Viewing this from a slightly different angle, one of the most telling, most cuttingly precise critiques of another writer’s work that I have ever heard was delivered by a fellow writer/producer as his reason for not hiring a particular freelancer: “All of his characters say exactly what’s on their minds.”
There is a genuine, resonant lesson in that comment, one that I keep near the top of my self-editing list. And significantly, the writer about whom it was said had a very abbreviated career. The rest of his stuff — from story-structure to scene description — was as on-the-nose as the dialogue he wrote.
Which is another way of describing an absence of subtext. In an essential way, subtext is the opposite of on-the-nose. And while sometimes, of course, subtext will be communicated by a character’s actions, here we’re addressing the phenomenon as it applies to dialogue.
The most legitimate uses of subtext in writing dialogue are, as in real life, in situations and/or places in a relationship where the individuals involved feel uneasy about confronting a subject directly. Where instead they talk around it. Sometimes by employing metaphors.
Can subtext be overused? Sure. As when writers get too cute — too indirect or symbolic, causing the audience to become confused about the author’s point. But properly handled — and admittedly, like most art, the choice is part inspiration/instinct, part judgment call — such veiled exchanges can often be far more effective — and believable. Even more importantly, it is more entertaining, more intriguing than on-the-nose dialogue.
Functional Dialogue — and How to Avoid It
It’s been my observation that many inexperienced writers create dialogue that I call utilitarian (another word for on-the-nose) — they write words that convey the surface-meaning — contain the basic information — of what they want the character to say, and then they leave it at that.
The result is flat, boring, uninteresting nuts-and-bolts dialogue. Functional dialogue.
Writers who have a knack for dialogue — and some experience — may also start with utilitarian first-draft speeches, but then they rewrite them, make them fascinating, vernacular, idiomatic, colorful, tantalizing, elliptical and/or inarticulate! Make them Character Lines.
Suggestion: next time you write dialogue, examine it from that point-of-view. Once the words contain the essence of what you want the character to say, read it aloud so that you hear how stilted and obvious it is. Afterwards, rework it so that it sounds like real speech. Then try reading it aloud again.
Listen to the Silences
While it isn’t an essential part of the curve of learning to write effective dialogue, working with actors has for me been a revelation. Hearing and seeing them read lines I’ve written — observing which ones work, which don’t, and best of all, which — because of an actor’s skill — come out better than they were on the script page, is an experience I wish all writers could have. And one of the most vital lessons I’ve taken from that medium is how the really good actors employ silence when delivering their lines.
For me, silences are perhaps the most important — and most overlooked — aspect of good dialogue-writing. When one character responds to the words (or actions) of another with a hesitation before speaking — or frequently even more telling — without saying anything.
Sure, most of the time the exchange will be verbal. And continuous. But another lesson from working in the collaborative arts of film, TV and theater is that in acting — good acting — how a particular line is spoken is often of less importance than how the actor listens — and reacts to — what the other players are saying and/or doing. It is one of the reasons why the better TV writers include (when necessary) judicious stage directions (pauses, gestures, emphasis) in their teleplays. Novelists can profit from thinking this way when writing dialogue.
While on the subject, though it has become a convention to refrain from including such directions in stageplays and screenplays (in the latter, largely because of prevailing fantasies such as the Auteur Theory) it is one with which I disagree, and ignore.
Writing for the visual media, I try to use the actors as more than just mouthpieces for my dialogue. I try whenever I can to suggest — to spell out in my stage directions — how they should react — with body language, what they should say without speaking. And when I write a novel, I do the same thing. Ergo, when I write dialogue, then rewrite it and rewrite it again, one of the final tests to which I subject it is — does this or that really need to be said?
Far more often than not, it can use cutting. Fewer words — shorter speeches. More elliptical. But — I never fail to be amazed by how often no words are even better.
How often silence is more eloquent. How many instances in which the character can convey his or her thoughts more dramatically — or more comically — with a look, a stare, a shudder, averted eyes, or — more actively and obviously, say, a clumsy gesture such as dropping an object or almost knocking over a glass of wine?
A common criticism one hears in TV writers’ rooms is that this or that material “reads like a radio script.” Meaning: with radio, the writer must communicate without picture — with sounds only — most of which are the words spoken by the actors. Conversely, one of the tests of a well-written screenplay, teleplay or stageplay is that, in order for the audience to get it, it should be necessary to watch the show as well as hear it.
Comedy, incidentally — is all about non-verbal reactions — also referred to as “takes,” the way the actors respond to something funny that’s just happened. In plays and movie comedies such reactions help to cue the audience that it’s okay to laugh, that what they’ve just seen or heard is funny. And in a theater, the laughter is then supposed to become infectious. Which is one of the reasons TV sitcoms have those often-intrusive laugh-tracks. Typically, the show is going to be viewed in rooms occupied by only one or two people, and the prevailing wisdom (I use the term with tongue inching toward cheek) is that such small audiences, not having the luxury of communal laughter afforded by a theater-setting, need additional prodding in order to enjoy the jokes. The other, and perhaps primary reason for laugh-tracks is that most of the material isn’t funny. But that’s another story.
As authors, we must write the silences as part of our dialogue-exchanges. In a sense, it’s like being a writer-director in film. The words spoken in dialogue are by themselves not enough. Whether teleplay or filmscript or narrative prose — we — the writers — need to visualize for the reader — and for ourselves. The gestures, the glances, the reactions that convey the hearer’s as well as the speaker’s emotional state, communicating the thoughts behind the words.
In a real sense it’s about:
Helping Direct Your Actors’ Dialogue
As mentioned, in television scripts we frequently include “parentheticals” (stage directions) above — and sometimes in the middle of — a block of dialogue to ensure that the actor and/or director understands the meaning we want communicated — a flavor or attitude that might not be obvious upon first reading a line of dialogue. Some examples: (ironically), (sarcastically), (with an edge), (wryly), (mutters), (cool), (icy), (choking), (pissed), and so on.
In short-story and novel writing the same thing applies — only more so. I’m astonished by the amount of fiction that I (start to) read, in which the dialogue sequences contain little or no description of what the characters are doing while delivering their lines. There’s a lot more to writing effective dialogue than simply recording the words coming out of a character’s mouth. It’s sometimes called context. And it means that the writer must be there — must truly imagine the scene. We are the directors. The painters of the picture. Which is not to say we should belabor our physical descriptions, a point that’s expanded upon earlier (pages 156, 157).
Nonetheless, imagining — and writing — your characters’ physical attitudes (Is this one slumped — or that one leaning forward intently?) and/or gestures (hand, eye, whatever) while they’re speaking and/or listening — is
as essential a part of writing effective dialogue as are the speeches you give them. More about that in Choreography (page 153).
Memorable Dialogue
In TV scriptwriting, I’m usually guided by the following: I want my characters to talk less like real-life people speak, and more like real-life people wish they spoke.
We’ve all seen and heard person-on-the-street interviews, or taped conversations containing mostly smalltalk.
They’re pretty dull.
And ungrammatical.
And inarticulate.
Lots of “I’m like youknow...” and “I went ‘.....,’ and then he goes...” and that sort of thing. Lots of “uh’s” and “um’s.”
Do we ever want our dialogue to come off that way? Sometimes, absolutely. It can feel very authentic. It says a great deal about those individuals. It makes for great character stuff. We can learn much about dialogue-writing from reading transcripts or listening to such “real” conversations. We just have to train ourselves to use it with restraint, to shape it to our needs and storytelling goals, not least because our audience, having chosen to read or view fiction, has different expectations than it would had it chosen a factual piece.
Let’s consider the character that — as part of who he is, speaks in clichés, in platitudes. Or repeats himself. Both say a lot about the individual. Just be sure that that’s what you want to say about him.
When we’re writing the words that our more articulate, more educated, more together characters speak, when we’re putting sentences in the mouth of our lawyer-protagonist, or our marine biologist heroine, it’s a different ballgame. Do we want them to come off stodgy — or hip? Do we see them as pretentious — or regular guys? Lighthearted or serious? These are some of the important choices we must make when writing dialogue.
And above all — the mandate. Keep it entertaining. Which dull, conflict-free transactions are not.
Dialect
The keyword here is “sparingly.” Expressions such as “runnin’” or “sittin’” are okay, but use them prudently, and in character. “Settin’” (for “sitting”) is acceptable to make the point that the speaker is, say, rural. But that should be about the limit. Obviously, vernacular, ungrammatical dialogue has its place, and makes a telling statement about the character speaking it. But as with so much of writing, a little can make a big impact. Moreover, no small part of the reason for minimizing dialect is that it’s difficult to read.
Crosstalk
Still another lesson we can learn from listening to real conversation is how frequently people do not directly answer the words just spoken to them by another person, but rather, respond on some other, apparently unrelated topic. What does it say about the responder?
Sometimes, obviously, it’s an attempt to change the subject being discussed. Or to avoid the subject. Or — it could be a misreading of what was said. Especially effective when employed in a comedic context, it might also indicate self-involvement. Watch almost any episode of Seinfeld, which featured four totally self-absorbed characters, and you’ll be amazed at how much of the dialogue consists of crosstalk, and how well it works in terms of both humor and character-delineation.
Applied judiciously in your writing, crosstalk can — along with subtext, or as part of it — make your dialogue sing — make it special.
The Aria
We’ve all seen and heard arias — used and mostly abused. The moment when the heavy explains himself. But as mentioned, employed prudently, the bad guy’s speech about what he stands for — his plan for winning — why he’s devoted himself to this or that awful cause — can be useful and effective. Particularly if it isn’t a “groaner,” if it doesn’t come off like a speech. And isn’t on-the nose. And is short.
And sometimes even heroes need to “say their piece.” All those John Wayne Westerns and WWII movies come to mind.
Generally, though, the long-winded aria has overtones of that other problem — the character who knows too much about him-orherself.
For me, arias are best avoided or, if you find they’re necessary, kept brief — so disguised and truncated that they’re not obviously arias.
Staying With It
What you are about to read may come off as a commercial announcement. So be it.
Even if you write historical novels or other period stuff, it is essential to stay on top of current trends and events, and above all, currently language usage. This is particularly true if you wish to write effective contemporary dialogue.
There is absolutely no better way to do this than by reading The New York Times.
Every day.
Or — more bluntly — if you want to succeed as a writer, you will read the New York Times.
Every day
Oh — I’ve heard the excuses. Too busy, or already swamped with stuff to read.
Forget ‘em.
Flat-out — if you are serious about being a writer — any kind of writer — reading The Times is about as important as your pen, your thesaurus or your word-processor. Now, obviously, very few of us are going to read every word. But you will invariably find items of interest and value.
Okay — but — for writing better dialogue?
Yes. Sprinkled through The Times are contemporary quotes, columns about language and usage — and everything else that’s happening, from music to the arts to science and technology, to publishing and on and on. You will absorb what’s going on in the larger world.
The New York Times is, both in breadth of coverage and the quality of its writing, simply The Best In The World. By miles and miles. No other newspaper comes close, and I guarantee that once you become hooked on it, you will become a better writer, not just of dialogue, but of stories. Because in The New York Times you will find stories. I cannot begin to estimate how many of the ideas for the 100 produced television scripts and scores of series and movie pitches I’ve written were inspired by items I’ve seen in The Times — from book reviews to news stories to obituaries.
Everything in it is better written than anything else you will find — anywhere. Further, because the people who produce The New York Times take their work very seriously — they regard The Times as The Newspaper of Record — the publication will inform you on subjects and on levels that will amaze you. Not incidentally, it will likely tell you more about what is going on in your part of the world than will your local papers. And the blessing is that in all but America’s most remote spots, you can receive home delivery of the National Edition seven days per week or, you can access it online. I urge you to do so. It will change you, your perspective and your writing. Profoundly.
Tombstoning
In editing a television or film script, one of the things we look for is the accidental repetition of words or phrases. We refer to it as Tombstoning, and it’s a good thing to avoid, no matter what you’re writing. Unless of course, you’re doing it intentionally, as in a speech-characteristic, or for emphasis. All of us unconsciously repeat words. Computers make Tombstoning easily curable.
Don’t Tell Your Audience What it Already Knows
Another of the cardinal no-no’s that travels well from TV writing to other forms is — do not have your characters (or your narrator) repeat bang-on information about what’s already happened in the story, as in the following example: You have played a scene in which we see that Evelyn has been murdered. Do not, in the next scene, or several scenes later, nor at any time in your story, have one character inform another, “Evelyn was murdered.” Refer to the murder, to the deceased, to the details of the case, but do not repeat it — as an item of news — to your audience or to another character.
Assume that the other characters have been informed. In series TV we usually presuppose, for the purpose of avoiding repetition, that what one of our primary characters learns, another (who was not present) knows by the time he or she next appears.
The lesson here is that it is not only unnecessary to play the moment when that second character learns it — it is
to be avoided.
Now, obviously there will be times when you want to illustrate a particular character’s reaction to news of something the audience and your other characters know about.
One approach is to start the scene just after the information has been reported. In the case of Evelyn having been murdered, something on the order of: “Omygod, Evelyn? — I — we saw each other at lunch...” It’s even better if the audience didn’t see them seeing each other at lunch!
Or: “She’s — how — how did it happen...?”
Non-repetition applies to details as well. Using Evelyn’s murder as an ongoing model, if the cause of death was strangulation, or knife-wound, or gunshot, you only need to report it once. Any later allusions should add something the audience doesn’t know.
You get the idea. In TV writing it stems from A) not wasting the viewer’s time, and B) not having screen-time to waste. It’s also about respecting your audience, about not talking down to it. And of course — entertaining.
About the only instance I know of in TV where this was consistently violated was, again, the monumentally successful Seinfeld, wherein such repetition was almost a signature of the show. George, for instance, would play a scene at his workplace in which X happened, and then in the next scene, he’d tell Elaine and the others about it. It worked because the casts’ reactions were so funny — and sometimes the re-telling was funny on its own, with George (or whoever did the re-telling) giving it a particular, possibly distorted spin.
Even so, as a viewer of those Seinfeld shows, I used to mentally rewrite the second scene, editing out the re-telling so that we’d see only the reactions. In most cases I believe it would have worked every bit as well, but that is a nitpicky cavil about a truly great show.
Fiction Writing Demystified Page 20