The beauty of Big Time – and a dialogue request
I was going to talk dialogue this week, only then I noticed the date. The last Friday of August, a tipping point for the year. The last golden breath of summer. The last week of vacation, before:
- Return to school
- Blackberry collecting
- Apple scrumping
- Hello again to socks
- Hedges gather little jewels of purple and red (haws, sloes, damsons, crabapples, all of which are abundant near me)
- Tints of yellow in the leaves
- The long poles of cow parsley have dried out
I live rurally in the fine county of Oxford and – if you have the misfortune to live anywhere else at all – my experience of late summer and early autumn will be different from yours. So, I don’t know, if you live in Australia, you probably associate this season with even more massive spiders than usual, yellow dust storms that last a month, the croc vs kangaroo Olympics, and the chatter of wallabies high up in the eucalyptuses. (Disclosure: I have never been to Australia, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got the country nailed.)
Now we’re talking about time this week, but first a little announcement:
Dialogue
We’ll talk about dialogue next week, and we’ll do that via your own submissions.
Give me some chunks of dialogue to examine next week. Here are the rules:
- Drop your offerings into the comments below this post.
- Max 300 words per submission, please.
- One submission per person.
- Make sure you give us a line or two of explanation first off, so we can understand the context of your scene.
- Don’t email me anything. If it ain’t on Townhouse, I ain’t looking at it.
- If you pop anything in the comments below, I’m gonna assume you’re OK me RIPPING YOUR WORK APART MERCILESSLY IN PUBLIC. If you’re not, then keep your tin hat on and your head below that sandbag parapet.
- Specifically, your work and my comments on it may appear in an email to a lot of people, here on Townhouse and potentially one day in a book. If you don’t want that happen, then please see above in relation to tin hats and parapets.
I only pick work that I basically like, though, so if I pick your work, you’re doing OK.
Okiedoke …
Now back to time:
Movies struggle with Big Time. They can do day to day stuff easily. We see a character going to bed. We see them eating a croissant and drinking coffee. The audience easily conjectures that this is the morning after. Boof.
But Big Time? For movies, that’s hard. The old Hitchcock era movies used to handle those things by pages flipping off a wall calendar, shots of the changing seasons. (Wind! The universal signal of autumn. Snow! The universal signal of winter. And so on.)
Now all that’s a bit crass, a bit heavy. These days, movie makers attempt something slicker, even if it’s just a caption at the bottom of the screen or a speeded-up, CGI of the wind-snow-crocuses model of passing time.
You, a novelist, don’t have the same problem. If you want to tell the reader it was two years later, you can just say “Two years passed.” That’s simple, clean narration. It doesn’t have that CGI, calendar flying clunkiness. No one will resent your simple captioning.
But time offers so much more. It’s not a problem to be dealt with, but a dimension to be embraced. Think of it like place, a silent character, a huge extra richness in your broth.
Here are some examples of how you can use it – but there are a million more. Think of these examples as mere appetite prompters.
Cold Time
Changes in weather is a technique so obvious, it could come close to a flipping calendar in terms of crassness. But it really doesn’t have to be like that. The novel of mine that made most use of the weather was Love Story, with Murders. There, I carefully seeded the earlier chunks of the book with hints of chill and forecasts of something much colder on the way.
Then, before the cold had actually arrived, my character was fussing around with giant red snow shovels and the like, but in a context where those things felt odd and out of place.
Then – the snow arrived. Canadian levels of snow and cold in a country that doesn’t normally get much of either. The snow wrought huge changes in the landscape, but also in Fiona’s life.
Alone in a remote cottage with inadequate provisions, she is forced to adapt her diet:
Make tea. There’s nothing herbal here, so I make do with a regular tea-bag. No milk either, so just brew a pint of hot, black tea in a huge pottery mug. Contrary to my usual habit, I add sugar, to take away the taste of the metallic mountain water, the strongly tannined tea. It tastes like sweetened bog-water, but is nevertheless somehow welcome. A comfort against the cold.
That’s not strictly about either weather or time, and yet it is both. By compelling us to register change, we notice both the cold and the time. And those changes register not just in feelings-of-being-chilly and making-of-log-fires, but also in unexpected ways – earthenware cups and sweet, tannined tea. Time and the cold become multidimensional: they disrupt habits, force giant earthenware cups into our hands, change the taste of tea.
And then, of course, time and the story proceed.
Fiona almost dies in the cold. And then the snow melts, and she encounters her normal landscape, post-snow with its dirty urban water and gritted streets.
Because the changes of weather were viscerally felt by the character herself, the timescape in the book also registered acutely. And the felt passage of time is so close to the actual experience of story, the reader ends up having a deeper experience than they otherwise would. It’s kind of magical, but it definitely happens.
Big Time
My Lieutenant’s Lover began a love story in St Petersburg in 1917 – separated the characters for a quarter of a century – then brought them together again in post-War Berlin.
Any love story needs to achieve the ache of longing, and there are probably more subtle techniques than the one I used. But dropping two world wars, one revolution, plenty of gulag, and a thousand miles of separation between the two characters certainly did the trick. A character only had to glance back over that past – a sentence, two sentences – for the reader to feel the scale of the loss and the longing.
And all those little markers of age – an attractive seventeen-year-old girl turning into a middle-aged Red Army sergeant – made that weight of time present on every page
Also, my choice of time and place meant that the physical world always reflected the passage of time. The Berlin of my love story was a place of rubble. The factory that had once belonged to my male protagonist was so completely bombed out that virtually nothing remained. A youth using its slim remaining shelter christened it the Nichtsfabrik, the Nothing Factory.
That book with its huge, tragic timescape, just felt big to a reader. It wasn’t (by my standards) massively long, but the love story took on an epic quality simply by virtue of the passing years – and the weight with which the readers felt those years.
Precise Time
One of my books, some time back, was struggling in its near-to-final draft. Everything that needed to be there was there. The story had no fundamental problems, but it didn’t yet have the iron hardness of something ready to print.
A couple of things fixed that book. One was just hard editing. Literally, an edit that looked for and deleted spare words, eliminated unwanted sentences. My character’s voice is always taut, even if my writing’s only at 95%. But that extra 5% brought that tautness to a line of constant tension. A glittering brightness.
But the other thing was: nailing the timeline. Figuring out if the gap between Event A and Event B was four days or five days and being explicit about it. The surprising thing about correcting that timeline was that I’d unconsciously been avoiding proper description, because I knew I was blurry about time. So if my character was out and about in central Cardiff, and I didn’t know what day of the week it was, I’d pull back from really describing the streets. A Wednesday quietness? Or a Saturday bustle? The hubbub of a rugby match at the Millennium Stadium? Or pensioners enjoying a discounted Thursday morning haircut?
The precision of timing didn’t just help my readers sort timings through in their heads. More important, it helped me. That last twist of the lens helped achieve that final, defining focus.
That book turned out a good ’un in the end.
***
That’s it from me. The blackberries are early this year, but not sweet. I think we need a day or two of sunshine. Which, oh my merry non-British friends, is something you can completely and utterly rely on in the fine county of Oxford.
Don’t forget I want to see your dialogue snippets. Chuck em below. Follow them thar rules above.
Genre: Mystical Contemporary Spiritual Fiction with Shamanic spirit animal manifestations
Characters: Mona, main antagonist, 7 years old. Powerful shaman/witch/spirit. She is the product of rape. Her spirit-animal manifestation is serpent. Ronnie, father of Mona. He has suffered a terrible ‘accident’ – a karmic, spiritual intention of revenge that has left him in vegetative state coma in hospital.
Scene: Mona has asked to visit her father in hospital – it is the first time they have ‘met’. In the normal world, the scene is one of a young girl sitting on the hospital bed of a coma patient, in silent concentration/contemplation. The dialogue takes place between their souls/spirits. Mona has initiated the conversation for a specific purpose (the dialogue piece is abridged to include the last half, to fit the 300 word limit):
“I want to be free. I do want that. I do…”
You may have it, Father.
“I want peace. I am sorry.”
Then speak of why you were punished. Speak of what you did.
“I took what she wasn’t ready to give me. More than that, I allowed another to. I used her. I redacted her to an object, a useful instrument to achieve what I thought I needed to do. I wished to remove the blocks to what I wanted. He and I corrupted her. He escaped, resides in divine grace. She kept me behind, to punish me, to exact her revenge. She made sure I would not be seen.”
And now. Do you wish to be seen? To be free?
“Yes.”
Muscular coils circling around him, herding, pushing, holding.
Was what you did to her wrong?
“Yes, I regretted it.”
When? When did you regret it?
Constriction. A warning; answer carefully.
“When I realised how I was to be punished for my action. Dark Witch, she told me how I had constructed my sentence.”
I believe you.
“Do you hate me?”
Why would I hate you?
“I hurt your mother.”
That is true. I exist because of that truth.
“My actions have condemned you to live with that stain…”
I live with no stain. I have always known the truth of me. Did you love her?
“I did not.”
Do you love her now?
“I am sorry for my actions. I wish I could free her from what I inflicted upon her. I wish for her to be happy. Does that answer you?”
Yes, Father. That does. Do you fear death?
“I thought I did. Then you came.”
And I am not so scary after all?
“No, you seem nice.”
Thanks. Are you ready then?
“Yes.”
Setting – small coastal town in the early 1970s
Characters – Bobby and Patricia have been friends since they were small children, they’re both now in their seventies. Bobby is widowed (retired career soldier), Patricia never married (retired war photographer). Both from middle class English backgrounds.
‘Do you have any potatoes?’ called Bobby from the kitchen.
The fire was dying, the logs coated in ash, but through her whiskey glass everything looked warmer, the world in shades of amber.
‘I said, do you have any potatoes?’
Patricia lowered her glass. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
Bobby appeared at the living room door, hands bubbly with suds.
‘Shouldn’t you be wearing one of Margaret’s old aprons?’ said Patricia. ‘A lovely floral number would bring out the blue in your eyes.’
Bobby faked a smile. ‘Quite the comedian. Now, if you’d like something other than carrots with your beef, tell me where your potatoes are.’
She waved her glass towards the kitchen. ‘Look in the cupboards, man.’
‘I’ve looked. There’s precious little there aside from Glenfiddich and Bath Olivers. I’ve also looked in the vegetable rack but if what I saw was once potatoes, they’ve mutated into something… other.’
Patricia emptied her glass. ‘How did that wife of yours put up with you?’
‘Funnily enough, she found me a joy to live with.’
She poured herself another whisky. ‘Knew there was something wrong with the woman.’
Bobby shot her a warning look. ‘Potatoes.’
‘Well, clearly, I don’t have any.’
He headed back towards the kitchen. ‘Never mind. I’ll use the ones I brought with me.’
Splashing more whisky into her glass, she called out, ‘Well, for Pete’s sake. Why the fuss if you had some?’
The sound of rustling bags carried along the hallway. ‘The agreement is, I cook if you provide the ingredients.’
‘Be easier if you provided the ingredients too.’
‘I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Patricia – I usually do. Largely because you never by food.’
She chuckled. ‘There’s a box of Paxo somewhere.’
‘I made my own stuffing. Pork and apple.’
‘Of course you did,’ she muttered into her glass.
Kate, (protagonist and first person narrator) towards end of relationship with Daz:
Daz never drank wine, but one day he came home with a bottle.
“There you go. It’s a good one too, every bit as fancy as your hotel stuff.”
“What’s the celebration?”
“Got a nice little bonus.” He took out a wad of twenties, wrapped in a rubber band and flicked the edges.
“That’s great! Have you got a job again?”
“One-off for a mate.”
He laid a finger to the side of his nose and winked.
“Now get into something nice.”
I hesitated.
“Dinner’s ready.”
“It can wait. Come here.”
He stank of stale beer, cigarettes and sweat and I couldn’t help resisting slightly as he pulled me to him.
“What’s the matter, not good enough for you now?”
“No. No.” I wrapped my arms round his neck and kissed him.
“Let’s just eat first. The wine’s lovely, can you open it for me please?”
I felt sorry, because he was right, I was moving into a different kind of life, loving the challenges of my work, enjoying the lifestyle of business lunches and meetings in fine hotels and the company of my work colleagues. On good days I tried to make it up to him.
Four women discuss the arrival in their home of a homeless woman and her child.
Kat darted looks at Rosa and Joanna. ‘I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be sucked in. We know absolutely nothing about them.’ There were official bodies for this kind of thing, professionals, social workers, case officers, those sorts of people. People who were qualified, who had the training, who knew what they were doing.
Joanna pushed her plate away. ‘I don’t know. They seem OK. It’s just that I’m not in the mood.’
Rosa tipped the last of the wine into her glass. ‘Sorry, my lovelies. My fault, as usual.’ She gave them her best conciliatory smile. ‘I thought Harri would be quiet and unassuming. Trouble-free. Actually, I had this stupid idea she’d be a good foil for me and Kat because we’re so loud and opinionated. Sorry, Kat.’
‘Maybe, we’re over-reacting,’ Joanna said. ‘Maybe they have no intention of staying.’
Kat shook her head. ‘You didn’t see how much stuff they brought. They took it all up there with them. Harri’s made up the bed, got them towels. I’d say, they’ve settled in all right.’ She stood up to put on the kettle. Lemon and ginger for Rosa and her, builder’s for Joanna, verbena for Harri. They had got into their routines, they were making their way.
When Harri came in, the three of them looked towards her as though waiting for an announcement or an apology, or both.
Harri scratched at her upper arm. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘Wasn’t there anyone else at school? The head, for example? I mean, why did it have to be you?’
‘I don’t know. It just happened.’
‘So,’ Kat said. ‘Where does this leave us? What’s the plan?’
Gemma, a witch, is learning how to date like non-magical people do. In this scene, she is speed-dating and learning fast.
—
“Hello there beautiful.”
A deep, melodious voice dragged Gemma from her introspection. She looked up to see a thirty-something man in a shiny blue shirt. She inspected his physique. Obviously, he takes good care of himself.
“Hi.” Gemma gave him her patented shy glance. Let’s see what this one is like.
He turned the empty chair around and sat astride it, facing her. “I’m Tony.” He held out his bulky hand, palm down.
“Gemma.” She eyed the hand. What am I supposed to do with that? She settled for shaking it by the index finger.
“You have a lovely voice, Tony. Do you work in radio?”
“Compliments will get you everywhere, but no.” He pursed his lips. “You know, you’re a very pretty girl, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
Gemma merely arched her eyebrows. “Are you?”
“Am I what?” he was confused.
“Into that sort of thing?”
His expression darkened. “What are you trying to say?”
“You didn’t seem sure if being pretty was a good thing.”
“Beauty is so fleeting.” He squared his shoulders.
I thought so. A wannabe predator. “I’m glad we agree.” She flashed him her sunniest grin. “So tell me all about you, Tony. What do you enjoy?”
“I enjoy a lot of things. I’m all about fun, me. Even when I’m working.” He said, suddenly defensive.
“And what do you do?” One minute to go.
“I’m an expert purveyor of pre-owned vehicles.”
A used car salesman. Figures. “So sell me you, Tony.” She sat back, arms folded.
His mouth opened. He frowned, then tilted his chin defiantly.
“Oh come on, Tony. Low mileage? One careful owner? Also available in red?”
Ping. Gemma looked away. When she turned back, Tony was gone.
This is an extract from my middle grade novel Shapes in the Clouds. It is the last conversation between main character Becky, who has Cystic Fibrosis and her best friend Ivy who is dying of leukaemia.
‘Do you remember when were, like, six and we went to the aquarium?’ Ivy asks.
‘Yeah. Freddie nearly fell in the stingray tank.’
‘Do you remember the seahorses?’
‘Oh god, yeah. I got all upset because they didn’t really look like horses!’
Ivy laughs. ‘That was so funny. I couldn’t believe you never knew what seahorses looked like!’
‘I don’t know how that happened. Mum told me we’d see some seahorses and I got this picture in my head of tiny horses swimming around. I’m sure I’d seen seahorses before that but I just didn’t put it together.’
‘You sulked for, like, a week.’
‘I thought I was going to see horses! I was upset. It didn’t help that you kept making fun of me.’ I poke my tongue out to show I’m joking.
‘I couldn’t help it. It was hilarious. At least now you know the difference.’
‘Yeah, and real horses are definitely better.’ I smile, thinking of Jasper.
‘Totally. A million times better.’ Ivy agrees.
‘You remember when we went on holiday to the Lake District?’ I ask.
‘Of course. That was a great week.’
‘That night we stayed up late and lay out under the stars.’
‘They were so bright. I never knew there were so many.’ Ivy says.
‘We made a wish, on the brightest star, that we would both be allowed to ride someday.’
‘And it came true, didn’t it?’
‘It did. Took about three years, but it came true. If I could see those stars now, I’d wish…’
But I can’t see them. There’s no point in wishing.
‘I know,’ Ivy says, squeezing my hand.
Genre : Psychological Thriller Setting: Nadia’s home in Beaconsfield, UK
Characters: Sophie and Nadia. They are sisters-in-law. A character Amy is mentioned – she is Sophie’s best friend.
Scene: Sophie is visiting Nadia. She is desperate to get something off her mind.
‘So. It’s your turn now. Are you going to tell me what’s up?’
Sophie swallows some pasta and murmurs her appreciation for the food. Then she lays down her fork and spoon.
‘Oh God. I don’t know how to begin with this, Nadia. You mustn’t tell a soul.’
‘Promise.’
‘Shit, I just can’t.’ A crimson flush spreads up Sophie’s neck.
‘I won’t tell a soul. Share it, sister. You know what they say, ‘a problem shared’ and all that.’
‘Thanks. I do trust you, Nadia. The thing is, it’s not something I regret. It’s actually the best thing that has ever happened to me, but …’
Nadia pushes her plate forwards and leans toward Sophie. ‘Now you’ve got me guessing.’
Sophie shovels in another mouthful of pasta, aware that it is starting to cool. She tears off another chunk of bread.
‘Okay, brace yourself. I’m having a relationship – with Jeremy. Amy’s Dad.’
It is Nadia’s turn to lay down her cutlery. ‘Wowsee. Oh my; I didn’t expect that. How long has that been going on for?’
Sophie’s flush has lent her colour and Nadia notices for the first time how very attractive she is, with her long, glossy hair and large, almond-shaped eyes. Sophie’s lips pull into a small smile, reminding Nadia of the enigmatic beauty of the Mona Lisa.
‘I feel as if I’ve loved him forever. He was my childhood crush – I used to worship him from afar. I’ve always liked him. Of course, for him, back then I was just Sophie, his daughter’s best friend. It all changed at your wedding. I think that was the first time he noticed me – as a woman.’
‘At our wedding?’ Nadia gets up, pasta forgotten. She moves to open one of the windows. ‘You were looking bloody gorgeous, mind you.’
Saving Billy Jeckit from Himself is set in 1903 South Yorkshire. The main protagonists, Robert and his wife Nancy have welcomed the Rafferty brothers: Paddy, and his wife Kate; and Seamus and his wife Maura; who have recently come from Ireland as workers and tenants of Robert’s boss, self-styled gentleman farmer, Billy Jeckit. Feckless, single Declan Rafferty has arrived uninvited and unwelcomed.
‘Seamus, would Robert not lend you his bike to go and seek Declan?’
‘Maura, this family has lost Nancy’s bike. Why would Robert lend us his?’ Maura knew Paddy wouldn’t risk upsetting Kate, however much he wanted to find Declan. As for Seamus, what the eye didn’t see, the heart wouldn’t grieve over. She went to ask Robert, herself.
Nancy said, ‘Good news for you, Maura. Mrs Stratton wants three shawls. And we’ve found my missing bike. Declan had borrowed it. We saw it in a pawn shop in Danford. The pawnbroker said Declan’s working to earn the money to get it back.’ Maura flopped into the nearest chair.
‘Don’t cry, Maura. Here’s the wool Mrs Stratton sent. I’ll get my bike back and you’ll earn lots of money from making shawls.’ Nancy hugged Maura. ‘You and Kate can have my bike , anytime, to ride into Danford with them.’
Maura wiped her eyes. ‘You are a good friend, Nancy. It’s out of my mind I’ve been, worrying about your bike.’
Maura went home. Kate looked up. ‘Maura I was after calling you.’
‘Sure, I was only away to see Nancy.’
‘How dare you show your face there?’
‘Nancy was pleased to see me. Mrs Stratton has ordered three shawls.’
‘All we earn will go towards buying Nancy a new bike.’
‘No Kate, Nancy told me Declan borrowed her bike and has found work in Danford. We can borrow it anytime we need it.’
Kate said, ‘It will only be here to borrow, if and when Declan returns it.’
Paddy said, ‘What am I to tell the boss tomorrow? I promised that Declan would work for him.’
Maura said, ‘Good night. I am off to my bed.’ She thought, and Seamus Rafferty, don’t expect any favours from me, this night.
1865; the senior years’ common room at the Academie in Lothain, capital of Alba, a version of Scotland whose society has been influenced by the French Revolution. Lina Gray is the daughter of President Mora Gray. Her maid and friend, Jennet, has been killed by the Reapers, who sell body parts to surgeons.
‘You don’t come up here very much, do you?’ said Lina.
‘It’s not really my kind of place,’ said Trimmy, looking around at the delicate furniture and tapestry-filled walls. She worked the tip of her forefinger into the handle of the china cup. Putting it back in the saucer, she sucked at a smear of red on her finger. ‘I hate Embroidery. I’ve shed more blood in Cit Picot’s class than I’ve ever done in Blades.’
Her face darkened when Lina told her what had happened to Jennet. ‘I’m sorry to hear it. But what do you want from me?’
‘You and I are in a privileged position here. Jennet never had the kind of blades training we’ve had, and she couldn’t defend herself. We want to train young women to fight back. And we hoped you might help.’
Trimmy’s eyes flickered towards Gowan for a moment and then glared at Lina. ‘You want to train a lot of females who’ve never held anything more dangerous than cutlery to wield a blade? Are you insane? They’d kill themselves or each other before they ever got near a Reaper. Anyway, they can’t carry a blade without a licence.
‘That’s what I said,’ said Gowan, gratified.
Trimmy looked approvingly at him, and his face straightened.
‘What’s that sticking out of the top of your boot, Trimmy?’ said Lina.
‘Ach.’
By the time the bell rang for the next class, Lina had gained her point.
Trimmy levered herself out of the narrow chair and wiped her fingers on her thigh. ‘It’s Engineering next. Coming, Munro?’
‘I’ll see you down there,’ said Gowan.
From the door, she shook her head at Lina. ‘The Reapers are pros, not gentleman fencers. Your girls would be safer running away.’
Harry, a young East London carpenter, is being hunted by a gang of bank robbers after he discovers their loot. He enlists the help of his wife’s notorious uncles, the Skinner Brothers. Together, they enter a lap dancing club in London’s West End to question two young Finnish women. In the brawl that follows, they get the upper hand.
+++++++++++++++++
“Sure,” says Joe, holding the broken bottle to the bouncer’s neck, “But who were they? Names.”
Inka gulps, “Their names were Lou and Jack. They said it would just be a warning. Oh my God, Mimmi, they killed that poor crazy guy.”
“Okay,” I say, determined to play my part. “Where can we find Lou and Jack?”
“We don’t know. They took our numbers and contacted us.”
“Let’s see your phones then.”
“Leave it,” says Rupert, “They’d have been using throwaways.” He turns to the girls. “Anything else? Unless you want to be an accessory to murder.”
“Tell them,” says the owner, red-faced and sweating, “What else do you know?”
“Nothing,” says Inka, “They said something about heading back to the farm. I think in the north. That’s all, I swear.”
“This farm,” I say, “Did it have a name?”
“Just the farm,” says Mimmi.
“Let’s go,” says Joe, placing the bottle back on the bar and wiping his hands, “We got what we came for.”
“Sorry about the mess,” says Rupert as he gets off the stool, “Nice place though. You could do with some security.”
“We already got security,” snaps the owner.
“Right,” says Rupert as he steps over the bouncer, “And how’s that working out for you?”
Customers make way for us as we head towards the exit. Someone’s turned the music off. It’s much quieter now, except for the sound of crunching glass.
“Coming in here like you’re the fucking Krays,” the owner shouts.
Rupert turns.
“Ah, now there was a couple of enterprising lads,” he says, “We knew them. But they had no long-term strategy. They weren’t serious. We’re serious.”
“Who are you?” the owner shouts as we stomp up the stairs.
“We’re the fucking Skinners,” Joe yells over his shoulder, “And we’ll be back.”