum number of words was the way to achieve maximum effect.

Today’s flash fiction is typically 1000 words or less, although some say 1500 or even 2000 words is the cap. Flash fiction is having a moment now, so mediocre flash fiction abounds. Excellent flash fiction is scarcer because it’s difficult to write. As in poetry, every word must pull its load. Edgar Allan Poe said, “A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build toward it.” This is particularly true of flash fiction. An English professor once told me that the most important decision you’ll make writing short stories is where to begin. The literature technique “in medias res,” meaning to start in the middle of the action, is particularly relevant to flash fiction. You must also become comfortable with leaving things out. What you don’t say can be more powerful than what you do say. This approach engages readers to use their own imagination to fill in the gaps and is part of the appeal of flash fiction.

The discipline and skill required to write flash fiction is great training for new and experienced writers. George R. R. Martin, author of the Song of Ice and Fire series, recommends all writers begin with short fiction rather than jumping into a novel-length project.

Somehow, I missed Martin’s advice and began my fiction career writing mystery novels, although I did write a decent number of short stories in college. However, in the past few years, as a challenge to myself, I’ve been writing short stories and flash fiction to hone my skills. I can attest to the fact that writing in this brief format is a great way to learn or improve your craft.

Another plus for flash fiction is that it sells, although you probably won’t get rich. Keep in mind that your primary goal should be to build your writer’s brand and to showcase your skills with this unique form of storytelling that’s here to stay—not a flash in the pan.

 

CRITICISMS THAT HAVE HELPED ME

 

By Bonnie Stanard

It’s been said that Virginia Wolfe couldn’t write a bad sentence. Good for her, but I’m talking about me and my writing. When I began to write, I eagerly showed up at workshop with expectations of glory. I was so pleased with what I had written that I expected praise. Needless to say, I was in for a rude awakening. Didn’t understand it? Vague? Confusing?

I left the workshop thinking my poem only needed to be understood, not improved. I took criticism as the fault of the critic. After I got to know the work of other writers in the workshop, it became obvious that I was a weed (and a green one at that) in a flower patch.

Not to give workshops all the credit, I’ve learned the importance of interpreting criticisms. Obviously you can’t and shouldn’t take to heart every suggestion in revising your work. At the same time that I listen to criticisms, I filter them. Therein lies the challenge of figuring out if you need to defend or rethink something you’ve written.

A good critique is honest and respectful. I like to think I can take even the most damaging comment as long as I believe the critic is trying to help me and in general has respect for my work.

 HELPFUL CRITICISM

Most importantly, it will address specific passages or words. I listen to these:

— Doesn’t ring true

— Repetitious

— Lacks suspense or lags

— Discrepancy in character or time or plot

— Derivative, unoriginal (been done before)

— Weak construction (passive voice/cliché/wordy)

 

UNHELPFUL CRITICISM

I do not want to provide a guide for responses. That’s why questions to me about the work I’ve submitted are unhelpful. I’m not in workshop to explain what I’ve written. I’m there to get reactions. These comments may be honestly delivered, but how will they help me improve my writing?

— Questions about my motive for writing it

— Generalities like “slow,” or “great!”

— Weak/poor concept

— Suggestions about how to fix it (don’t assume I’m going to)

“Just don’t get it” is unhelpful if referencing a story or poem, but it can be helpful if said about a sentence.

Worse than unhelpful criticism is no criticism. If the room falls silent after I’ve read, I have to think my work has generated so little interest nobody cares enough to find fault with it.

If you go home at the end of workshop thinking your writing needs no improvement, maybe you’re a Virginia Wolfe. Or maybe you weren’t listening. Or maybe the criticisms were weak. Some people think it’s kind to say only good things in workshop without realizing they’re doing their fellow writers a disservice. Some criticisms that have upset me in workshop have turned out to be good advice once I’ve had time to think about them.

I’m not inviting my fellow writers to take shots at my work at the next workshop, but I look forward to being there and to hearing what they have to say about whatever I’ve written.