Dialogue, or Talking about Talking

I gotta write more scripts.  I like the format.  When I first started writing on the bus, on my shiny new halfling-size laptop, the first thing I did was a short radio play.  Now, after struggling with the novel format, my blog is late this week because I’ve been happily writing a web-comic strip.

The radio play was especially fun because there was no stage action – the whole story had to be told in voice.  I like dialogue.  I hope I’m good with it.   And in scripts, dialogue is the primary way in which character is revealed.  And dialogue and action together pretty much make up the whole story.

In novels, the author can get inside the character’s head.  Thoughts, feelings, musings… all can be presented easily.  You’d think novel writing would therefore be easier – more tools for the author to build the tale. 

But there is something to be said for the challenge of working on a limited canvas. (Is a limited color palate a better analogy?)  It forces you to be deliberate, to make meaningful and powerful choices in order to get the best use out of the tools you’ve got.  Or, to continue the analogy, to use bold colors.

Even in the novel format, dialogue is a powerful tool.  I have noticed that good authors reveal new information in dialogue as well as in text.  Despite having access to a character’s thoughts, sometimes we don’t learn their conclusions until the character tells someone else.  More dramatic that way.

I think part of the appeal of dialogue is it’s how we learn about people in real life.  We judge others by what they say and do.  It’s all we’ve got, really.  So we learn from the time we’re children to decipher words and phrases, to listen for double meanings, to see when people’s words don’t add up, to decide who to believe.

Dialogue therefore commands our attention.  It’s our life.

Time Compression and Narration

I understand that a typical mistake made by amateur movie makers is showing too much establishing footage.  Filming a guy leaving his house, shutting his door, walking to his car, pulling out his keys, getting in his car, driving away, sitting in traffic, arriving at his destination.  Audiences only need to see that last bit – the arrival.  Maybe, if continuity is an issue, we can see him driving away from home.  But anything more is a waste of time and the viewers’ attention.

So I’m writing this supposedly short web comic script for my sister-in-law, and I’m still fighting the expanding page-count. I’m on page eight and I’ve finally gotten to the meat of the story.

One of the problems I had was having the main character arrive outside an apartment window while the next scene requires her to be inside.  The question is – do I need to show her climbing through the window?

I decided that entering the apartment was a necessary bit of continuity to avoid confusing the reader.  But it is an unfortunate necessity, using up page space and making my artist do more work.

The trick, it turns out, is making each panel do double duty.  So while the characters are doing uninteresting things like climbing through windows, I have them thinking (hopefully) interesting and revealing things.  Thank heaven for first person narration.

An interesting reversal actually occurs here – once I decide what information to reveal during these necessary transition panels, I have to make the panels large enough to contain the new data. 

It’s like the film maker above intentionally extending the driving sequence in order to make time for an important voice-over.  But that’s no longer a mistake – it’s an intentional control over the flow of time.  The movie takes time to think because the character does.

But none of this makes my script any shorter.

A Matter of Character

A writing friend of mine recently mentioned the old idea that the difference between story and plot is character.  Really, of course, it’s a matter of how the terms are defined – ask ten writers, you’ll probably get twelve definitions.

But the underlying point is valid.  I recently saw a good example in Disney’s latest princess movie, Tangled.

Without giving too much away, there is a scene where the lead character is emotionally conflicted.  She is happy about something she’s done, but unhappy about how she had to do it.

There is an entire scene devoted to her emotional conflict that does not advance the plot – that is, the sequence of events leading to the resolution of the story – at all.  Just the opposite, actually – the presence of this extra scene slows the advancement of events.

But it is a great scene.  It’s funny.  And it tells us about our princess and helps us care about her.  And it is by caring about her that we give a damn about the story.  ‘Cause otherwise it is just a sequence of events.

So I guess the best plot is the world falls short if it doesn’t happen to someone.  To look at it another way, perhaps a great sequence of events that don’t involve the audience with the characters should be called something other than a story.  Like a history, or a saga, or something.

After what came before…

For today, a couple of unrelated thoughts based on my previous post.  If you need to, you can go back and read it. I’ll wait – the Internet is patient.

My first thought is that comic book format creates interesting challenges to pacing.  At the request of the person I am writing for, I’m trying to avoid too many words per panel.  I’m also trying to avoid too many panels per page.  Otherwise, you know, they get really small and cramped.

Unfortunately, the original plan also included not having too many pages of story as well.  And the way I’m working now, it takes five pages to move the story an inch.  I suppose economy of storytelling is an issue in any media.  Brevity, wit.  It’s a fun, but occasionally frustrating challenge.

My other thought was about the classification and demystification of magic that I ranted about in my previous post.  Particularly as it pertains to my work-not-so-much-in-progress, The Illusionist’s House. 

I’m thinking the solution may be to go ahead and let the people in the story try to classify magic.  Maybe even let them think they’ve succeeded.  And then have them be wrong.  Let them learn that some things defy pigeonholes.

The limits of what can be known is becoming a theme for the story anyway.

Post Mutant Magic Syndrome

First, as I write this it’s the last day of 2010.  So Happy New Year to all my readers.  Second, this may turn into a rant. Hey, I’m sure I’m the first blogger that’s ever happened to.

The weeks surrounding the holidays have thrown me a little off track, so I haven’t really been keeping up on either my blogging or my writing.  As a result, The Illusionist's House has hit something of a stall.  I have also taken on another writing project, a (theoretically) short web-comic script for a sister-in-law.

Looking back on my work-in-progress, I see it suffers from a modern condition that I have chosen to call, for want of some other equally stupid name, Post Mutant Magic Syndrome.

Long-time readers will probably have gotten the impression that I like superheroes.  They would be right.  One of the interesting traits of the genre is that superpowers are frequently (though not always) well defined.  Readers like the heroes with clearly defined limits – it cuts down on the Deus ex Machina endings you get if a hero can pull any power out of his hat. 

Marvel Comic’s mutants are a good example – the usually only have one or two very specific powers.  This one has wings, that one can walk through walls.

Now the fantasy genre relies heavily on magic and magic, as a general rule, defies easy definition and classification.  Only not so much, any more. 

I’ve been reading a collection of werewolf short stories but current popular urban fantasy authors.  As is the modern trend in dark fantasy, there is more than one thing out there going bump in the night.  In a world of demons and vampires, a werewolf can actually be the good guy.  And who doesn’t like to see werewolves and vampires at war?

This leads to more definition for the supernatural element. I’m okay with different stories defining the monsters differently – these werewolves turn into wolves, those turn into wolfmen.  I’m a big fan of doing what serves the story.  But some of these worlds are becoming so populated with magical beings that rigid scientific principles of taxonomy are starting to apply.  I recently read a story by an author I really like where the hero (a vampire-hunting werewolf) paused to explain the difference between the powers of witches and wizards.

It’s starting to take some of the magic out of things.  I mean, these stories still work for me on the level in which I enjoy superheroes, but the trade-off is a level of mystery.

Which brings us back to my current work in progress, which hinges on defining the limits on illusion magic as distinct from several other forms.  I’m writing what I’m ranting against and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

And now a Rebuttal…

‘Twas the blog before Christmas…

I want to make a counter argument to my last blog post.  In it, I noted that an author might choose to write a scene one way or another, depending on the expected audience and the intended genre.  I went so far as to state that a book aimed at one audience might loose readers if it delved too far into the writing style of another genre.

It does happen, by the way.  I’ve seen it.

But isn’t there an argument for just writing the best, most powerful stuff you can, without worrying about who it’s for?  For not letting some editor in the back of your brain convince you it won’t sell to your target audience?  I mean, if you write the good stuff, surely someone will like it, right?

I suppose it depends on what you consider the good stuff.  There is something to be said for internal consistency, after all.  An R rated scene in an otherwise G rated story stands out like a cue ball in a bowl of oranges.  It might be the absolute best way to depict that scene, but does it serve the overall story?

There is no right answer, of course.  Novelists and dramatists and movie producers struggle with this all the time.  And you know, I didn’t want you to miss out on a good struggle in your own work.

Happy holidays!

Unexpected Horror

For those who read my last installment, I’m still not sure about the novel I am currently reading.  If it is a romance, it understands the conventions of fantasy better than the last romance I accidently read.  I’m a little disappointed because it is not as funny as the back cover made it sound, but that’s another issue.

What’s interesting is that the story could support a range of genres, with the major difference being not the events of the plot but the way they are told.

In an early scene of the book, our heroes, who at this point dislike each other intensely, are fighting zombies in a mine.  This could have been a great horror scene. As written, the novel does not invoke the claustrophobic atmosphere of the mine, the intrinsic fear of being buried with the dead, the revolting condition of the zombie miners, the helplessness of our heroes, or any of the wonderful creepiness that the scene presents.

It could have been a very powerful, very spooky, encounter.

But just because something can be done, does not mean it should be.  I don’t know if the author wanted to catch fantasy readers, romance readers, or both.  Either way, a sudden drop into horror with no warning is not likely to please the readership.  Displeased readers do not finish the book.  More importantly, they don’t buy the author’s next book.

Of course, there is no magic formula to find the balance.  A little more horror might have made the scene more real, more exciting.  But too much and suddenly you are in the wrong novel.  Part of it is consistency of tone, part of it is knowing what kind of story you are writing.

But don’t stress too much at the start – consistency and tone are good things to watch for as you edit your later drafts.