Christine: Authenticity in Characters' $*&%$ Dialogue

Today sucks.

Okay, a couple of disclaimers:

1. No, it doesn’t.
2. Even if it did, I would never say that.

But some of the characters I’ve created for my novels would. Lots of teenagers populate my novels, and teens aren’t necessarily known for the most nuanced of vocabularies.

I’ve had several conversations recently with people who think literature is among the arts contributing to the coarsening of our society. They don’t like vulgar language, or even relatively mild slang, in books—particularly those their kids may be reading.

I totally get that. I’m a mom myself, and I’m the daughter of a mother who grimaced once when I used the word “stink,” admonishing me to replace it with “smell unpleasant.” Her prim New England sensibilities are etched indelibly on my brain. And like my mother, I consider the standard not just a matter of etiquette, but of wordsmithing. Where’s the challenge in settling for language’s lowest common denominators? I’ve tried to set comparable standards for my own kids.

But do I trust that they can hear other people using salty language without following suit? Yes. And time has proved me right. They’re young adults now, and I’ve never heard them say anything that would make their grandmother blush. (Well . . . almost never.)

So how do I feel when they read dialogue coming from my characters’ lips that they could never image their mother saying?

Well . . . fine. First of all, I’m happy the distinction is clear, and second, I consider it my job to create characters who are credible, relatable and relevant. This doesn’t mean all of my characters cuss like sailors (which would be unrepresentative of and disrespectful to my readers), but it means that, by and large, they communicate differently than the middle-aged woman who created them. I think my art demands it.

When I’m writing at my best, my imagination is on cruise control. The characters have taken the wheel, and I’m just along for the ride. But if I start censoring them, the smooth path suddenly seems riddled with speed bumps. That doesn’t mean my characters have carte blanche to act or speak any way they please, but it means I have enough respect for them to be as true to them as possible. And if they are acting and speaking authentically, I think my readers respond to that, without compromising their own values in the process. Indeed, bad behavior in literature tends to cast our own values in sharp relief. It would seem condescending and inartful to give readers any less than a fully realized character, flaws and all.

Consider a scene from my young-adult novel, THEN I MET MY SISTER. The scene involves my protagonist’s frustration that her cold, controlling mother can never let herself be vulnerable, and therefore can never fully connect with her daughter. The mother’s emotional unavailability has no doubt blunted the shattering grief of losing her firstborn in a car wreck 18 years earlier, but this scene suggests the price she is paying:

Mom looks at me squarely. “You saved my life.”

A chill runs up my spine. I’ve heard this all my life, usually from other people: You gave your mother a reason to go on, they’ve said, or, I don’t think she could have made it without you. No pressure there, right?

I squeeze the blade of grass and green moisture stains my fingers. “It freaks me out a little when you say that, Mom.”

Anger flashes across Mom’s face.

“I mean, I’m glad you were happy to get pregnant again,” I clarify, trying to sound casual. “It’s just. . . .” It’s just friggin’ hard to be born with a job.

“You don’t have to explain,” Mom says, her voice steely.

“Don’t get mad, Mom,” I say. “We should be able to talk about things.”

“We’re talking,” she snaps.

I stand up abruptly and put my hands on my hips. “I hate it when you do this—shutting me out every time I try to open up to you.”

Mom turns defiantly, returning to her hands and knees, returning to her weeds.

“By all means, Summer, open up and let me know it annoys you to be told you make me happy,” she mutters to the dirt.

My stomach tightens, and my eyes shimmer with tears. God. I never cry in front of my mother. “I’m not goddamn annoyed!”

Mom turns and stares at me sharply. “Don’t curse at me, young lady.”

I open my mouth to respond, but Mom has resumed digging in the dirt, clawing her fingers into the soil, yanking up weeds and tossing them aside without giving them another glance. Each weed will be purged methodically, systematically, impassively, until her garden is perfect.

And she is finished talking to me.

I think this scene demands the cold-water jolt of harsh language.

And I think my readers can handle it.

Marianna: Further Thoughts on Dialogue -- Distinct Voices for Similar Characters

As a follow-up to Varian’s post about dialogue-heavy scenes (April 28), I wanted to share some thoughts about a difficulty often faced by YA (and MG) authors when writing dialogue – creating distinct voices for adolescent friends who’ve grown up in similar circumstances.

All fiction writers know that developing distinct voices is one of the Ten Commandments of dialogue. As clearly explained by Anne Lamott and Janet Burroway:

“…you should be able to identify each character by what he or she says. Each one must sound different from the others” (Lamott, 66).
and
“A character who says, ‘It is indeed a pleasure to meet you,’ carries his back at a different angle, dresses differently, from a character who says, ‘Hey, man, what it is?’” (Burroway, 137).

But while working on my first young adult novel, I encountered a problem. My characters – a group of teen friends – are far, far more similar to each other than the two characters Janet Burroway presents. They share similar educational backgrounds, hometown, class, and race. And isn’t this true of the characters in many YA and MG novels? After all, in “real life”, before they’ve made choices and gone their own ways in the world, teens are often surrounded by others who are (circumstantially, at least) similar to themselves.

So, how to create individual, identifiable voices?

In looking at YA novels that center on groups of friends, I found that some (definitely not all) writers successfully develop recognizable voices for their characters while still believably portraying close-knit groups with much in common. To do this, the writers key into the defining aspects of the characters’ personalities and create voices that reflect those traits. The differences between voices are subtler than in Burroway’s example, of course. But, the voices clearly belong to separate, distinct individuals.

Here’s a look at how one writer does this successfully.

Love, Cajun Style by Diane Les Becquets follows friends Lucy (the narrator), Evie and Mary Jordan through the summer before their senior year. The three girls grew up together in the small, Southern town of Sweetbay, are of similar middle class backgrounds, and attend the same school.

Lucy’s summer is characterized by a loss of youthful innocence, but also by an affirmation of her belief in the goodness of people. Two qualities come through most strongly in her speech. One is her general childlike enthusiasm – the innocent side of her personality –manifested in her folksy, almost old-fashioned phrasing:

“What did you think about Mr. Savoi’s open house?” Evie asked.
I felt myself smile. “I had myself a mighty fine time.”
… “And?” Evie said.
“And Dewey asked me if he could kiss me.”
“He asked you?” Mary Jordan said.
“Mm-hmm. And I’m here to tell you that was the finest kissing I’ve ever had in my life” (221-222).

When Lucy’s somewhat naïve and idealistic ideas about love are challenged, though, her speech reflects an unsure side, as she struggles to figure out her own feelings and thoughts. For example, when speaking to Mary Jordan about her loss of virginity, Lucy doesn’t offer opinions, but only asks questions. This is her way of speaking whenever a friend is in crisis. By asking questions, she leads both her friends and herself to a deeper understanding.

“When did he tell you he didn’t want to be serious?” I asked her.
“We were supposed to get together last night. But then a bunch of the guys wanted him to go out. He’d been acting different. I called him later. That’s when he told me.”
…“When did you decide to go through with it?”
“It was after we made up at the play. We talked about it. At first I wasn’t sure. But then one night things just seemed to happen. It’s supposed to feel good, right?” she said.
I just listened.
“The first time it hurt. I thought it was going to be so incredible. I’d felt so much when we were kissing. But when it was over, I didn’t feel anything. It all happened so fast. I thought the next time it would be better.”
“Was it?” I asked (267).

Lucy’s tendency to listen and ask questions – main characteristics of her dialogue (or lack thereof) throughout the book – reflect her confusion, her search for answers in her life, as well as her gentle ability to help friends come to conclusions about their own lives.

Evie’s main dilemma is almost the opposite of Lucy’s; she is struggling to find the openness and innocence necessary to experience a romantic relationship. Evie is jaded, primarily because of a mother who has a constant stream of male “visitors” in and out of the house. She has developed both a tough exterior and a sense of humor to help her deal with her situation. Unlike Lucy, she is also confident in her opinions and offers advice freely. These are the characteristics that come through in her speech. Here, Lucy confides in Evie about having kissed her teacher:

“I mean, he’s good-looking and all. And maybe it’d be fun to think about kissing him. But thinking and doing are two different things. Remember those kids we were teaching vacation Bible school to last year?” Evie said.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Remember how cute little Peter was?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Well, how do you think it would have been if one day I’d gotten him in the broom closet and gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, even though he was suscitating just fine?” (151).

Evie’s colorful sense of humor often comes through in her use of metaphors. She tells Lucy: “You can go speaking to him. But try and be like one of those Orange Dream Bars that’s been sitting in the freezer too long. Gets that freezer burn all over it” (152). Not only would Lucy never offer advice so confidently, she would never use an analogy like this.

Mary Jordan is the dreamer of the three, more comfortable in the world of books and poetry. This sensibility leads her to make statements such as, “Love is so magical. It’s like this spell that makes you all dizzy in the head.” (124). She also has the least noticeably Southern voice, which corresponds with her more bookish, slightly more worldly personality. “It’s crazy. I thought Doug and I could be one of those great loves. I felt important. I had the whole thing planned out in my head. But now I feel so empty, like it never meant anything to him at all” (265). There is no mistaking Mary Jordan’s quotes for anything that Evie or Lucy would say.

In the earliest drafts of my young adult novel, Frost House, the adolescent characters did not have any variation in their speaking voices. I was focused on the content of their dialogue and on making it sound realistic. I didn’t take the next step -- thinking about what dialogue differences would deepen the characterization of the girls. The following is an example of a conversation between Leena, the narrator, and her new roommate, Celeste. (Beats and most speaker attributions have been removed.)

“You know, I’m sorry I never called over the summer,” I said. “I mean, when I heard about your mother, I wanted to call, to say I was sorry and see how you were doing. But…”
“I didn’t feel much like talking, anyway,” Celeste said.
“If you ever do want to talk about it, I hope you’ll feel comfortable.”
“Look, Leena, I appreciate it, but you don’t have to take me on like some sort of peer counseling patient. I’m fine. Really. My mother was a very sick, very unhappy woman. Believe me, she’s better off where she is now.”

And the revised version:
“I’m sorry I never called over the summer,” I said. “I wanted to call, when I…when I, you know, heard about your mother—”
“Look. I don’t know what big-mouth David told you. But let’s get something straight. I do not discuss my mother. Got it? Do. Not. Discuss. My. Mother.”
“Okay. I totally understand you feel that way now, and I don’t blame you at all. But if you ever—”
“I won’t,” she said. “Ever.” After a pause she added, “David doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. I hope you do.”

In the earlier version, you can’t tell the difference between the two voices. They both sound pleasant, reasonable, congenial. In the most recent version, Celeste is stronger and more aggressive. She says things that might be perceived as offensive. Leena sounds unsure, like she’s approaching a rabid animal. By changing the voices, I not only strengthened the characterization of the two girls, but raised the tension in the scene. Celeste’s attitude, obvious from her dialogue, makes it much easier to understand why Leena would not want to live with her and makes her a more intriguing character.

Leena’s voice was also very similar to her friend Abby’s. In going back over Abby’s dialogue, I decided that it would fit with her character to have a tendency to overstate and exaggerate, as this is one of her main qualities – she’s always looking for drama. So where she used to say, “Are we going to unload the car now? In the rain?” she now says, “Please don’t tell me we’re going to unload in a hurricane.”

While at first it can seem like two characters would speak in similar ways, all characters are dealing with different issues and have different personalities. By thinking about which of these personality elements are most important, a writer can not only come to a speaking style unique to that character, but also clarify in her mind what attributes and personality traits most define that character. And for the reader, the experience of getting to know a character is enhanced if the character’s voice is one clearly and compellingly her own.

Works Cited:
Burroway, Janet. Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft. Fourth Edition. New
York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1996.
Lamott, Anne. Bird by Bird. New York: Pantheon Books, 1994; paperback edition, New
York: Doubleday, 1995.
Les Becquets, Diane. Love, Cajun Style. New York: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2005.

Varian: An Exploration of Dialogue-Heavy Scenes

Note: This is part of an essay written during my first semester at Vermont College. As I'm currently struggling with the balance between advancing story verses developing character in my work-in-progress, I thought it would be helpful to post one of my early essays on dialogue and emotion.

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The goal of most fiction, especially when told from the first-person point of view, is to engage the reader to the point where the reader experiences everything that the main character experiences; in a sense, the reader becomes the main character. This closeness is achieved through a number of literary devises, such as sensory detail and interior thoughts. However, in instances where an author wishes to move a reader through a scene very quickly, the author must cut out as much unnecessary material as possible, while still conveying the thoughts and feelings of the main character.

Ron Koertge is a master of witty and believable dialogue, and in his novel Stoner and Spaz, Koertge crafts dialogue-heavy scenes that whisk the reader through the novel. While the dialogue is believable, there are instances where Koertge leaves the reader to wonder what the characters are thinking and feeling in the scene.

One scene that has mixed success in showing character traits and emotions is a conversation between Ben, a sixteen year old with cerebral palsy, and Colleen, the resident druggie, on the day after she kisses him.

“Look, let’s go over to Marcie’s.”

“I don’t know, Ben.”

“Oh, c’mon. I just want to see her camera.”

Colleen shakes her head. “Making out when I’m loaded is one thing; making social calls is...I don’t know. Doesn’t one of us have to wear pearls for shit like that?”
“It’s not a date.”

“It wasn’t a date last night, and I ended up with my tongue down your throat.”

“Like I said, you were loaded. So leave your stash at home. I think totally sober you’ll find me pretty easy to resist.”

“I don’t get you sometimes. What do you want with me anyway?”

“I want you to go to Marcie’s with me.”

She looks down at her black fingernails. “Let me think about it.”

“I’ll call her after school. Then I’ll call you.” (Koertge 83)

Koertge is successful in crafting dialogue that is true to his characters; Ben wants (or perhaps even needs) to be near Colleen, while Colleen is brash and distrusting. Koertge particularly thrives in showing the conflict within Colleen; she knows she shouldn’t be with Ben, yet she doesn’t overtly push him away. As Colleen looks down at her black fingernails, the reader sees that she’s mulling over Ben’s offer.

Koertge is less successful in showing Ben’s thoughts and emotions in this scene. This is Ben’s first conversation with Colleen since she kissed him. Ben has never even kissed another girl before Colleen; he is no doubt feeling a mix of emotions. However, none of these emotions are present in the scene. Colleen asks Ben, “What do you want with me, anyway?” Ben’s reply, while technically truthful, doesn’t reveal anything about what Ben really wants, or how Ben really feels about Colleen. Does he want to kiss her again that night? Does he want to kiss her again right there, in the middle of school, in front of the teachers and students that pack the hallway? Or, is he afraid that she may not really be interested in him—that the kiss the night before was indeed based more on her drug-induced state of mind rather than true desire for Ben?

By writing scenes with a minimal amount of interior thought, Koertge relies on the reader to draw conclusions as to the “emotional core” of the character. However, while the above scene doesn’t reveal the intensity of Ben’s desire for Colleen, it is clear from previous scenes that Ben is romantically interested in Colleen. Koertge relies on the reader to use previously provided material in order to come to his or her own conclusions about the level or Ben’s desire for Colleen.

Unlike the previous passage, Koertge is very successful in showing character traits and emotions through dialogue in the first speaking scene between Ben and his grandmother in Stoner and Spaz. Colleen and Ben meet by chance at an old movie theater, and when Colleen catches a ride home with him and his grandmother, she ends up throwing up on the side of his grandmother’s car.

My grandma let her forehead touch the steering wheel. “What a horrible girl,” she says to the speedometer. “I didn’t realize you even knew people like that.”

“I don’t really know her.”

“Why is she acting so peculiar?”

“She loaded.”

“On drugs?”

“Not Jujubes. Not anymore, anyway.”

“Why in the world did you invite someone like that into my car?”

“Grandma, we bumped into each other at the movies. It’s no big deal.”

“Did she ask you for money?”

“No,” I lie.

“She didn’t recruit you to traffic in narcotics, did she?”

“Well, she did give me this big bag of baking soda to hold for her.”

“Ben, this is no laughing matter.”

“Grandma, Colleen won’t even remember this tomorrow.”

“Well, I’m certainly going to try and banish it from my memory.”

Not me, I think. No banishing for me. (Koertge 15-16)

Though the scene is scant on interior thought and physical action, the reader is able to ascertain important information about Ben and his grandmother, and about how Ben feels about Colleen. The only physical action in the scene is of Ben’s grandmother resting her head on the steering wheel; the short drive with someone so “horrible” exhausts her. In addition to horrible, Koertge’s word choices of peculiar and banish, as seen in the context of the sentences in the passage, paint Ben’s grandmother as very formal. She is also very protective of Ben, and sees him as being naïve. Earlier in the novel, Koertge drops hints that alert the reader of the grandmother’s character traits: she drives a Cadillac (14), forces Ben to take an apple as a snack (5), and buys him expensive clothes (12).

Unlike his grandmother, Ben isn’t worried about Colleen’s “bad” influence on him, and is actually very witty and sarcastic when discussing Colleen. By placing Ben’s interior thoughts at the end of the passage, Koertge gives the reader a glimpse of how Ben really feels about Colleen at this moment, without sacrificing the quick flow of the dialogue.

In addition to being sarcastic, Ben lies to his grandmother during their conversation. Koetrge could have used physical description to convey that Ben was lying, such as having him look away from his grandmother, or perhaps Ben could focus on his sweaty palms. Instead, very simply, Koetrge uses, “‘No,’ I lie.” By using a simple speaker attribute instead of adding unnecessary description to the scene, Koertge is able to keep the reader firmly rooted in the “here and now” of the passage.

As you can see, Koerge is most effective in his dialogue-driven scenes when he provides either minimal interior thought, sensory details, or physical actions in the scene, or when he clearly establishes a character’s emotional state in a previous scene.

Works Cited

Koertge, Ron. Margaux with an X. Cambridge, MA: Candlewick Press, 2004.