So I've been looking through my old blog posts.

And, I've found, it's no wonder that I can't read them.  They're practically unreadable--the tone, the style, the short sentences that make it sound like I'm on crack.  Maybe I was on crack at the time; who knows?  (I'm just kidding.  Seriously.  I don't do crack.)  The point remains that for some reason all of the posts on this blog, barring one or two, are in a form that is mind-bogglingly hard to read--mostly because of a couple of things.

Thing number one: Short sentences.  I liked to use very short sentences in my writing not too long ago, for reasons that I don't understand myself at this moment--not that it really matters much--although I have spent a little bit of time thinking about it.  Maybe I thought that short sentences would have a bigger impact on the reader; maybe I thought that keeping them simple would make it easier to read.  I'm pretty sure that I was wrong in this regard.  Because, god damn, my old blog posts are hard to read.  How did I even write like that?  Have you ever felt that way about something that you have done?  It's a really unpleasant feeling.

Number two: my ideas are all over the place.  I jump from one subject to the next in the span of several short words, and the effect is like reading the transcript of a conversation of a kid with severe ADHD.  I don't know how I got there; I don't know how it happened; I'm pretty sure that whatever ADHD I have is mild.  Or maybe it isn't.  Who knows; I've never been diagnosed--I've never asked anyone to check me out.

I mean, wow, I really hate how my old blog post writing feels.  It feels terrible.  I have no idea why I used to write like that.  (Although, reading back on what I've written so far, it seems like my writing style echoes what it was just a couple of months ago, albeit a little bit more mature.)  Maybe I can get it to be something--like a calling card, or whatever you call someone's signature style.  Maybe if I work hard enough at improving my writing style my blog will be fun to read because of this--precisely because of this.  Or, maybe, I can make my stuff into videos where I read aloud what I've written in a hyperactive voice while pictures and film and stuff moves across the screen.  What do you think?  Though, I'm pretty sure that there isn't really a "you" out there so much as there is a vast wasteland of cyberspace and null feeling where no one cares about me and no one is willing to give me the time of the day--because let's face it, and amateur blogger really isn't something to look at.

Maybe I can get better.  Maybe I can work on my writing style and my subject matter so that when I do write it will be both entertaining and informative.  Maybe I should keep at it; who knows?  I really don't have much support in the way of people who will look at the stuff that I write, though, and that's what's getting me down.  I really want people to read my stuff; but, then again, so does everyone else--who's to decide whose stuff gets read and who gets relegated to the corner of nowhere?

I'm writing this as a kind of "I'm sorry" for the things that I've written so far--I'm sorry that they've been so bad, I'm sorry that I thought they were good, I'm sorry that you had to read them.  Maybe this will make me sound like a self-depreciating idiot--I assure you, I'm not, I'm just facing reality and how things really are.  Maybe I should go back and change the things I

I've written?

Nah, I'll leave them, as a testament to who I've been and who I might become.  So, loyal fanbase of exactly zero, get ready for another try at this game from me, the best blogger who was ever not very good.

Conversations

We all know the feeling. We'll be reading along, when we encounter a conversation, and we think, who said what? As a result, we'll have to go back to the last dialog tag--perhaps half a page away--and restart the conversation to discover who, exactly, said what.

It's a common mistake, one that I make all the time, when I'm not paying attention. When dialog tags are eschewed in favor of style, there is always the danger that the reader will lose track of who's who.

So. How to avoid this?

First, let's look at an example of a lost dialog flow.

Billy stepped into the car.  Dylan put his arm against the roof.  Billy placed the key into the ignition.  He turned it.

"So, how is your wife?"

"She's good.  We had our anniversary last month."

"Did you?  Was it fun?"

"Oh, you bet.  I'm glad to be Mr. Billy Sharpe."

Dylan shifted his arm.  Billy started the car.  He pushed down on the clutch.  

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife is really glad you're Mr. Sharpe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Billy asked.  


I tried to make it apparent, but did you notice the disconnect?  That subtle pulling away that happens when you realize that you don't know which mouth the dialog is coming out of?

Let's analyze that feeling.

First off. Remember last week, when I talked about motivation reaction units in action sequences? Well, dialog is a part of that motivation-reaction rhythm. To recap, a motivation reaction rhythm is a linear progression of events within a textual scenario that emphasizes cause and effect. The cause affects the effect. This happens within the text in order to create scene flow.  It's sort of like shot composition in a movie.

And, like in shot composition, dialog within written works deserves to be linear.  What would you feel, if during a movie, a camera cut to one character moving, and the other character spoke instead of the character in the screen?  Sure, it might be used for effect, but in any case, it would be jarring.

The same is true of written dialog.  In order for the most effect to be had from a line of dialog, a character must be present within the mind of the reader before the line is delivered.


Billy stepped into the car. Dylan put his arm against the roof. Billy placed the key into the ignition.  He turned it. Dylan shifted his weight onto his toes.

"So, how is your wife?"

"She's good.  We had our anniversary last month."

Dylan let a sly grin creep across his face.

"Did you?  Was it fun?"

Billy gave a good-natured scoff.

"Oh, you bet.  I'm glad to be Mr. Billy Sharpe."

Dylan shifted his arm. Billy started the car. He pushed down on the clutch.

Dylan swung his legs into the car's passenger seat.  

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife is really glad you're Mr. Sharpe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Billy asked.

In this example, the 'scene cuts,' so to speak, have been rearranged to fit logically. As you can see, this leads to a much more fluid progression of dialog, a more vivid sequence of events within the reader's head.  There is less that the reader has to calculate inside of his head, less that the reader has to infer from context.

So, as a general rule:  always cut to the character who has a line of dialog before that line of dialog is delivered.  You may do it in any manner--through tags, motions, a direct mention, even implication, though I wouldn't try that unless you are absolutely certain you know what you're doing.

And, of course, this method needs no dialog tags, so it is possible to do away with them entirely.  However, if one does want to use dialog tags, there are certain ways in which they can be used that can increase, rather than decrease, the artistry of the situation.


Billy stepped into the car. Dylan put his arm against the roof. Billy placed the key into the ignition.  He turned it. Dylan shifted his weight onto his toes.

"So," he said, "how is your wife?"

"She's good.  We had" Billy said, "our anniversary last month."

Dylan let a sly grin creep across his face.

"Did you?" he asked.  "Was it fun?"

Billy gave a good-natured scoff.

"Oh, you bet.  I'm glad to be Mr. Billy Sharpe."

Dylan shifted his arm. Billy started the car. He pushed down on the clutch.

Dylan swung his legs into the car's passenger seat.  

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife" Dylan said,  "is really glad" he continued,  "that you're Mr. Sharpe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Billy asked.

Did you notice how the placement of dialog tags can imply natural pauses in conversation?

Let's take this line for example.

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife" Dylan said,  "is really glad" he continued,  "that you're Mr. Sharpe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Billy asked.

Dylan's statement suddenly brims forth with personality.  He's sarcastic, he's playfully biting, he's elbowing his friend in the side with his comment.  All because of the implication that he's pausing twice, within the sentence.

For comparison:

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife" Dylan said,  "is really glad" he continued,  "that you're Mr. Sharpe."

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife is really glad you're Mr. Sharpe."

Do you hear the difference?  That's what dialog tags, when used right, can do for a sentence.  They simulate natural pauses in the conversation, while also performing their given function, that is, to tag dialog.

I hope you enjoyed my advanced writing tips today!  New writing updates every Tuesday and Thursday, new story updates every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.  See you then!

Those Pesky Dialog Tags

Dialog is hard.  We all know that.  Not because it’s hard to write, but because it’s hard to tag.  You all know what I’m talking about.  “He said, she said, they said, we said, you said, he said,” over and over again is ugly.  Just like how single clause sentences over and over again are ugly.

After writing for some time, I've managed to break down dialog tags into a discreet set of facts, categorized by effect.  In order to explain them, I must first explain something about flow.  

Flow is that state in the reader's mind that is achieved when the words on the page disappear and are replaced by an inner "movie."  More accurately, a virtual reality that renders everything from smells to the pull of acceleration to wrenching emotional sadness.  This "flow," as I will call it, is the desirable state.  All books should aim to place the reader squarely in this state.  

When in flow, a reader does not read individual words.  He or she does not skim, either.  The reader in a state of flow absorbs information on the syntactical level.  Which is to say, they don't pick up words, they pick up sentences, and paragraphs.  Words become garnish along a two-dimensional plane.  I know you've had the feeling before.  When you're reading, and you're not picking up individual words, when you're looking at a paragraph and you see in you mind everything that that paragraph stands for at once.  That's the state of flow.  That's the goal that I believe writers must achieve.

Imagine for a second a piece of music.  Imagine that you're listening to it, and that you drift off into that space where your mind fills with the visions of that music.  Do you notice the A sharp at the third downbeat of the fourth 4/4 bar at measure 23?  Of course not.  You hear instead a modulation of the major chord progression into a minor one.  You hear the effect.  You don't hear the note.  Your mental image of the music gets gritty, dark.  A sense of pressing is imparted by the change to minor key.  

The same with words.

So what does this have to do with dialog?

Tossing aside the music metaphor in favor of straight mechanics, dialog has two jobs: communicate what the character says, and maintain the state of flow.  Pretty simple, right?  Well, let's consider this.  

You're coming out of a long paragraph filled with explosive action.  Your first spoken character rolls underneath a bunker, and sidles up to the second spoken character.  We'll call them one, and two.

One wants to deliver this line: "Get up!  Get up!  They're coming over the ridge!"  

Two wants to deliver this line: "I don't want to die!  I can't get up, they'll kill me!"

One wants to finish like this:  "You'll be worse then dead if you don't get up now!"  

So how to approach this scene?

Option one: use the "said" tags.  

One rolled down underneath the bunker, where Two huddled against a dark corner.  

"Get up!  Get up!  They're coming over the ridge!" One said.  

"I don't want to die!" said Two. "I can't get up, they'll kill me!"

One said: "You'll be worse then dead if you don't get up now!"

Did you notice what I did there?  There are three ways that tags--of any kind--can be inserted into a statement.  Let's play with that a little.  

One rolled down underneath the bunker, where Two huddled against a dark corner.  

One said: "Get up!  Get up!  They're coming over the ridge!"  

"I don't want to die!  I can't get up, they'll kill me!" said Two.  

"You'll be worse then dead," said One, "if you don't get up now!"  

Did you notice how the conversation flowed different?  Even the meanings change.  The tag in the middle of the third line of dialog casts One's words in a sinister light.  I feel like the exclamation point doesn't belong anymore.  Maybe One is threatening Two, instead of warning him, as in the first example.  

And all because the position of the tag changed.  Readers don't "see" these tags, per se.  Rather, they take them in like that A# inside of the C major chord progression, that single note that signals that something much bigger is afoot. 

Here's where the state of flow ties in.  Words, when read in a state of flow, are nothing but tags for mental images.  When in a state of flow, all writing reads like dialog.  We search for the tags between the information to tell us what's happening.  We don't read all of the information.  Just as, when you read dialog, you don't read each word.  You hear the word combinations.  The sentences spoken by the character.  And the tags keep you oriented.  They're like road signs.  

Incidentally, this is also why verbs are so important, and why it's bad to split your infinitives.  Tags need to be clear, concise, and close to the thing that they tag.  That's also why adjectives are not good in bulk.  Not because they're just 'bad', but because they push the tags apart from each other.  It's like stuffing.  Too little is bad.  Too much is bad.  You have to get things just right.  Maybe I'll talk about this at a later time.  

Back to dialog.  

There are actually two types of tags:  explicit tags, and implicit tags.  Now, to explain implicit tags, remember what I said before about flow: tags punch an image into the reader's mind.  If that tag is of the character that speaks, regardless of the action, and is not otherwise consumed in the flow of a motivation-reaction rhythm (more on this in another post), then that tag will perform the same job as a "he said:" that is, to punch the image of the character to speak into the reader's mind.  Do you see the difference?  Imagine explicit tags as a subset of implicit tags.  Explicit tags are tags where the character in question performs an action that could be called speaking.  (Talking, spurting, crying, sobbing, yelling, performing, are a few examples.  The fabled "other saids.")  Whereas, implicit tags are tags where the character performs any action.  

Note here that it's not the action that makes the tag.  A tag is a tag, regardless of what the character does.  There are implicit tags that mesh more with speaking than others, but that has to do with common association, as well as the flow of the conversation.  (Again, a topic for another post.)  Not whether or not the character speaks inside of the tag.  

An example of an explicit tag: 

Sheldon spoke.  "What is this?"

An example of an implicit tag:  

Sheldon pressed his finger down against the hard shell.  "What is it?"

This segues me nicely into my next topic of discussion.  Did you notice how there was a tension in that implicit tag example?  How it felt, wrong, somehow?  Well, you were right.  Implicit tags are implicit because they imply.  They imply a lot of things, as a matter of fact, besides dialog.  So, one needs to make sure that the tag implies the right thing.  How?  

Like this.  

Sheldon pressed his face against the glass.  

"What is it?"

Better, but not quite.  Let's try some more.  

Sheldon pressed his face against the glass.  

"What is it?"  

His breath fogged the window.  

There we go, do you feel the subtle tension forwards?  Do you feel that very slight implication that there is something after that last word, "window?"

Here, I'll make it more obvious.  

Sheldon pressed his face against the glass.  

"What is it?"  

He turned aside.  

Did you feel it?  That need to resolve the action?  That's good.  That's mechanical tension.  That is desirable.  

To review (TLDR):

There are three places you can place a tag: beginning of line, middle of line, end of line.  They all affect the dialog in subtle ways.  

There are two types of tags: explicit, and implicit.  Explicit tags are a subset of implicit tags that only tag dialog.  Implicit tags can add tension to conversations.  

There are two ways to separate tags from dialog: space-bar, and return.  Spaces force a slowdown.  The tag is less prominent.  They are good for simple explicit tags.  Indents require a quick eye movement to be made.  Thus, they imply motion.  They are a good tool in the finessing of tension.  Implicit tags work well with them.

More on Friday, perhaps an expansion on this topic, perhaps on some of the others I mentioned throughout the post. 

I hope you enjoyed this exposition on writing technique.

Leave comments below.  Ask for clarification.  I will gladly answer.   

People want disaster.

So I've discovered something.  Something amazing.  Something that will blow your mind.  Probably.  You know what, it might not.  In fact, it's pretty much common sense.

When people read, they want disaster.  Lots, and lots, of disaster.

They want death, destruction, pain, sadness, regret, loss, irreparable nerve damage.  

If you've noticed, you get the most involved in stories where bad things happen.  You are most tense when something is seriously at stake.  When disaster lingers over every corner.  When people shatter.  Buildings crash.  Things explode.  Plans unravel at their seams.  You want bad things to happen.  

Do you remember the last part of the Mockingjay, in the hunger games?  

Do you remember how intense it was?  How putting it down right after-

 Finnick dies was almost inconceivable?  How, after that one girl gets her face melted off, that no one could have gotten you to put the book down?  

You know how, in All Quiet on the Western Front, you come out with an almost shell-shocked sense of reality?  How you can't put it down because so many damn bad things happen?

In case you're wondering, my theory is that people like to experience bad things in book because it's a safe way for them to internalize solutions to deadly problems that other people have experienced, and I think it's an evolutionary adaptation that allows for intuitive internalization of lessons that others have learned though situations that would be terrible to put ourselves through.  In short, we like to learn how to survive in situations we might encounter in the future, however remote they might be.  Even if it means watching the death of that character.  We think "this is what I would have done to avoid this."  We simulate ourselves in the situations that the characters experience.  And thus, the book draws us in.  It is effective in its narrative. Not because of good character development.  Not because of good overall story arcs.  But because people are in danger and die.

And as such, as a writer, I will provide.  I will rip out your guts with my storytelling, so that you don't have to experience them ripped out of your body in real life.  I will kill people to show you how it's done.  

Here's my story idea.  

Zombies.

Air raids.

The Johnestown flood.

Fire.

A nuclear meltdown.

All in a single day, in a single chain of unfortunate events.  One after the other.  They all go down.  And everybody experiences it.  People will die.  Some might get torn apart by zombies.  Some might perish in the military bombing campaign.  Some might drown beneath a sixty-meter high wall of rushing water out of a broken dam.  Some might burn to a crisp in the oil-fed fires that coat the top of the water.  Some might die from radiation burns.  

And some might survive.  But they will never be the same.

It will be epic.