The Book of Dialogue: How to Write Effective Conversation in Fiction, Screenplays, Drama, and Poetry

introduction

Several months elapsed between my being commissioned to write this book on the art and craft of writing dialogue in fiction and my actually sitting down to begin work on the typescript. That’s not to say nothing was happening. I’d written the outline of the book, so I knew generally what it was I had to say—my first problem had to do with how to say it. That’s always a major problem with writing anything. How to say something is more than half the battle. It takes some thought to decide on approach and tactics.

So I was doing a lot of thinking. At last I had a brainstorm—it was simplicity itself. I would write a book about dialogue in the form of a dialogue.

There’s nothing new about the method of what’s called the Socratic dialogue. It has been around for a millennium and a half, and it’s a sound teaching technique. It was invented by Plato. Many people who read Plato’s dialogues believe that they are a sort of verbatim transcript of what Socrates said as he walked about the grounds of his Academy, the Athenian agora, around 400 BC, as though Plato were a kind of human tape recorder who listened carefully to the great philosopher-teacher and took excellent notes that he passed on to posterity, but that is far from the case. In fact, the Dialogues were works of fiction.

"For Plato has a numerous repertory of dramatis personae," says the classic eleventh edition of The Encyclopedia Britannica (in vol. 21, p. 811), who stand in various relations to his chief character—that is, Socrates—including the impetuous Chaerephon, Apollodorus the inseparable weak brother, old Crito the truehearted, Phaedo the beloved disciple, Simmias and Cebes, and so on and so forth. Parmenides with his magnificent depth is made to converse with the imaginary Socrates who is still quite young.

"Made to converse with the imaginary Socrates." Clearly, Plato’s Dialogues are works of fiction at the same time that they are works of nonfiction. They are philosophical textbooks that tell a story, but their chief purpose is to discuss the nature of truth as it applies to various disciplines: ethics, politics, law, logic, science, religion. There is a paradox built into the system of the dialogues: Plato wrote lies in order to tell the truth. That’s what fictioneers and playwrights do and have always done. Plato was not only an early and great philosopher of the Western world, he was an early fiction writer as well.

Where did Plato (ca. 427–347 BC) get the idea for his dialogues? If we look at Greek classical literature we find two types of narrative that are older than or roughly contemporary with Plato’s Dialogues—the epics of Homer (ca. ante-700 BC), and the plays of Aristophanes (ca. 448–388 BC) and Euripides (ca. 480–406 BC). The epic was the first novel, the most obvious difference between the two being the mode of writing; that is to say, the classical epic was written in verse (metered language), and the modern novel is written in prose (unmetered language). There are other differences, of course, but they don’t concern us here. However, drama does concern us as the source of dialogue, so we will spend time in the course of future pages talking about the difference between dialogue as it appears in fiction and in drama.

What is my role in the evolution of Plato’s invention? Simply that my subject in this book is dialogue itself. I’ll use the Socratic dialogue to teach dialogue writing. I’ll make up my own version of a Platonic fictional character in order to discuss the writing of dialogue in fiction while writing a piece of nonfiction fiction in the process!

Are there any advantages to this method?

Yes, there are. For one thing, I can set up a tension between the author (who is himself, if truth were known, a fictive invention) and an antagonist, just as a fiction writer does in writing a short story or a novel when he or she pits a protagonist against an antagonist—a hero against a villain, if you prefer. Another thing I can do is to illustrate as we go along, in the text itself, the methods, techniques, and conventions of dialogue writing.

Is there anything else that can be done?

Most certainly. I can develop the personality of my fictive foil, show how dialogue is a builder of character in a narrative. At the beginning of the book this unnamed dramatic persona, to use the term of the Britannica, is nothing more than a disembodied voice. Within a few pages, if I do my job right, my character will begin to be a person, a stand-in for an aspect of the author, that facet which is a student rather than a teacher. I will be talking to myself and to the reader simultaneously, and it’s possible that during the course of the book we may learn something about the art of writing dialogue in fiction.

Since the first edition of this book was published in 1989 as Dialogue, many things have happened to it. It has been translated into Italian by Sylvia Biasi and published in Italy by Editrice Nord of Milan in 1992; it has been published in paperback by Robinson of London in 1991 and later as part of another book by Robinson, How to Write a Mi££ion: The Complete Guide to Becoming a Successful Author in 1995, and the first American paperback edition appeared in 1999. I don’t know how many printings it’s gone through, but the original edition went through eight printings in those fourteen years, and the twenty-first century has ensued. Clearly, it is time for a new edition.

And this is it. It is basically the same book, but there are complete examples rather than partial ones, as often there were originally. The genre of poetry has been added to fiction, cinema, radio, and drama, a feature not found in other books on the subject. I hope the audience of this century finds The Book of Dialogue as useful as the audience of the last century did, and as do the audiences for its companion books, The Book of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics and The Book of Literary Terms: The Genres of Fiction, Drama, Nonfiction, Literary Criticism and Scholarship.

Lewis Turco

Emeritus Professor of English Writing Arts

Oswego State University

March 7, 2003

CHAPTER ONE

Definitions

Dialogue

Just exactly what is dialogue?

You’re writing this book. Why don’t you tell me?

I beg your pardon?

Why, what did you do?

Who are you?—if you don’t mind my asking.

Well, since you’re the author of this book, I guess I must be a character you’ve invented. Either that, or I’m a would-be writer who’s been hanging around waiting for you to say something interesting.

What’s your name?

I must have amnesia, because I don’t think I have one. Why don’t you give me one?

I’ll think about it.

While you’re doing that, can I ask you a question?

Sure. Go ahead.

Okay—what’s dialogue?

Dialogue is a conversation.

Like what we’re having right now?

Exactly.

If you already knew, why did you ask me?

I didn’t ask you. I was just talking out loud. I didn’t know you were there.

Oh, sure! sure! You expect me to believe that?

Well, I didn’t know you were there yet.

You thought you were talking to yourself?

You’ve got it! I’m still not sure I’m not talking to myself.

Forms of Dialogue 1: Monologue and Soliloquy

What do you call talking to yourself? Can you have a conversation with yourself?

Of course. It’s called a soliloquy. That is, it’s called a soliloquy if you’re not expecting any answer—in other words, if you’re just expressing your thoughts aloud.

Give me an example.

Okay, if you’ll leave the room.

Leave the room? How can you give me an example if I’m not around?

How can I give you an example if you are?

This is a real baffler.

Just leave the room. You can read the soliloquy afterward.

All right, all right. Give me a second . . .

Format and Punctuation 1

Are you gone? Is he gone? I heard the door close, so I guess he must be out of the room. Now, where was I? Oh, right—I was going to think out loud. Let’s see. Who is this person I’m talking to? It appears he’s a character I’ve invented for the purposes of this book. He needs a name, it seems to me, and I’d best begin using quotation marks for our speeches so that people can keep track of who’s speaking.

"Well, people know who I am because my name’s on the title page of the book, but they have no idea who my partner is. In fact, he’s a ‘foil,’ a person who is used to further the purposes of another person, in this case, the Author. I’d best start another paragraph at this point because I’m going to change my focus. I won’t close my quotes at the end of this paragraph, though, because I’m going to continue to speak.

I will, however, start the paragraph with quotes so that when my foil gets back he’ll know I’m still talking. What the hell, I think I’ll just call him Fred. That’s as good a name as any. I’ll call him back now, and then I’ll close the quotes on this soliloquy made of two paragraphs—hey, Fred! Come on back!

Fred opens the door and sticks his head into the room. Are you talking to me? he asks.

Yes.

He enters and closes the door behind him. Since when is my name Fred?

Since two minutes ago.

Oh. Well, it’s not much of a name, but it’s an improvement over nothing. Let’s see what you’ve written. I need to check out what a soliloquy looks like. Fred bends over the Author’s shoulder and squints at the video monitor of the computer. Okay, pal, scroll it back so I can see the soliloquy.

Types of Fictional Characters: Personae

The author scrolls back along the file to the point in question, and Fred reads for a moment, then stiffens. A foil? I’m a foil? How come I’m not a protagonist, or at least an antagonist, like you said in the introduction? Why do I have to be a foil instead of a character? That makes me a ‘second banana,’ right?

The Author sighs—he can already see where this line of questioning is leading. Fred is beginning to be something of a pain, and it can only get worse. The Author needs to regain control of his book. You’re a foil because I need one. I don’t need a protagonist or an antagonist because this isn’t going to be a story, it’s a Socratic dialogue.

I get the picture about the soliloquy, and I understand that a dialogue is a conversation, such as the one we’re having at the moment, but what’s a ‘Socratic’ dialogue? Fred looks quizzically at the Author.

Uses of Italics

The Author sighs again. Brother, he thinks, this is going to get complicated. All Fred knows how to do is ask questions. Aloud, he says, I thought you said you’d read the introduction. Socrates was an ancient Greek philosopher who taught his pupils by means of conversation—questions and answers. Since this is a book on how to write dialogue, I figured the most appropriate way to proceed was by means of the Socratic dialogue. Go back and take another look at that introduction. You missed a few things. Any more questions?

Lots. Fred gives the Author a big grin. His rather narrow features fold themselves into a lot of small wrinkles. His pale skin seems to be paper thin and very pliable. He has blue eyes, the Author notices for the first time, and rather sparse, almost colorless blonde hair. I see you’re using quotation marks now to help keep things tidy.

And to allow me to put in descriptions and actions and things like that, so that the speeches can be immediately recognized as speeches.

I like the way you used italics, too, Fred says, to show unspoken thoughts, not a soliloquy. They don’t do it that way in dramas, do they?

Scripts

Author: No. Scripts look like this.

Fred: Yes, I see. And in between the speeches the playwright can insert stage directions and descriptions of setting and things like that, right?

(Fred moves across the set, stage right, sits down on a chair and crosses his legs.)

Author: Exactly. Plays aren’t meant to be read except by the people staging them, so the script is laid out in this way for the benefit of the actors and the other personnel of the drama. The audience can see the actions, the scenes, and so forth. They can see who’s speaking, so there’s no need for quotation marks or descriptions of places, situations, people, and actions, as there is in fiction.

(Fred uncrosses his legs and gets up again.)

You know, he says, this is kind of interesting.

How do you do that? the Author asks.

Do what?

Knit your brows.

Don’t ask me. Fred shrugs. You’re the author around here. I don’t even know what ‘knit’ means.

Author: (aside) If you did, you’d be a knit-wit.

Fred: What did you say? I couldn’t hear.

Author: You weren’t supposed to. It was an aside.

Fred: What . . .

Author: (before Fred can continue) Don’t ask. An aside is a remark made by a character intended to be heard only by the audience of a play, not the other characters onstage.

Fred: I see. Can you have an aside in fiction, too?

Forms of Dialogue 2: Asides

The Author sighs deeply. Can you have an aside in fiction, too? he asks. Brother, this Fred character knows nothing at all!

What are you mumbling? Fred scowls.

Sure, you can have an aside in fiction. Usually it will be printed in italics and not put into quotation marks so that the reader can distinguish it from a monologue. But to answer your other question, ‘knit’ means scowling, I think, but never mind.

Fred makes an effort to stop scowling. What’s the biggest difference between a fiction writer and a playwright? he asks.

Narration 1: Exposition

"The fiction writer isn’t limited to one or two writing techniques; rather, he may choose from a wide range of narrative devices. The playwright, however, is limited to the writing techniques of dialogue, monologue, soliloquy, or aside, though on occasion a play (such as Our Town by Thornton Wilder) may have a narrator on the stage filling in the audience on portions of the narrative that take place ‘offstage’—between segments (acts or scenes) of the drama—or on background information that the audience may need in order to understand the significance of the dramatic segments."

That’s called ‘exposition,’ isn’t it?

Right, Fred. The Author is impressed. Now and again you surprise me. Exposition is a major consideration in the essay, and it’s an important element of both fiction and drama. Exposition includes actions and situations that ‘took place’ before the story began but which led up to the actions of the story.

Is that all exposition is? Past actions?

No. We’ll talk about some of the other things later on, but for now it’s enough to remember that usually, especially in drama, the exposition is worked into the fabric of the narrative by the characters of the story through reminiscence or conversation.

That must be tough to do. What else can the fiction writer do that the dramatist can’t?

Viewpoint 1: Subjective/Objective/Dramatic

"The fiction writer can get inside his or her characters’ heads, show the reader what the personae are thinking. In other words, the fiction writer can have subjective access to characters. The playwright has only objective access, so he or she has to use soliloquies or asides in order to verbalize thoughts or feelings. The playwright might even have to have characters address the audience directly under certain circumstances."

I see what you mean, Fred says, a faraway look in his eyes. The Author surmises that Fred is visualizing a play.

Don’t feel sorry for the playwright, though, the Author admonishes his foil. "Although it may at first glance seem that the dramatist is more limited than the fictionist, in fact that’s not the case. In some ways he or she is less limited because a playwright can put characters into what appears, for instance, to be a real room. The fictionist would have to describe that room. And we see the characters physically in a play—their clothes, actions, coloring; we can hear the nuances of their voices. The fiction writer has to choose various descriptive techniques that would enable one to convey these things to the reader. The dramatist can simply get on with the narrative, which is the reason few plays utilize a narrator, who can slow things down. The essence of drama is action—dramatic action—and that’s true for fiction as well."

I’m beginning to catch on. Fred gets up and begins to pace the room. Still, both the fictionist and the dramatist have the narrative in common, don’t they?

Yes, indeed.

Fred stops and stares at the back of the head of the Author, who ignores him and goes on typing.

Gosh, you’re clever! Fred says.

Diction 1: Fancy Words

The Author thinks he detects a bit of irony in Fred’s voice, so he turns to look, but Fred’s demeanor is impassive.

My ‘demeanor is impassive’? What kind of language is that? Fred asks.

You’re right. It’s a slip in the level of diction of this piece. I’ll try not to do it again . . . the Author holds up his hand when he sees Fred’s mouth begin to open . . . and we’ll talk about diction later on.

And you used ‘admonishes’ back there a ways, too.

The Author glares at his foil.

Forms of Dialogue 3: Monologue—an Example

Okay, you can stop giving me the evil eye. You know what you haven’t done?

What?

"You haven’t given me an example of a monologue."

A monologue is half of a conversation. It’s a speech to a character who’s presumed to be present, though a listener may not be evident to the reader. Here’s a whole story written in the form of a monologue.

"A whole story?" Fred sounds incredulous.

"Yes, and it’s going to get us into, among other things, the question of narration—when is a narrator not a narrator? The speaker in this story is the mother of a severely retarded child. Her speech will characterize her and even