Dialogue is easy. Dialogue is tough. Dialogue should advance the plot. Dialogue should develop character. Dialogue, my writer friends, should do a lot for your short story, novella, or novel. But it should also be damned entertaining. Dialogue is action. It is scene. It is the here and now and that here and now needs to make your readers lean in. Dialogue should capture your readers imagination, and it should get their hearts beating, because dialogue, in combination with the characters’ actions in scenes, are where your readers pay closest attention. And, frankly, dialogue is an art within the art of writing fiction.

I remember one time, years ago, in Vilnius, Lithuania, I participated in a writing seminar with other writers. The seminar was led by a New York Times bestselling author who basically acted as a facilitator. Everyone in the seminar had written a short story, and we, as a group, provided constructive criticism to each participant after reading their stories. (Now that I think about it, it may have just been an excerpt from everyone’s stories, given how many people were in that seminar). As I always do, I tend to provide as much/more? feedback than pretty much anyone else in any class/seminar/workshop I’m in—a masterclass, a seminar, a whatever. I did the same then. The facilitator, when we began discussing my story, told the participants to please provide feedback on my story because I was so “generous” with my feedback. I don’t remember what any of them said, only what the facilitator said, and that was this: “You have great dialogue.” And not to sound cocky (although I tend to be), but I knew she was right. I don’t believe I’m cocky—I believe I’m confident. But I also know that I’m very serious about this thing we do, and I always make sure I provide “constructive” criticism rather than prescriptive or mean-spirited and unhelpful criticism. Dialogue, for me, anyway, is easy to focus on, because it either works or doesn’t work, whereas other elements of fiction may be a little more difficult to provide criticism for—style, plot (or no plot), exposition, etc. Some of those can be more style or “choice” driven.

For this week’s post, I thought I’d give examples of what I believe to be great examples of dialogue in fiction. You may not find them to be “great,” but I’ll explain why I believe they’re great, and why. I’m also going to include (and only because as a minority I believe we need to be aware, if not appreciate, the different fiction out there, because, and as we’ve learned more and more over the years, fiction isn’t just written by one ethnicity, one race, or one gender, but by a plethora of them). So, let’s get started.

One of my favorite books is Beloved, by Toni Morrison. The novel didn’t win the National Book Award (there was some protesting by other writers about this), but it did win the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1988. I won’t go into all the details of the characters or the plot, but the novel is about a family of former slaves after the American Civil War whose home is haunted by a malevolent spirit. A great movie was made from the novel starring Oprah Winfrey and Danny Glover. Let’s just say Glover isn’t the most endearing character in the novel or the movie. But we’re not here to talk about that. Let’s dive right into it with an excerpt from Beloved:

“Baby Suggs died shortly after the brothers left, with no interest whatsoever in their leave-taking or hers, and right afterward Sethe and Denver decided to end the persecution by calling forth the ghost that tried them so. Perhaps a conversation, they thought, an exchange of views or something would help. So they held hands and said, "Come on. Come on. You may as well just come on." The sideboard took a step forward but nothing else did." Grandma Baby must be stopping it," said Denver. She was ten and still mad at Baby Suggs for dying. Sethe opened her eyes. "I doubt that," she said. "Then why don't it come?" "You forgetting how little it is," said her mother. "She wasn't even two years old when she died. Too little to understand. Too little to talk much even." "Maybe she don't want to understand," said Denver. "Maybe. But if she'd only come, I could make it clear to her." Sethe released her daughter's hand and together they pushed the sideboard back against the wall. Outside a driver whipped his horse into the gallop local people felt necessary when they passed 124."For a baby she throws a powerful spell," said Denver. "No more powerful than the way I loved her," Sethe answered and there it was again. The welcoming cool of unchiseled headstones; the one she selected to lean against on tiptoe, her knees wide open as any grave. Pink as a fingernail it was, and sprinkled with glittering chips. Ten minutes, he said. You got ten minutes I'll do it for free.”

In this short excerpt, much is said, and much is described. Notice what the writer Anton Chekov said about the rules of fiction in the excerpt, in this case extreme brevity (cut out anything that doesn’t serve the story), and truthful descriptions (be specific and real in describing people and objects). While the deceased Baby Suggs is making things happen (and is a ghost), Morrison stays true to Chekov’s rules for writing. In the first three and a half lines, we have the setup: “Baby Suggs died shortly after the brothers left, with no interest whatsoever in their leave-taking or hers, and right afterward Sethe and Denver decided to end the persecution by calling forth the ghost that tried them so. Perhaps a conversation, they thought, an exchange of views or something would help.” Short, informational, and leading right into the dialogue without any flourishes, etc. This not only speeds up the narrative, it provides tons of information without it being an info dump, and it leads straight into the thoughts of the characters because they’re speaking their minds to each other. And how creepy is the line “The sideboard took a step forward but nothing else did”?

The dialogue is in the dialect of slaves, and you have everyone’s reactions to the deceased baby’s presence and actions. You have Denver giving her opinion on what’s happening (Baby Suggs’ moving objects) and being powerful, and you have Sethe saying what she believes, which is that Baby Suggs’s power is no more powerful than how much Sethe loved her before she died at two years old. A line is then thrown in: “Outside a driver whipped his horse into the gallop local people felt necessary when they passed 124,” reinforcing the fear within their neighbors. One line. And a powerful one at that. But in terms of dialogue, every word counts. None of the dialogue from any character is more than a few words. The points are made, and then we move onto the next character’s response. There’s no overwriting. That is dialogue that is succinct, projects Morrison’s style for the book via the short, impactful meaning of the characters’ and narrator’s words, and it’s all wrapped up in the dialect of slaves in Ohio.

Another example of great dialogue is from Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man is Hard to Find.” If you’ve been an English major in college or studied literature in any way, it’s likely you’ve read the story, and it’s likely you remember it. The story is about as powerful as any out there, and for a reason. The story is about a family headed to Florida to drop off their grandmother, who doesn’t want to go. At the beginning of the story we learn everything there is to know about what’s coming, though we’re not sure yet it will. There’s a Misfit causing chaos out on the roads; the Misfit escaped from the federal prison. And then we head out on the road the next morning with the family all packed tight in the car. After some time, more discussion comes up about the Misfit, they get back on the road, and, eventually, Pitty Sing, their cat, jumps on the grandmother’s son and he crashes the car. And then, as they’re flagging a car down, who but the Misfit appears. The grandmother tells the “familiar” driver that they had an accident. She says, “We turned over twice!” to which the driver, contradicting her, immediately says, “Once,” ‘he corrected.’” This is O’Connor setting up the relationship that will form between the Misfit (who is the driver) and the grandmother and the rest of those in her son Bailey’s car. And then, not even two lines later, we get this scene (with the fantastic dialogue):

“What you got that gun for?” John Wesley asked. “Whatcha gonna do with that gun?” “Lady,” the man said to the children’s mother, “would you mind calling them children to sit down by you? Children make me nervous. I want all you all to sit down right together there where you’re at.” “What are you telling US what to do for?” June Star asked. Behind them the line of woods gaped like a dark open mouth. “Come here,” said their mother. “Look here now,” Bailey began suddenly, “we’re in a predicament! We’re in . . .” The grandmother shrieked. She scrambled to her feet and stood staring. “You’re The Misfit!” she said. “I recognized you at once!” “Yes’m,” the man said, smiling slightly as if he were pleased in spite of himself to be known, “but it would have been better for all of you, lady, if you hadn’t of reckernized me.” Bailey turned his head sharply and said something to his mother that shocked even the children. The old lady began to cry and The Misfit reddened. “Lady,” he said, “don’t you get upset. Sometimes a man says things he don’t mean. I don’t reckon he meant to talk to you thataway.” “You wouldn’t shoot a lady, would you?” the grandmother said and removed a clean handkerchief from her cuff and began to slap at her eyes with it.”

As in the excerpt from Beloved, we’re provided short sentences that have little to no extraneous words (remember, kill your darlings, whatever they may be). We have the characters’  dialect (whatcha gonna, yes’m, reckernized), which is present throughout and mostly spoken by the Misfit and his buddies, distinguishing them from the family, who don’t speak like them, and we have the direct information being transferred (and advancing the plot) from one character to the next as the tension builds. I won’t give away any spoilers, but this exchange is both ominous and telling: ‘The grandmother shrieked. She scrambled to her feet and stood staring.’ “You’re The Misfit!” she said. “I recognized you at once!” “Yes’m,” the man said, smiling slightly as if he were pleased in spite of himself to be known, “but it would have been better for all of you, lady, if you hadn’t of reckernized me.” The grandmother’s concern and the cool, calm reply by the Misfit is a prediction of things to come. It shows perfectly who the grandmother is and it shows exactly who the Misfit is and their roles in the story. The short, descriptive, informational sentences in the scene let the reader know exactly who’s in control, the characters’ personalities, and how they react in stressful situations. But there’s so much more in O’Connor’s story that I highly recommend you read it. If you’re interested, you can find the entire text of “A Good Man is Hard to Find” at UFSC’s Gothic Digital Series.

Now, while there are plenty of writers with great dialogue, Ernest Hemingway changed the way writers wrote during the Twentieth Century. His “iceberg theory” revolutionized dialogue because unlike the writing that came before him, Hemingway’s writing created tension in what was not said rather than what was said. Characters in Hemingway’s fiction are evasive when it comes to what they say (he uses a lot of subtext), his characters are short on words, the language is not elevated or highbrow, he uses repetition to show obsession and other feelings, and there’s a noticeable lack or minimalist use of dialogue tags. But we always know who’s speaking. Hemingway famously knocked William Faulkner regarding his narratives: “Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? He thinks I don't know the ten-dollar words. I know them all right.” And from his writings, it’s clear that Hemingway’s style does what it needs to do and does it very well. Here’s an excerpt of dialogue from Hemingway’s short story, “One Trip Across,” which became part of the novel To Have and Have Not, thanks to antilogicalism.com and The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway, the Finca Vigia Edition, which is my favorite edition of his stories. The story is about a boat captain during the Great Depression and his smuggling between Florida and Cuba:

‘YOU KNOW HOW IT IS THERE EARLY IN the morning in Havana with the bums still asleep against the walls of the buildings; before even the ice wagons come by with ice for the bars? Well, we came across the square from the dock to the Pearl of San Francisco Café to get coffee and there was only one beggar awake in the square and he was getting a drink out of the fountain. But when we got inside the café and sat down, there were the three of them waiting for us. We sat down and one of them came over. “Well,” he said. “I can’t do it,” I told him. “I’d like to do it as a favor. But I told you last night I couldn’t.” “You can name your own price.” “It isn’t that. I can’t do it. That’s all.” The two others had come over and they stood there looking sad. They were nice-looking fellows all right and I would have liked to have done them the favor. “A thousand apiece,” said the one who spoke good English. “Don’t make me feel bad,” I told him. “I tell you true I can’t do it.” “Afterwards, when things are changed, it would mean a good deal to you.” “I know it. I’m all for you. But I can’t do it.” “Why not?” “I make my living with the boat. If I lose her I lose my living.” “With the money you buy another boat.” “Not in jail.” They must have thought I just needed to be argued into it because the one kept on. “You would have three thousand dollars and it could mean a great deal to you later. All this will not last, you know.” “Listen,” I said. “I don’t care who is President here. But I don’t carry anything to the States that can talk.” “You mean we would talk?” one of them who hadn’t spoken said. He was angry. “I said anything that can talk.” “Do you think we are lenguas largas?” “No.” “Do you know what a lengua larga is?” “Yes. One with a long tongue.” “Do you know what we do with them?” “Don’t be tough with me,” I said. “You propositioned me. I didn’t offer you anything.” “Shut up, Pancho,” the one who had done the talking before said to the angry one. “He said we would talk,” Pancho said. “Listen,” I said. “I told you I didn’t carry anything that can talk. Sacked liquor can’t talk. Demijohns can’t talk. There’s other things that can’t talk. Men can talk.” “Can Chinamen talk?” Pancho said, pretty nasty. “They can talk, but I can’t understand them,” I told him. “So you won’t?” “It’s just like I told you last night. I can’t.” “But you won’t talk?” Pancho said.

The one thing that he hadn’t understood right had made him nasty. I guess it was disappointment, too. I didn’t even answer him. “You’re not a lengua larga, are you?” he asked, still nasty. “I don’t think so.” “What’s that? A threat?” “Listen,” I told him. “Don’t be so tough so early in the morning. I’m sure you’ve cut plenty people’s throats. I haven’t even had my coffee yet.” “So you’re sure I’ve cut people’s throats?” “No,” I said. “And I don’t give a damn. Can’t you do business without getting angry?” “I am angry now,” he said. “I would like to kill you.” “Oh, hell,” I told him, “don’t talk so much.” “Come on, Pancho, the first one said. Then, to me, “I am very sorry. I wish you would take us.” “I’m sorry, too. But I can’t.” The three of them started for the door, and I watched them go.’

Now, Hemingway’s characters are in conflict, which, through their actions and responses develops the characterization aspect of each character, but there’s a mediator between them making the scene distinct and interesting. If only two people were speaking, we’d get the normal back and forth antipodal ping pong conversation between the captain and one of the bums, bums who are obviously seeking work. But the captain doesn’t trust the men because they can “talk,” whereas inanimate objects, i.e., the things being smuggled, can’t. Like the previously mentioned excerpts, the authors of the dialogue know exactly what they’re doing, and how to do it properly. Again, there are no extraneous words. No fluff. Nothing that shouldn’t be there either in the setup to the scenes or the scenes themselves, including the dialogue within the scenes. You have, especially in O’Connor’s story and Hemingway’s story, the imminent threat of violence and a calm response to it. In O’Connor’s story, the calmness comes from the Misfit. In Hemingway’s, it’s from the captain. While we do have some dialogue tags, there aren’t many. If anything, they’re in there almost as if Hemingway is adding a beat for the musicality of the dialogue rather than to ensure readers know who’s speaking. The characters, if you notice, speak very little words. But their meanings are crystal clear. The captain is telling them he’s not taking them on his boat; the bums are trying to convince the captain to take them. But it’s all achieved, for the most part, in less than ten words per character. That’s Hemingway’s iceberg—everything’s below the surface. It’s a process I try to follow in my own fiction, and it’s done me well, I think. The only time I stray from the type of dialogue shown here is when I’m intentionally trying to change up the musicality of the text. It’s the same thing when I throw in an adverb or an adjective into my writing, that is, because it serves a specific purpose—to surprise the reader in some way by breaking up the expected, established literary music they’ve come to expect, or for stylistic reasons. Quirky moments in long books stick out to readers, and whenever I’m writing a quirky book in a specific style, I’ll try to throw a few surprises and some color into the narrative. Along with the subtext of the iceberg theory, magical things, methinks, happens in the work.

The above 3 great examples of dialogue in fiction are but a few of the many tens of thousands and likely hundreds of thousands and millions of scenes in fiction with exceptional dialogue. But these particular scenes stuck out to me for their similarities. There is a brief setup to the scene, short spurts of dialogue that transmit to the reader exactly what needs to be supplied information-wise, for the reader to understand what’s happening. The tension in these scenes are so strong that we can almost taste the unease between the characters. And if you’re struggling with dialogue, if your characters are speaking to each other but saying nothing, meaning their words aren’t advancing the plot or developing character, maybe keep at it. Cut the sentences of dialogue down. Be minimalist with the dialogue tags. Have characters saying things to each other without saying things to each other, meaning try for subtext. Use small actions to emphasize what a character is trying to communicate. The last sentence in the last excerpt is this: “The three of them started for the door, and I watched them go.” Thirteen words. But those words let us know everything we need to know, following the dialogue and scene we’ve just witnessed. And that, for me, is what good dialogue is all about, within a scene. Short. Succinct. And powerfully written.

Cully Perlman is author of a novel, THE LOSSES. He can be reached at Cully@novelmasterclass.com 

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