On Dialogue

I'm back! Real life got the better of me, and I've recently been swamped in quite a bit of stressful stuff. What little free time I've had has been devoted to relaxation activities or to further progress on Descent. Now I have a bit of time to update again, although it may slow down come time for NaNoWriMo - still deciding whether to do it or not. I've got some more ideas I'm tossing around for it, some that aren't fully developed and some that are but are outside of my comfort zone.

Today's post is about dialogue. Or, rather, how bad I am at dialogue. Chapter one for Descent was one of the first creative writing pieces I had done in a while (the prologue was actually written much later), and, consequently, it was terrible. I'm sure many of you picked up on some of the atrocities present in it, such as the fact that I said it was afternoon and then a few paragraphs later proceeded to talk about the darkness of tonight. Earlier today I read over it, saw how terrible it was, and promptly deleted it and edited chapter two to make it chapter one.

Back to the point of dialogue. It was one of the main reasons why chapter one was so terrible. You see, I'm not the most social person, and my social interactions usually aren't very "normal." As such, I have a tad bit of difficulty writing dialogue that sounds like how normal people will speak. I'm getting better at it, and I will touch on how below, but here was the main problem with the speaking in chapter one: it sounded scripted. I was using that chapter to introduce a primary aspect of my protagonist, Scenn. But I was doing it so blatantly that it came across as nothing more than an obvious characterization device. The same thing happened with the lines intended to build some of the setting and mood. Here's an an example dialogue to provide a template for the kind of thing I'm talking about. (Note that this is not an excerpt from anything I've written; if it were, I would be hanging my head in shame for the rest of eternity.)

          "Mmm, this is a tasty apple. Anyway, where do you want to go now?"

          "How about the basement? Nothing could go wrong there!"

          "Sure! Why not?"

This is a prime example of how not to do dialogue. A highly exaggerated example, yes, but this isn't how real people talk at all. Also, it's purpose of moving the story on and the direction that it's moving it is so blatantly obvious that it no longer reads like part of the story. Instead, it reads like a plot device, and nothing more.

So, how do you write good dialogue?

Well, to be honest, I'm really not the one to ask about that. However, I do have one tip that has helped me a lot; your characters should say what they would be most likely to say, not what you want them to say.

Seems like a bit of a weird concept, but think of it like this. Your characters should have strong, defining characteristics and personalities, and their speaking should reflect this. Instead of using having dialogue fit the plot, the plot should go with the dialogue. Your big beefy motorcycle-riding protagonist shouldn't say that he loves roses just because your plot depends on him showing up at florists shop. Then again, I'm more of a "plan as you go" type of guy, so as always, take what I say with a pinch of salt; I know there are lots of those "plan the whole plot out ahead of time" people.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it.

Chthonic Is A Fun Word

I apologize for the lack of updates recently, as I've been a little busy. I have kept writing, though, and so I'll have plenty of good posts for you all this week. Hopefully one tonight as well. As for right now, I've got a story opening that I wrote.

So remember how I wrote about story openings a few days ago, and how I hate when they start right in the action?

Well, yeah, see, I kind of did that here. I'm still not saying that it's a good idea, I'm just hoping that I might have done it right.

(Which is unlikely.)

Chapter One

I heard a creak.

            My fingers closed tightly around the cold metal and I laid there silently till I heard another scuffle in the corner, indicating the direction. I rolled off the mattress, dropped to one knee, and opened fire. Three bullets, one after the other.

            I heard two embed themselves in the wall, and the third hit flesh. I heard a bone crack and a sharp shriek before I was tackled over onto the floor by a hundred pounds of fiendish, unhallowed flesh. The thing slashed me across the face with one clawed hand, and I heard the movement of its other arm as it drew back for a second attack. I caught it’s wrist at the apex of its motion, and flung the body off of me. I staggered up as two men with guns and rudimentary armor shot the lock on the door and burst in. Before I was halfway standing I was firing. A total of three more bullets went into the daemonic six-appendaged creature on the floor before it gave an exasperated scream and ceased its writhing.

            I turned to the top drawer of a small dresser next to my bed. I fumbled through the contents and pulled out a rag. My hand shook as I dabbed the blood off my face and turned to the men at the door.

            “Good evening, gentleman,” I said, forcing myself to stand up straight.

            “Instance clear,” murmured one of the men into a voice receiver at the front of his helmet. “We’ll give you two hundred thirty for it,” he said to be, motioning with his gun at the corpse.

            “Not for sale,” I replied, leaning against the wall with the rag to my head.

            “No? Are you refusing our offer?”

            “Yes.”

            “Well then, we’ll just ta-“

            “No. This one’s mine,” I interjected, pointing my gun at the speaker’s head.

            The man laughed. “And what if I just have you shot?” His partner raised his gun at me.

            I glanced warily back and forth between the pair. “Then you lose your credibility as a business. I have a microchip wired into my optic nerves that automatically sends a picture of my death scene to at least a dozen different people.”

            “So what if we shoot you in your eye?”

            “I’d like to see you hit both of them at the same time.”

            The man considered this for a moment. He looked me up and down for a moment, and noticed how pale my face was and how thin my hair was. He must have realized I was truly desperate, because he relented.

            “Alright. You have a good night sir.”

            He gave an exaggerated bow and walked out, not bothering to look back to see if my gun was still point at him. It was. The other man followed him out and closed the door. I tried locking it behind him, but the lock was completely broken by their entrance; so was the wooden plank that had barred the entrance. Sighing, I turned around, looking around for where the thing had entered. My eyes immediately locked onto a small hole in the roof. I went over to a small closet, threw it open, and selected two wooden planks from inside. One I nailed into the ceiling, covering the hole, and the other I used to bar the door. I looked upon my temporary fixes with dissatisfaction. Oh well, it would be just a few more weeks till I could buy a safer house. It would have been tomorrow if I had sold tonight, but I needed the thing lying dead on my floor.

            I then turned to the chthonic humanoid on the ground. I knelt down next to it and pressed my hands to its chest, then drew them back slowly. A ghostly, blue-white substance followed my hands out. I cupped my hands, and it pooled in them like water. I raised it too my lips, and drank all of it up greedily. Immediately, I felt invigorated. My thoughts cleared, the pain of my cuts started to fade, fresh life coursed through my veins, and, without looking, I knew my face wouldn’t look quite as pale for a while.

            Finally, I took the time to study my would-be hunter. Its skin was human appearance, but so pale as to be halfway between blue and white. Its face had no eyes or hair, only a flat nose and pair of ears and a gaping circular mouth with shark-like teeth. Two arms adapted for running on all fours were stuck on its shoulders, and two legs were set at its hips. Both the hands and feet had long fingers resembling claws; one of the hands had my own blood on it. Lastly, two vicious scythed appendages sprouted from its back. 

            I looked at that thing in contempt and disgust. How disturbing that it had once been human.

Story Openings

Started work on a second project today. For this one, I'm trying to go straight through with a rough draft before going back and editing. Editing while I wrote didn't work too well for Descent.

I'm still working on the plot outline, but I've already plowed through the first chapter. What I can tell you is that it's science fiction, it's in first person, and it involves lots of soul drinking.

(Don't I write the most delightful stories?)

So, what I'm going to talk about today is story openings. Please note, this is just my personal opinion on what they should and shouldn't do, and so it should be taken with a pinch of salt.

(In other words, don't listen to anything because it's probably wrong. 
(Hey! Enough with the negative comments!)
(...sorry. I talk to myself sometimes. It gets lonely out here, it does.)

One of the things that annoys me the most that a lot of story openings do is to jump straight into (by which I mean, the first paragraph) some action or event to which the reader knows nothing about. Why? Because the reader doesn't know what's going on and doesn't know any of the characters, and so there's nothing to draw them in. It doesn't make me want to read on (unless there's something uniquely interesting going on, which usually isn't the case), it makes me want to close the book and look at the next one on the shelf. Like I said, this is how I feel, so you all may or may not agree. But let's look at some examples.



Here's one from an aspiring writer like myself. 

          "It took me a while to figure out that I should never immediately say what was on my mind. Of course, I had to learn it the stupid way when I told some friends that I thought my math teacher was the school’s biggest blowhole, and it got back to Mom.

          It turned out to be a two-for-one screw-up. Not only did Mom find zero humor in my little joke, it cemented my reputation as a troublemaker in her mind. And to make matters much worse, it was beginning to look like I wasn’t going to graduate. Becca, my mom’s friend and principal of Aurora’s school, had cornered me outside geography. Another class I hated."

So, what's the problem? I know nothing about the setting and very, very little about the characters. From what the first few sentences, there's nothing to even make me like the protagonist. She insults her teachers and apparently is in danger of not graduating whatever kind of school she goes to.

Now, if this weren't the opening, it's actually pretty decent. There just needs to be a bit more development first, because otherwise, I'm not engaged in the story at all and I don't want to keep reading.



Let's now turn our attention to the opening of The Hobbit, an undisputedly great piece of literature. 

"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort. 

It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats—the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill—The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it—and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another. No going upstairs for the hobbit: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (he had whole rooms devoted to clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all were on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage. The best rooms were all on the left-hand side (going in), for these were the only ones to have windows, deep-set round windows looking over his garden, and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river."

In this, I am drawn into the story. An interesting setting is created and described. The protagonist is developed too, in the best kind of way; not directly, but through information about the house in which he lives. Instead of having no clue what's going on due to an excess of names and events that the reader does not yet have any connection, the reader is introduced to the story. While jumping right into the events can be done, especially when used in a prologue or right after a prologue, it is difficult to do well, and the way to do it is not by dropping lots of names and a grand amount of plot strings all at once.  I should also point out that I've seen many professional books do this incorrectly, not just those of aspiring authors like the one above. That one was just the first one to come to my mind.

Anyway, that's it for tonight, and I hope you all enjoyed it. If anyone has any comments, feel free to post them below. Also post if you strongly disagree with the opinions expressed in this post, because I'm sure many of you do. 

Ctrl + A, Backspace, Ctrl + S

He stared forlornly at his writings, his face illuminated solely by the blue screen. He had been there for hours, typing away, but now he was stuck, and had been for a while. He knew he had to press on, but he didn't want to. He was disappointed at his own work, the motivation simply wasn't there, and furthermore, his eyes hurt. At last, he closed the screen of the laptop, then broke into a quiet sob. 

(Thankfully I'm not like that guy. Shouldn't he know that looking at a screen in the dark for a prolonged period of time does bad things to your eyes and gives you a terrible headache?)

Well, I had a bit of a setback today. Some friends deleted all of Descent into Madness as a joke, meaning to simply ctrl+z it after I freaked out a bit. But then, they accidentally made it so that it saved and then closed. So it was near permanently gone.

However, all was not lost; I was able to access a duplicate copy that I inadvertently made earlier that week, and so was able to get back all but a little more than a chapter. That's still a week's worth of work gone though. Re-writing that all again won't be fun, but it's doable.

(I really should have just put it on a thumb drive.)

(But I didn't, because I lack common sense.) 

(Deep down, I'm smart, I promise.)

Anyway, Friday is likely to be my most active posting day of the week, since, well, I don't have much to do on Fridays. It's awesome, it really is.

This Friday is an exception, because I had a lot of stuff to do.

(I'm really getting off to a good start on this.)

First off, I was appalled to learn from one of my acquaintances this week that they had never heard of Lovecraft, nor Cthulhu. As such, the two links below should henceforth be considered required reading from all of you.

http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/a.aspx

http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/cc.aspx

Next up is a rather interesting blog I found that goes over first pages, and, well, it's really worth a read. The writer mostly goes over reader submissions, so it's cool to see some aspiring authors' stuff.

http://floggingthequill.typepad.com/

That's all for now; there will be an actual article tomorrow. Hope you enjoyed it, and thanks for reading!

Descent Chapter One

Here's chapter one of Descent into Madness. Nothing much happening at this point in the story, and it's a very short section, but I personally love this little scene, and I hope you enjoy it too.

For those who missed the prologue and want to read it, it's linked here:
http://xyzwriting.blogspot.com/2013/09/descent-prologue.html

One

          A few hours walk south of the town of Crawmoore, a river fed into a lake. The lake's waters were as opaque and secretive as the sparse countryside was lonely; depressingly so. On the side of the lake farthest from the town, sat the ruined foundations of what once may have been a mighty tower or welcoming cottage, now reduced to a handful of stones scarcely able to shield a man from storm. At this hour of the afternoon, the shores were devoid of life, save for two battered travelers sitting with their backs to a campfire facing the shore at the north side of the pond.

          One of the men, stroking the sandy stubble on his chin, peered out over the expanse. Eventually, as if in conclusion to a thought, he sighed, picked up a stone from the shore, and held it between his fingers. After taking a moment to appreciate its polished surface, he drew back his arm and released the stone out over the waters. It skipped, and then continued skipping until it had disappeared into the darkness.

          The other traveler, noting the feat, looked impressed. 

          “Oh, it's not as hard as it looks. Here,” the first encouraged, picking up a stone and tossing it to his companion.

          The man grinned. He too took a moment to notice his rock's natural perfection before he flung it out onto the lake. The stone bounced once, then dropped into the depths with a whisper of a splash. The man frowned, shrugged, picked up another stone, and took more careful aim with his next throw.

          The travelers took turns alternating their skips, flinging stones in silence. Both seemed to be content to think and appreciate the calm black of the night. The second man quickly became quite good at the sport, and managed to get a stone to skip all the way out of sight; however, on the next throw, the stone flew directly into the water. He spun around, his dagger drawn.

          “What is it?” whispered the first man as he instinctively reached for the iron sword at his side.

          “I heard something. Over near that tree,” the other replied, gesturing with his head towards a dying trunk.

          The first picked up a burning piece of wood from the fire and quietly crept toward the tree. He studied it from a safe distance for a while, and then moved to inspect the tree more closely, circling around it a few times. Satisfied that there was no immediate danger, the traveler walked back to the shore and tossed his torch into the fire. “I think the stones we threw were as alive as anything around here,” he chuckled to himself as he dusted the soot off his gloves.

          The second gave up a half-hearted laugh. “Better safe than dead, no?” he suggested.

          The first chuckled. “There's nothing dangerous around here for miles! Anyway, where do you think we should sleep for the night? We'll be soaked if the skies are as bad as they look.”

          “There's those ruins on the other side...doubt they'll do much, but I think it'll be better than what these trees have to offer. Should we have a look?”

          “Indeed.”

          The two men put out the fire, then gathered their belongings and set out for the other side of the lake. They talked and laughed as they walked, with the second constantly telling the first to keep his voice down and the first constantly telling the second to hush up and that he needn't worry; there was nothing dangerous around for miles.

Plot Complexity (Why My Characters Don't Save The World)

I started writing a short story, and got about halfway through before realizing that I didn't like it and that it wasn't good. So I scrapped it. Oh well. One of the ideas I was actually toying with for today's post was discussing the process of writing, then editing, then deleting whole paragraphs and starting all over again. However, I came up with a better one while I was doing some writing today.

A friend asked me for a summary of the plot of what I was writing. I said something along the lines of "The main character struggles with his sanity and concept of reality in an insane world."

I was then told that I have a bad plot, it's too general, I need a more complex plot, my conflict needs to be more specific, my story would be boring, and that my writing was terrible and I should just stop writing and go die because I'll never amount to anything.

(Ok, so maybe that isn't exactly what was said...and maybe I hyperbolized a bit...but you get the gist.)

I disagree. The purpose of the plot is to provide a conflict for the protagonist. By far, the character is the most important element of any story. You can have an incredibly complex in interesting plot, but if the main characters are not gripping, then the story will be forgotten. In contrast, a story containing brilliantly crafted characters but that has a very simple plot can be both entertaining and memorable.

"But wait!" I hear you cry. "You're telling me the plot isn't important? That's preposterous!"

Well, yes and no. The plot itself isn't necessarily important; how the character acts within the scope of a plot is what's important. For example, say we have the story of Joe, who works as a cashier. That's pretty much what he does; he's not in college, he has no other job, he has no significant other. The entire story never goes beyond him and his job. It just goes over his regular day life.

Sounds boring, right?

Now let's change things. What if he's a kleptomaniac, and is stealing from the store and later having various mental conflicts over it. Let's also make him insecure, and internally questioning every move he makes. Suddenly, the story is potentially very interesting.

"But wait!" you cry out again. "That doesn't count! You changed the plot, you scoundrel!"

Yep. The previous scenario actually didn't really have a plot, as no conflict was there; I just introduced one. So what's the point? Well, the conflict, the setting, and the events of the plot (assuming nothing crazy happens) will all be very simple, and can be summed up in a short sentence; "An insecure cashier struggles with his own kleptomania." Very simple, but it has a conflict, and what can make for a very interesting character. Ta-da, you have a story!

Hopefully at least half of that made sense. My point here is that the plot doesn't need to be very complex, and the conflict can be a simple one. So if your plot involves the protagonist saving the world from aliens or solving the most complex crime ever, make sure your character is interesting, because honestly, that's almost all that matters.

I'll be back tomorrow with either some of my own writing, some more discussion on the elements of a story, or possibly some Lovecraft. Anyway, thanks for reading everyone.