What a Fabulous Conversation! 5 Tips on How to Write Gripping Dialogue.

I love dialogue.

Of all the elements of fiction, dialogue is my favorite as both a writer and a reader. I get excited when a come across a long stretch of dialogue in a novel, and as a writer, I work on dialogue for hours.

There is no resistance. I love picturing these scintillating conversations between characters, and I have no complaints working out the kinks as I put those talks to paper.

If anybody has come across some of my work-in-progress excerpts, you would find a lot of dialogue because I love it so much. If you’d like to check that out, go here.

Maybe I should have been a screenwriter. Because splendid dialogue between characters on a movie screen makes me high for days.

For example, Pulp Fiction is one of the best dialogue movies I’ve ever seen. Without the exquisite dialogue in every single scene of the movie, Pulp Fiction would have been awful.

As far as the characters and the plot are concerned, the stories are disturbing. Generally speaking, all the characters are out for themselves and nobody has a moral compass.

There are exceptional scenes of personal growth, like the choice Butch made to save Marcellus Wallace from a hideous fate, even though Marcellus Wallace had put a hit on him.

Also, the epiphany of Jules to quit the hit man’s life, walk the earth as a holy man, in the final scene when he spares the lives of Pumpkin and Honey Bunny, made a breathtaking end to a film that boggled the minds of most people who saw it.

Pulp Fiction took black humor to a new level. Throughout the many psychotic and psychopathic events, the audience laughed hysterically and savored every moment (or almost every moment), and I believe it was because the dialogue was that brilliant.

This was during the days when Quentin Tarantino collaborated with Roger Avary. Either Avary was the dialogue genius, or the two of them needed each other for that magical precision of back and forth verbal volley between characters. All I know is the dialogue in Tarantino’s films has made me cringe once they fell out and parted ways. Too many monologues.

I love good dialogue in a novel. I relish the chance to imagine these fictional conversations in my mind and put myself in the story as one of the characters.

The dialogue in Tom Robbins’ work (Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, Jitterbug Perfume, Still Life With Woodpecker) makes me want to dance and celebrate the glory of life. But his characters and his plots are every bit as magnificent as the dialogue they speak.

Back in the day, Jane Austen had some pretty luscious dialogues set in Regency England. But Jane Austen had far more fodder to work with. We’ve gotten lazy and unskilled in the act of communication. For centuries, conversation was an art that most people wanted to excel at.

Now that my rant about my love of dialogue is finished, the nuggets of advice I can offer on how to pen dialogue are:

1) Practice Writing Dialogue. Even if you suck at it, or think you do, make this a regular part of your writing practice.

2) Recall the most recent boring, inane small talk you engaged in recently (happens a lot in life), and throw in an unexpected twist. From there, one key word becomes several key words that feed the following next lines until you have a dialogue the flows like a cascade of dominoes.

For instance:

“I’m so sick of all this rain, aren’t you?”

“I’m sick of my husband’s farts in the middle of the night. Makes me want to sleep in the rain.”

“Oh really? My boyfriend talks dirty in his sleep. I wouldn’t mind so much if he wasn’t talking dirty to some chick named Agnes.”

“Who the hell talks dirty to girls named Agnes?”

“I know, right? Agnes sounds like somebody’s granny!”

“My grammy’s name was Serena.”

“That’s a sexy name.”

“Hey! That’s my grammy you’re talking about!”

“Maybe Agnes should change her name to Serena.”

“Why? She’s doing just fine if your boyfriend is talking dirty to her in his sleep.”

“Then I should change my name to Agnes.”

“That’s crazy! Maybe you should break up with your boyfriend.”

“Yeah, that may not be a bad idea. My boyfriend has a micropenis on top of all this.”

“That explains why he’s talking dirty to a chick named Agnes in his sleep.”

You don’t have to use this in anything. So relax, play with words and images, simply to see where the flow takes you. If you practice writing unexpected dialogue, eventually you will make magic happen in the dialogue of the stories you care about.

3) Eavesdrop. Listen in on conversations you find juicy, fascinating, or even irritating. Then write as much of them down from memory the best you can. Since chances are good (unless you have a 100% photographic memory ) you won’t recall everything, you’ll have to improvise.

Feel free to use step #2 above to take it in a different direction, and thus make the dialogue your own.

4) Read Your Dialogue Out Loud. That’s the only way you can hear the rhythm and flow of a conversation. You’ll catch any glitches or things that sound false.

5) For anybody who really struggles with dialogue, I suggest writing dialogue between the writerly YOU and your principal characters.

I suggest doing this one character at a time, to open yourself up to an impression of who they are as people and how they sound, even their quirky and unique expressions.

A few exercises like this and you’ll be creating luscious dialogue between your characters with little to no trouble.

I’m also happy to share a lovely article that gives other detailed tips on dialogue. Click here.

The Last Gamble

I always win.

The dealer said he had never seen anybody win and lose and win again like the Gambling Man had that night. He said the high roller gave him the largest tip of the season. Then the dealer saw the woman who had been staring at the Gambling Man all night. Out of gratitude and alarm, he put his hand out to stop him from approaching Ella Bandita. He even had his mouth open to warn him. But the nobleman glanced to the hand on his arm and glared, and brushed him off without a word. The dealer let the Gambling Man go to his fate.

“Congratulations,” she said. “That was impressive.”

“Why feign your good wishes?” he retorted. “You certainly weren’t cheering for me.”

She chuckled and shrugged.

Once he was close to her, the Gambling Man was uneasy and returned to his senses. He remembered his friends and Isabella and groaned. He tipped his hat and wished the strange woman good night. He finished two steps before she arrested him.    

“Why do you love it?” she asked. “What do you love about gaming?”

Luck has no play in games of skill.

The Gambling Man stopped and turned around. Ella Bandita nodded to his caddy overflowing with chips, but kept her gaze fixed on him. 

“Is it the money?” she continued. “Money you don’t need?”

He was shocked a woman would be so bold to question him like that. He was also excited. All his life, his friends had cheered him on and placed their bets, his family had scolded him, and his sweethearts had cautioned him. But nobody had ever asked him about his passion until now. The Gambling Man smiled for the first time since he saw her, his face glowing with rapture as he answered. 

“No. It’s the games.”

“So you like to play games,” she said. “Why the games of chance?”

“Because I love to win them.”

“Why not games of skill? The victory would be sweeter.”

The rhythm of her speech was steady, her low voice mesmerizing. Ella Bandita was subtle. So much the Gambling Man didn’t realize she was taunting him. Instead, he shook his head in earnest.

“Luck has no play in games of skill,” he said.

“Luck?”

“There were over a hundred men placing bets in here, but only a few of us were taking genuine risks. I nearly lost six months’ income tonight.”          

“Ahhh, I see. And yet, you are the big winner.”

She paused with a smile. The Gambling Man thought her teeth large for a woman, and then he noticed she had the coldest blue eyes he’d ever seen. His stomach clenched, but he ignored the sign and shook his head. 

Why not games of skill? The victory would be sweeter.

Luck has no play in games of skill.

“At least tonight you are,” she said. 

“I’m the big winner every night.”

“You still haven’t told me why you love it.”

The Gambling Man knew she was playing with him. He was enjoying her game, because it was one he didn’t know. He couldn’t remember the last time he was so engaged by conversation.

“How many people do you think won tonight?” he asked. 

“A few, I suppose.”

“Exactly. And how many of the real gamblers do you think won?”

“I suspect only you,” she said.

“That’s right. Only me.”

“You think that makes you special, don’t you?”

“I have luck on my side. And you think it doesn’t?”

“You really think you’re one of the chosen few?” Ella Bandita asked with one brow cocked, her mouth curved in a knowing grin.

“What a foolish vanity you have. Lady Fortune is fickle. Luck always changes.”

“Not for me, it doesn’t. You saw what happened tonight.”

“Tell me, Gambler, are you looking for the game you can’t win?”

“No, I’m looking to see that I always will.”

“Hmmm.”

“I win at games of chance,” he declared. “I always have.”

 “Perhaps you only play the ones that are easy to win.”

The Gambling Man chortled. He turned and pointed to the table now empty of people, clear of chips, the dice put away until the following night began. Even the dealer had gone.

“You think it’s easy to predict which numbers of the dice will come up?”

“You misunderstand me. I meant games that are safe.”

“The only game of chance I’ve never played is the one I’ve never heard of.”

This excerpt is out of my novel, “Ella Bandita and the Wanderer,” in the novella “The Bard Speaks.”

To purchase the full ebook of “Ella Bandita and the Wanderer” click here.

For a shorter read of “The Bard Speaks,” click here.

If you’d like to read an earlier excerpt from this piece, click here.

Beautiful Naked Woman - Good Way to Start a Novel?

Her beauty was staggering.

I had never seen so much flesh in my life as I did in the massive portraits on these walls.

Standing, reclining, full front on, in profile, her back to the artist, the Courtesan was naked in every pose, her silhouette that of an hourglass.

Her full breasts stood high on her chest, her torso curved to a slender waist above rounded hips, her legs were long and tapered. Her skin was creamy and luminous; and black hair cascaded to her waist.

Her features were noble; hers was the classical beauty of the highborn class.

But her eyes made her unforgettable. Beneath arched brows, her large eyes angled on a tilt and mingled the hues of gold and amber. Her steady gaze held the controlled ferocity of a wildcat.

Such fierce scrutiny replicated in portrait after portrait overpowered my senses for a moment. I turned my back to gather my bearings, only to come back to the incessant pink of the foyer.

How in the devil did I come here?

That’s what I wondered as I encountered again the cavernous entry into the home of the most legendary Courtesan the Capital City had ever known.

That was all I could think about that afternoon when the Wanderer and I first stepped inside the Courtesan’s Casa.

The atrium had soaring ceilings with pale pink satin lining the walls, while mottled pink marble stretched along the floor and up the steps of the sweeping staircase in the middle. Maybe even the ceiling was pink.

It was impossible to tell because the massive chandelier hanging in the space between the ceiling and the floor reflected pink everywhere.

Hundreds of candles and thousands of crystal droplets married fire and ice when the tiny flames coupled with the glimmering teardrops, then flickered along the marble floor, the stairs, and the walls.

Such a pairing had cast rosy radiance throughout the foyer to render everybody inside timeless and ageless.

The procession of servants and protégées lined up and waiting made up the most gorgeous household I had ever seen. I couldn’t believe it when the men bowed!

Even the strongmen actually bent at the waist, the same men who had pulled me and the Wanderer out of the rioting mob, and who had likely saved our lives. Yet here they were, bowing to us like royalty, while the women curtsied.

The courtesan protégées made quite a vision as they fanned their sumptuous skirts. Even the most junior maids held their plain skirts wide. Their timing was impeccable. The Courtesan’s staff moved in flawless unison, but how could they have rehearsed that moment?

My friend, the Wanderer, had enjoyed many grand adventures in his life. Yet his black eyes were wide in his face. He appeared as stunned as I with this spectacle. None of it seemed real, especially with the hard coldness of pink marble penetrating my boots to chill my feet.

Instead of gaining my balance, the glowing majesty of the entryway stirred the memory from that afternoon, which made me light-headed. I turned back to the paintings.

This time, I found it easier to focus on the portraits lined along the wall north of the wide elegant staircase that cut a dramatic swathe in the center of the foyer.

The woman peered intently at the artist who had painted her. The loving attention to detail made me wonder if the artist had caressed his lover with each stroke of the brush. Carnality and lawlessness emanated from the Courtesan’s portraits.

I could easily imagine a handsome, tormented soul painting with fevered intensity, a creator hopelessly in love with his libertine muse who would only cherish him in the moment. Perhaps they had made love in between sittings?

Before me were nine paintings displaying the glory of a legendary Courtesan in all the phases of her life.

About five years must have passed in between each portrait.

Her features matured and grew more defined with each painting, as she left the plump bloom of youth behind. Her body ripened to her prime, then past it; silver streaked her glossy black hair more and more in each portrait.

Yet in all the paintings, her expression was much the same.

Those golden eyes sparkled with defiance and unrepentant joy. Her generous mouth curved in a knowing smirk.

Had she anticipated her future audience when she posed for her portraits? Did she see past the artist, looking to those who would later gaze upon her?

Her stare was relentless. She dared me to judge her, the scarlet woman who should have been an outcast. Instead, the joke was on the rigid and the proper. And the Courtesan knew it.

How in the devil did I end up here? What a day of madness this had been, I mused as I gaped at the sensuous portraits.

“So what do you think of my Vanity Gallery, darling Shepherd?”

 

Novel excerpt from “The Shepherd and the Courtesan,” a work-in-progress by Montgomery Mahaffey

©2019, All Rights Reserved.