Reading like a writer – Part 2
For many of us, as the world opens up again, it’s become increasingly harder to find the time to read. While I’ve always considered myself a big reader, I’ve recently realised that I had so much more time to read in the past year than any other. Now I’m squeezing my reading in on trains, in my lunch break, and as I cook – narrowly avoiding dropping books into my frying pan! But why am I doing this? Two reasons:
- I love reading stories and the way they make me feel.
- I write my own stories – and I know just how much I can learn from fellow writers.
In my last post (here’s Reading like a writer part 1, if you missed it!), I talked to you about the importance of reading like a writer to get a grasp on how writers perfect plot, character, and prose. There’s still so much more that books can teach us – so let’s talk about how to read with an eye on dialogue, setting, and voice.
Reading for dialogue
I know I’m capable of having a conversation in real life (in fact, usually you can’t shut me up!), but it’s so hard to write realistic dialogue that doesn’t slow the pace of the story.
This is why I suggest reading dialogue in published books. While reading, ask yourself:
- Is it lifelike?
- Does it drive the plot forward?
- Does it give an insight into each character?
By seeing how other writers construct and pace their dialogue, you’ll be well on your way to writing dialogue that doesn’t make you want to scream.
Learn from: A play or screenplay of your choice. (By reading a form of writing that is so reliant on dialogue you’ll learn from the best!)
Reading for setting
Setting is vital for creating an unforgettable atmosphere for your reader. Whether your novel is set in an open plan office or an open plain, your reader needs to live your characters’ experience.
Open a book and note down how the author uses the five senses. Can you see, smell, hear, touch, even taste the place they’re describing? How does the place make you feel? How does it work with the subject matter of the novel? Is it a beautiful place that contrasts with a horrific crime that occurs? Or a place that exemplifies the themes of the novel? Then, think – how can you make your setting work for you?
Learn from: Shocked Earth by Saskia Goldschmidt, translated by Antoinette Fawcett. (Set on a Dutch farm shocked by earthquakes, the setting is beautifully described and carefully intertwined with the narrative.)
Reading for voice
Voice is all about the unique way you tell your story – so how can you learn about it from other writers? Well, voice is a complex thing, and learning how an author translates a character’s traits into a distinctive voice can only help you on the way.
When reading, note down what you notice about the voice. Does the author use long or short sentences? Is there impact of an accent or dialect? Is there a recurring theme in the way a narrator describes things?
Then, revisit the list and ask yourself why the author has done this. Does an impulsive narrator use short, sharp lines? Or does an overly analytical character use meandering sentences? By examining the voice of other writers, you should have some inspiration on how to create a unique voice of your own!
Learn from: Sharks in the Time of Saviors by Kawai Strong Washburn. (The novel has 5 different narrators – each of whom are immediately distinctive from just a line of writing in their voice. Washburn uses dialect and verbal quirks, based on the character’s personality, to differentiate between voices.)
Tell me what you’re reading at the moment – what have you learned? Is the dialogue lifelike? Can you imagine yourself in the setting? Is the voice so distinctive that you can almost hear the narrator talking directly to you?
Remember, we’re always happy to chat about writing, so do drop an email to info@jerichowriters.com with any questions!
For me the dialogue in this extract, whether direct or indirect, catches the accents and phrases of London and drives the plot forward. The narrator’s voice mingles with the protagonists’ direct speech and their thoughts and there is a lot of insight into the two characters. The whole novel is written succinctly and, I think, very well.
In 1945 Ronnie, aged 14, is returning home to London. He was evacuated to Oxford at the outbreak of war and for nearly six years he has lived in Oxford with a gentle and very middle-class elderly couple. They have treated him as a son and encouraged him to follow his ambition to be a magician.
* * *
On a June day in 1945 Ronnie Deane boarded a train at Oxford, a city still remarkably untouched, to go to a city of rubble. […]
Ronnie returned to a London transformed – what on earth had been going on? – and to a mother, it seemed to him damaged and altered too, not beaten or even essentially changed, but hardened.
And after nearly six years how did he look to her? Improved, enhanced? Softened? Perhaps even a little soft in the head?
She was not going to stand for any nonsense anyway. He was nearly fifteen now and, since events had interrupted his education, was in the unfortunate position, while possessing no qualifications, of needing to earn a living. So what was he going to do about it?
Ronnie had his innocent answer and, cosseted by so much time away from the big city, he naively let out his secret.
‘A magician, Ronnie? A magician! Please tell me you’re having me on! Please tell me you’re joking!’
His mother’s language and manner became even harsher. In her head was the thought: Jesus Christ, it had been bad enough being married to a sailor. And Ronnie must have read her mind, since he had the sudden realisation: was he not now like his father, back from a long and absconding voyage?
‘Jesus Christ, Ronnie! Jesus Christ!’
Then his mother said something he’d never heard cross her lips and that would never have crossed his own in front of her, though he’d many times said it to himself, even in polite company.
‘Fucking hell, Ronnie! Magic! Whatever fucking next?’
Oh he was back home all right, he was back in London, and what a welcome he was getting.
* * *
From Here We Are, Graham Swift. Scribner, 2020.
Libby, this was a really interesting excerpt.
I also liked the writing, particularly the para that started “His mother’s language and manner became evern harsher … but there were a couple of bits that I felt held back progress, or at least were a bit jarring for me.
The first was minor but should have been edited out – in the world of show don’t tell, innocent had no place in a sentence with cosseting and naive
Also, I found the three sentences of dialogue to be repetitive, without any accompanying description of his mother’s physical response to mirror/lead the escalation. I needed to see her scrubbing her hands across her pinny in agitation, or pinning him with a look of horror, blinking to make the apparition leave. Or she might have been strangely still as the cogs of her mind tried to digest the news and came up wanting.
Before “Then his mother said something he’d”, she could have moved around the table to him in jerky strides, or dug her hands into her hair as if she was about to pull handfuls from her head. I just can’t imagine the mother standing there and saying
‘A magician, Ronnie? A magician! Please tell me you’re having me on! Please tell me you’re joking!’
then….
‘Jesus Christ, Ronnie! Jesus Christ!’
then ….
‘Fucking hell, Ronnie! Magic! Whatever fucking next?’
…without some sort of physical manifestation of her turmoil.
Hi Penny, yes, I agree — the writing throughout the book is often not immersive and when there are precise details they tend to hang in space. I could be letting Swift off the hook but I think this is what he wants. How do you write with the minimum of showing (bearing in mind that in the full novel we’ve met the mother already and know what she’s like)? Or maybe how do you show only the most important details and what are they?
I have to admit I’m fascinated by Here We Are and can also see why other readers find it frustrating. It’s like a primer for writing craft though primer could be the wrong word for number of techniques it uses and, at other times, seems purposefully not to use. And all in c 80,000 words. There’s a metanarrative about showing and telling going on too, meaning even more work for the reader to do as they’re hurtled through the story. Ronnie’s career as a magician is one thread in a tale about variety theatre in post-war Britain, and perhaps other countries too. The artists have their own names and stage names. There’s the shabbiness, the tackiness, the fantasy, the knife-edge thing, sometimes literally, of whether an act will work or not. All that unsettling precariousness.
I imagine that Graham Swift, at the end of a long and very successful career, is returning to some of the England he knew as a child while experimenting with style and taking risks just because he wants to and feels he can.
And also yes — while I’m happy with ‘innocent’ along with ‘cosseting’, this sentence could be better without ‘naively’: “Ronnie had his innocent answer and, cosseted by so much time away from the big city, he naively let out his secret.”
Hi Elsie – slightly off topic, but kinda connected; you clearly have no guilt whatsoever about the time you spend reading. I however find myself feeling very guilty! It doesn’t feel like ‘work’ to me – even though I know it is because of all the excellent opportunities for learning you point out! So, what would you say to a guilty-reader like me, who berates herself for “just” reading when she could be doing the day-job, writing the MS, editing the MS, social-media’ing and author-platform building! 🙂
This is a really interesting question, Rachel. I wrote this post last year and I read a lot more last year, so now I’m in a position where I feel guilty for not reading enough!
I would first try and recapture the joy of reading – rather than doing it because you have to, do it because you love it. If you love writing, you must love reading – it’s all stories. How can you feel guilty for doing something you love? (Unless you love murdering people, but that’s the thriller writer in me thinking about that…) Then, remind yourself that you build craft by absorbing examples of brilliant writing. When I read a sentence and think ‘God, I wish I’d written that’, it inspires me to be a better writer. It’s also helped me work out plot points in my own book (For example, I was listening to an audiobook where the mother of the missing child was no longer with that child’s father. I then realised that the fact that a character in my WIP had a step-dad was a lot more significant than I’d thought… and that the shadow of his dad needed to be much more present in the plot).
If you’re a runner, you need to fuel up by eating porridge (?? I have never run in my life), if you’re a writer you need to fuel up by reading.
Hope this helps and isn’t just a post-lunch ramble from me!
Excellent ramble quality Elsie. Yes, it is true that spending time in other people’s writing feeds one’s own. Thank you for assuaging my guilt somewhat. I have now printed a badge which says “I’m eating porridge in preparation for my marathon” and will wear that when reading, to point to when the teenagers moan at me for “just” reading a book! 🙂