WORDS MATTER

by Gar Anthony Haywood

"I can't believe I did that!" Harry shrieked horrifically.

"I can't believe it either!" Jane emphatically agreed.

"It was so stupid.  What was I thinking!"

"I don't know.  Two thousand exclamation points, and seven hundred adverbs!" Jane cried.  "What are we supposed to do with two thousand exclamation points and seven hundred adverbs!"

"Don't forget the twelve hundred replacements for 'said' and 'asked' the guy threw in for free.  I'm telling you, this was the telemarketer from hell!"

"I know what to do!" Jane exclaimed after a moment of thought.  "We could write a mystery, and use exclamation points in place of periods wherever the slightest bit of excitement needs to be conveyed!  Sometimes, we could even use them in place of question marks!"

"What!"

"You heard me.  And instead of all those boring 'saids' when people speak---"

"We could use the replacements and adverbs I bought instead!" Harry chuckled gleefully.  "And what a great read our mystery will be.  All that emotion and drama!"

"Which we couldn't possibly convey any other way..."

Okay, had enough?  I have.  In case you haven't already guessed, the subject of my post this week is dialogue, and I've led off with an example of the worst kind imaginable.

In this author's opinion, great dialogue, which both sings and moves your story forward simultaneously, has the following characteristics:

• It sounds like real people talking.  Over-stylized dialogue may win Tony awards on Broadway, but all it does in fiction is take the reader out of your story.  Go easy on the clever repartee and only use as much ethnic or professional jargon as realism demands.  Otherwise, every time a character opens his or her mouth, your novel will read like a playwriting exercise in Theater 101.

• It flows like fine wine.  Great dialogue hums with a natural rhythm, similar to a perfectly tuned car engine at idle.  To achieve this effect, it's often necessary to rewrite an exchange of dialogue over and over again, until every note sounds just right.

• It suits the situation.  I just read a thriller that was humming along just fine until a firefight broke out.  The two characters ducking for cover were facing almost certain death --- and one was talking nonsense while the other was cracking wise.  Neither was saying anything befitting someone afraid for his life.  Clearly, the author failed to ask (and adequately answer) a critical question before he opened his characters' mouths: "What would real people say to each other under these circumstances?"
  
  
• It's light on attribution and adverbs.  A simple "said" is fine here and there, if only to keep the reader straight on who's speaking, but that's it.  Anything else draws attention to yourself and what you're attempting to accomplish.

• It's consistent with the people involved.  A character who drops her Gs and says "ain't" instead of "isn't" on page eleven shouldn't abruptly start speaking like a Rhodes scholar on page 44.  Keep track of the speech patterns you assign every character and make sure they maintain them throughout your novel.

• It's lean and fast.  A long paragraph of unbroken speech coming from a single character isn't dialogue---it's a monologue.  And just as interminable, droning speeches cause your attention to wander in real life, so do they have the same deadly effect on someone reading a novel.  Ever hear of the KISS rule?  That's "Keep It Simple, Stupid."  Well, here's a new rule for you, strictly pertaining to dialogue: KISSS (Keep It Short and Sweet, Stupid.)

• It's almost totally devoid of expository information.  Believe me, I know how hard it can be to deliver 10,000 words of crucial data in only 400 pages so that your plot will make perfect sense to the reader in the end---but that's not your characters' problem, it's yours.  Charge the men and women in your book with the task of conveying the hows and whys of it through verbal exchanges and a reader will suddenly see them for exactly what they are: Not real people, but imaginary conduits for a writer struggling to lay the groundwork of his story.

• Not everybody sounds alike.  Patterns of speech are one of the most powerful devices with which to differentiate the people in your novel.  If you've given them adequate color in this area, you should be able to eliminate all attribution in a stretch of dialogue and still know who is saying what to whom.

• Not everybody sounds like you.  This is similar to the problem above, except that it's worse.  Don't ever kid yourself or anyone else who might ask: At least one character in every book you'll ever write is going to be you, in one thinly veiled disguise or another.  I mean, we don't invent the worlds we write about just so other people can walk around in them, do we?  So naturally, a character here or there is going to sound a lot like you when he speaks, and that's okay.  What's not okay is affixing this particular trait to your entire cast, especially if your pattern of speech happens to be jarringly distinctive.
  
  
• Not everybody is a comedian.  There's room for at least one smart-aleck in every story, especially if he or she is funny.  But invite more than one clown to a party and watch your guests start hitting the exits.  As noted in the previous two bullet-points, each of your characters should have their own set of personality traits, and among those traits should be a unique sense of humor (or total lack thereof).  Two people constantly trading wisecracks is a bore, but two people trading the same kind of wisecrack is both a bore and a crock.  Be careful here.

• Exclamations are practically non-existent.  Anything less than total outrage or sheer terror is insufficient grounds for an exclamation point.  Try to use them only when your character is responding to something along the lines of having just accidentally sliced his thumb off with a steak knife.

Question for the Class: What authors do you most admire for their dialogue, in particular?

CAREER BUILDING(S)

by Gar Anthony Haywood

As I've mentioned several times recently, the family and I are the proud owners of a new home.  We moved into a classic "fixer-upper" in the Glassell Park area of Los Angeles last October, and I've been plenty busy ever since putting the Humpty-Dumpty its previous owners had reduced the place to back together again (with the help of a few fine contractors, plumbers, electricians, etc., of course).

Not long after we moved in, in keeping with a promise the wife and I made our two kids, we bought a family dog.   Our first family dog.  His name is Bruno, and he was just a twelve-week-old boxer-slash-fill-in-the-blank (Mastiff?  Pit bull?) puppy when we first got him --- but look at him now:

As the dog owners among you well know, owning a dog is a lot of work, and much of that work involves walking.  Lots and lots of walking.  I personally take Bruno out walking at least two times a day.  As Glassell Park is almost all hills, depending on the distance I choose to cover, these walks can be a real workout.  But I love them.  One, because I need the exercise, and two, because telling an author to go out walking his dog is essentially giving him a license to plot.  I solve more writing problems in Bruno's company than I do sitting at my computer desk.

But there's one other reason I enjoy walking the dog: Discovering my new neighborhood.  Exploring all its twists and turns, the "not-a-through-streets" and "no-outlets."  Seeing and meeting the community's diverse mix of people and marveling at its wild array of architectural styles.  In doing all this exploring two, sometimes three times a day, a curious thought has occurred to me: A house is a lot like a writing career.

Every author starts out here: On a vacant plot of land, peering into a future that seems vast and full of endless possibilities.

You sell a book, maybe two.  A foundation is built.  From that foundation, some authors --- good, lucky, or a combination of the two --- will go on to construct a veritable mansion . . .

 

. . . while others will build the foundation of a career and nothing more.

Some writing careers grow slow and steady, one floor at a time . . .

. . . and some either come to a screeching halt somewhere in the construction process, or simply peter out, like an old alarm clock winding gradually, inexorably down.

All too often, when a writing career falters before it can be made whole, it fades away to nothing, leaving little in the way of a mark behind to indicate it ever existed at all.

And then there are writing careers that wane but refuse to die.  Work picks up again, the once-dormant build site starts to hum with new life . . .

 

. . . and another mansion --- or comfy cottage --- eventually rises toward the heavens.

 

Or a new plot of ground is staked out upon which to start the construction process all over again.

Funny, the things a writer thinks about while walking his dog, isn't it?

THE FUN FACTOR

by Gar Anthony Haywood

The book I'm writing at present is not the one I should be writing.  The book I should be writing is one far more likely to sell.  A book with a high concept, or one featuring a new character around whom I could build a "franchise."  Instead, I'm writing the seventh book in my Aaron Gunner private eye series, a novel that fits the description of a can't-miss bestseller about as well I fit that of an Osmond brother.

Why?  Because I want to.

Sorry, but that's the only real reason I've got.  I haven't written a book about Gunner in ages and I miss the man.  I had a great idea for an opening that turned into a great idea for a Gunner novel and I simply couldn't find the will to put off writing it.  I've been far more calculating about my book projects than this in the past, on a number of occasions, but for the most part, this is how I've always operated: chasing the joy, not the dime.

I know I'm not alone in taking this ass-backwards route to success, but I wonder just how many bestselling authors have had it pay off?  Is anybody making real money and having fun writing at the same time?  Doing only what they want to do, without exception?

God, I hope so.

Because I can't write worth a damn if I'm not having fun.  I've tried writing like an adult, with the detached efficiency of a plumber running pipe or an insurance salesman hawking life-term policies, and I hate it.  Writing for me is a slog under the best circumstances, and having fun --- yes, fun --- is the only way I get through it.  My need to write is all about the stories I feel compelled to tell, not the bills I'm obligated to pay.  The long-term dream for me has never been as simple as to make a living writing; the dream has always been to someday have it both ways: to write exactly what I want to write, each and every time out of the box, and make a damn good living doing it.

Evidence to date would suggest I'm just kidding myself, but that's okay.   Hope springs eternal.

So I'm writing Gunner Number 7 and loving it.  It's hard work, and some days it feels like I'm trying to pull a cow on a leash through a field of quicksand --- but I don't mind.

It's my cow, and it makes me feel good.

FULL SPEED BEHIND

by Gar Anthony Haywood

My middle daughter Erin is going through a bit of a rough time right now.  Nothing earth-shattering or health-related, thank God, just the usual fallout from a young adult making a few poor decisions regarding --- what else? --- money.  We've talked about her situation together and we both agree that the best way out of the mess she's in is the one that is often the most difficult path of all to take: retreat.  Facing up to the fact that pushing forward, rather than falling back post-haste, would only make her problems worse, and acting accordingly.

Taking this tack will be embarassing for her, and will impact others.  It will involve admitting her mistake to friends and family, exposing herself as someone who isn't quite as mature and put together as appearances might otherwise indicate.  In other words, it's going to be painful as hell.  But it has to be done.

In the process of offering her my fatherly advice that she cut her losses now while she still can, before the brown stuff really hits the fan, I told her about a story I'd just recently heard on This American Life, the NPR radio program.  The story was titled "Self-Improvement Kick," and it dealt with a young guy named Daryl Watson who, lost in life and looking for purpose, was inspired in 2009 to become the new Peace Pilgrim.

Who the hell was the first "Peace Pilgrim" you ask?  Well, it was a woman named Mildred Norman, who in 1953, at the age of 44, took it upon herself to walk across the length of America to promote the cause of peace.  From the start of her pilgrimage in Pasadena, California, to her death in Knox, Indiana, 28 years later, Norman logged over 40,000 miles on foot, carrying as her only possessions a pen, a comb, a toothbrush and a map.  She was entirely dependent on the kindness of others to keep going; everything she received in the way of food, drink and shelter was freely given.  She never asked for anything.

Wow, right?

Anyway, 28 years after her death, young Daryl Watson heard Norman's story and decided he'd just found his purpose in life.  He was going to become the world's new Peace Pilgrim.  He chucked his career in children's television, sold off all his belongings and cashed out his savings account.  Every bridge connecting him to the life he knew was dismantled; Watson not only tore up his driver's license, the aspiring playwright erased every play he had written in the last eight years.

Before he set off from Cape Henlopen State Park in Delaware for San Francisco, California --- a trip he estimated would take him around six months to complete --- he created a blog site dedicated to his journey and emailed a very public goodbye to all his friends and loved ones, explaining as best he could what he was about to do and why.  He then started walking . . .

. . . and gave the whole thing up three days later.

Here's how Watson describes what happened just after he'd crossed into the state of Maryland, a mere 40 miles into his trip:

". . . I'm tired, I'm hungry, my feet are killing me, I'm really thirsty, I'm freezing. And I saw this billboard. And it said, 'It's OK to make mistakes --- as long as they're new ones.'  And I was like, hmm, I wonder if I made a mistake."

Watson soon decided he had indeed made a mistake and pulled the plug on his grand experiment.  Which meant he had to go back home and start his life all over again, but only after telling all those people to whom he'd bid farewell that the Peace Pilgrim, circa 2009, had fallen just 23 1/2 weeks and 2,880 miles short of duplicating the amazing perambulatory feat of the original.

Talk about humiliation.

The impulse to soldier on, even at the risk of ruining his health or, worse, losing his life, must have been incredible.  How to admit to all those people that you've failed so miserably, so completely?  Wouldn't perishing in the cold almost seem preferable to enduring such mortification?  And consider that what Watson was returning to was nothing less (greater?) than Square One, the giant crater of nothingness --- no job, no home, no earthly possessions --- he'd deliberately made of his existence.

Yet he did what had to be done.  He admitted defeat and reversed his field, saving himself, and all the good works he may very well do in the future, in the process.

I related this story to Erin because I think it beautifully illustrates the lesson I wanted to impart to her, which is that sometimes, the only way to go forward is to stand on the brakes and go back to where you started, no matter the cost to your ego.

I've been working on a short story over the last several weeks that I'm overdue turning in to my editor.  The reason the story's late is that I stopped midway through to rewrite much of what I'd already written, having realized --- or, more to the point, having lost the will to deny --- that the story just flat out wasn't working as it was.  I hated to do it.  I wanted the damn story over with.  But just as Daryl Watson was cosmically advised by a billboard to rethink what he was doing and turn back, I am occasionally the recipient of similar warning messages, and this one told me to bite the bullet, double-back, and fix what was broken in my short story.

It was the right thing to do.  The story works flawlessly now.

When deadlines loom, anything short of forward momentum feels like failure.  But there are times that moving forward, intead of backward, is precisely the wrong approach to take.

I think Erin understands this now, and I suspect the man who once sought to become Peace Pilgrim, ver. 2.0, does as well.

WITH ALL UNDUE RESPECT, PT. 2

Gar Anthony Haywood

I greatly enjoyed Zoë's most recent post here on the subject of respect and the lack thereof so many people these days show to others.  I enjoyed her post so much, in fact, that I've decided to riff on it today on this, my Wildcard Tuesday.

This probably isn't anything you haven't already noticed, but nowhere is the widespread disrespect Zoe wrote about more apparent than on the streets and byways of America.  When civilization completely breaks down, I firmly believe the fuse will be lit somewhere on the 405 freeway here in Los Angeles.

Angelenos treat the rules and regulations of the road like mild suggestions no one is really expected to take seriously.  Funny, but when I read a "NO RIGHT TURN" sign, I take it very literally, while others...well, let's just say they must see some fine print on there somewhere that's invisible to me.

Here, then, are a few common road signs, and the ways they are interpreted by some of the numbskulls who risk our lives daily driving any damn well they please:

THE A-HOLE'S INTERPRETATION: "Make a half-assed effort to slow down momentarily, then watch for opposing traffic as you blow through the intersection."

THE A-HOLE'S INTERPRETATION: "Park here only it you have a need to, and only for the amount of time it will take you to leisurely conduct your business."

THE A-HOLE'S INTERPRETATION: "Please don't turn left here unless it would inconvenience you in some way not to do so."

THE A-HOLE'S INTERPRETATION: "Right-of-way doesn't mean jack if you can't beat me to the spot, sister.  Let's go!"

THE A-HOLE'S INTERPRETATION: "If they didn't want people making U-turns here, they would never have put this opening in the island.  Besides, you're nuts if you think I'm going to drive a block out of my way to turn around legally, instead."

THE A-HOLE'S INTERPRETATION: "Relax!  I'm gonna run into the store, fill my cart to the max, than start a huge argument with a cashier when I attempt to get 68 items through the Express Line.  Should only take me a minute."

THE A-HOLE'S INTERPRETATION: "You say your lane's going away and you need to merge into mine?  Sounds like a personal problem to me, pal.  Get lost."

THE A-HOLE'S INTERPRETATION: "If you watch for opposing traffic very, very carefully, and do it really quick, you should be able to continue on past this sign for another block or two to reach your destination.   Beats the hell out of going around."

THE A-HOLE'S INTERPRETATION: "First of all, I'm not stopping, I'm parking.  Secondly, I left my kids in the car so you know I'm not going to be here long.  And third, there's no place else to park that's not at least a block away and my damn feet hurt."

THE A-HOLE'S INTERPRETATION: "So I'm supposed to hang back and miss the next green up ahead just so some shmuck I don't know can make his left turn in front of me?  I don't think so."