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.
This dialogue submission is about two childhood best friends, Steven and Peter, who are learning that growing up leads people down different paths. Set at the beginning of summer vacation, this is a single, angsty scene from a small, Eastern town.
…
“Western State or Boston?” he asks, on level three of Death Warriors.
Oh. College acceptance letters.
I pause the game and flop back onto his bed with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know Steven, flip a coin?”
“Be serious. They both have really good reputations and I can’t decide.”
“What even is college?”
“What—”
I cut him off. “It’s a hundred-thousand-dollar scam, that’s what.”
“It’s also a really great opportunity to better your education, and the first real step into adulthood.”
“But does it have to be so far away?”
He sits down at his desk and turns away from me. I stand behind him.
“Steve, think about it, you’re not ready for this.”
“It’s time to grow up sooner or later, Peter Pan.”
“But we’re a team, man. Haven’t things have always been good here? I don’t have any reason to leave.”
“God, of course you’d say that Pete. I’ve felt trapped for nineteen years… You’re asking me to give up my one chance to finally get out of here.” He trails off and I feel a twinge of guilt.
“Well don’t act like it’s easy listening to you complain about your shit all the time. Maybe I’m sick of it.”
“Believe it or not, this is what I want to do.” He stands up now, too.
“Okay, no, I get it. You don’t just want to leave this town, you want to leave me.”
“Jesus Christ! You’re never aware of anything outside yourself!” Steven glares at me.
“Then I guess I’ll stop holding you back!” I spit out.
I wipe my face and regretfully cross the street back to my house.
The Jarvis brothers are at Southend Utd to tell their business associate that the gangster Johnny Euston is looking into the murder of Tina McBride. That could be bad news for them.
‘So, what was so urgent?’ he said, taking a puff on his cigarette as he looked at Simon Jarvis. ‘You said it was about McBride.
‘It’s serious, Steve,’ said Simon, as Rouse coughed theatrically before wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
‘She’s dead. How more serious can it get? We’ve got to find that bastard Kellard, that’s all.’
‘Johnny Euston’s looking into her murder.’
‘He’s fucking what?’ said Rouse, almost dropping his cigarette as he looked Simon hard in the face. ‘Since when?’
‘We don’t know. Recently, I think. The information came from Bobby Steeds.’
‘Steeds? Oh, don’t tell me. Another one of those fucking cab meetings?’
‘Looks like, yeah.’
‘Do we know who Euston’s got on the job?’
‘Ricky Lamb.’
‘Then it must be important. He wouldn’t have put Lamb on it otherwise.’
Steeds sighed and took another drag on his cigarette.
‘I know that,’ said Simon, as Rouse gazed around the stadium, shaking his head as though the sight of it suddenly disgusted him. ‘What I don’t understand is why McBride is so important to Euston.’
‘Maybe she isn’t, said Rouse, jabbing the air in triumph, as though he found his sudden idea comforting. ‘Maybe Euston is doing a favour for someone. It’s happened before.’
‘But who? What was she to anyone?’
‘Well somebody wants to know who killed her, don’t they? What did that fat twat Steeds say exactly?’
‘It was Danny who spoke to him,’ said Simon, nodding at his brother. Rouse turned to Danny, the sweat shiny on his face.
‘Yeah? So, what did he say?’
‘Just like Simon said,’ said Danny. Rouse looked at him anxiously, fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket. ‘He didn’t know much about it. But he did say that it all seemed to be hush-hush.’
Lou, the criminal posing as an insurance salesman, sees a chance to take further advantage of Hilda when her husband is lost at sea.
Hilda made tea after Morris had gone.
‘You really haven’t had much luck, have you?’
Hilda sighed. ‘You could say that again. I hope nothing else goes wrong. This leak’s going to use up the last of the savings. If only the children could get Saturday jobs. Or I could find something better paid. But I don’t have time to look.’
‘You’ve been waiting a long time on the coroner.’ He helped himself to another cup of tea.
‘Oh, I meant to tell you but then I got distracted with this leak. He won’t issue the certificate. Says the report from the Orient Line is inconclusive. So I’ve got to wait the whole seven years. I don’t know if I can stand it.’ Her voice cracked on her sobs.
‘I could reduce the premiums to ten shillings a week.’ He shifted in his chair and scratched his groin.
‘Would the insurance company agree?’
He laughed. ‘Course not. I’d be subsidising you.’
‘Why would you do a thing like that? It’s a very kind offer but I really don’t think…’
He leaned forward across the table and took her hand. ‘Hilda, you’re a very attractive woman. I’d be more than happy to help out, so long as you felt able to show a bit of appreciation from time to time. A man gets lonely.’ She gasped and tried to snatch her hand back from him but he increased his grip. ‘You do like me, don’t you Hilda? After all I’ve done for you.’ His voice was low and breathy as he locked his eyes on hers.
Hilda gulped. ‘I can’t Lou. I’m in mourning for George.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He pushed his chair back and stood, looming over her. ‘Let’s have that premium then, so I can be on my way.’
Context: All Eden knows about her contact (Geoff’s fraternity brother) is that he’s probably about her age. She spots the likeliest candidate in a faded black concert t-shirt and threads her way through the bar to his seat. He’s obviously expecting her.
“Petty’s third album?” he asks.
“Solo or with the band? All albums or just studio?”
The lines at his eyes deepen and his lips twitch like he stopped himself from smiling. “The first three of either are studio records. How about both?” The drawl dripping off his words tries to disarm me.
“With the Heartbreakers, Damn the Torpedoes. Solo, Highway Companion.”
“And our mutual acquaintance?”
“Geoff …”
“Gage.” He nods and watches the entrance again while I tug the chair away from the bar and sit.
“I wasn’t followed.” He either doesn’t believe me or that’s not why his eyes don’t stay still. “Are you police or a federal agent?”
“No ma’am.”
The bartender slides a square paper napkin onto the bar. My “date” orders me a glass of verdicchio.
The unwanted libation delivered, my drinking partner finally rests his gaze on me and nods at the wine chilled enough to frost the glass. “We are friends out for a drink, Ms. Halleday.”
I ignore the desire to down the wine in one gulp. “Who are you and why am I talking to you?”
“John Beaudry. Because some brothers asked for my help.”
“Why isn’t Geoff here? What other brothers?”
“Because Geoff is nowhere near here. And I am.” He ends the sentence like I had asked him a trick question. “The other brother is Bart…” He leaves the name hanging like I did earlier.
“Standish.” The name comes effortlessly to me out of that other lifetime. “What’s going on? Why did Geoff call me?”
Still settled against the wall, he crosses his arms. Apparently, my questions aren’t making a favorable impression. “Geoff is concerned about a missing friend of his, yours, too I was given to believe. He hoped she might have reached out to you.”
Prince Ranji, Ronnie the Earl, and the Countess, Kathleen, are the only three at dinner.
“Ronnie, you are drunk. Please do not be unpleasant. There is no call for it, we are entirely among friends.”
“Friends? Fine friends, these friends. Friends help each other. Friends are there for one another.” The Earl had begun to mumble, a sure sign that he ought not to be listened to, but with so few seated for dinner, it was impossible not to hear him.
“What is that you say?” The Prince was miffed but doing his best not to show it.
Kathleen, of course, was aware of the tension building. Any woman in the presence of two men who so disliked each other as the Prince and the Earl would know in an instant that no good whatsoever was to come of the evening, and the sooner the meal could be over, the better for everybody.
“You⸺,” the Earl began, before unluckily forgetting what he had intended to say. Kathleen did not waste the opportunity.
“Ronnie. Be quiet, please. The food will be cold, and Mrs Bindley has done her best.”
“If this is her best, then her best is bloody awful. Give it to the pigs, I am sure I cannot eat it. Oh, I forgot, pigs! Mustn´t mention the pigs. Hindu present.”
“You may talk of pigs until the cows come home,” Ranji broke in, not realising what he said, “it is all one to me.”
“Ha, talk of them, yes, but you can´t eat ´em, can you? Bacon and a nice loin chop, not for the Jam Saheb.”
“I eschew all meat. As you rightly say, I am Hindu. Meat is not strictly prohibited a Hindu, though most Hindus do not eat beef. It is the Mahomedan that is prohibited pork. You are thinking of the Mahomedan.”
(Frankie has just escaped from a serious domestic abuse situation, and is now with her best friend and ex-flatmate Mitch – a solicitor – who her boyfriend’s made sure she hasn’t seen for over two years.)
Mitch tucks her feet underneath her on the futon and pours us each a glass of Merlot.
‘Sonofabitch was out when you left, then?’
‘Asleep.’
‘This early on a Saturday? Is he working shifts now?’
I’m not sure how much I should tell her.
‘There might have been a magic potion involved.’ I do a grimacey-smiley thing with the roadkill that’s my face.
‘Shit, Frank, seriously?’
I’m a little innocent lamb. Sheepish.
‘What’ve you given him?’
‘Dizzies.’ I take a swig of my Merlot. Wow, I’d forgotten about wine.
‘Dizzies?’
‘You know, dizzy-pam, like your GP gave you after your mum died.’
Mitch looks a bit freaked-out. ‘Where’d you get diazepam?’
‘His bedside drawer. They’re his. You know, for sleeping. He’s got all sorts.’
‘How many’d you give him?’
‘Just two. Crushed up in his burger.’
‘How many’s he normally take?’
‘One.’
She looks a bit more relaxed. ‘One extra shouldn’t do any major harm then, big lummox like him.’
‘Might’ve been three actually.’ I’m the lambiest of innocent lambkins. ‘And he’s drunk a whole bottle of rum.’
‘Shit.’ She’s freaked again. ‘Does he normally drink that much?’
‘Oh yeah. But not usually with the pills.’
‘But he does take them regularly?’
I nod.
‘Frank, I don’t think you should tell anyone else you gave him the dizzies, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Let them think he just took them. You know, as a usual thing.’
‘Okay.’
‘But I haven’t said that, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘We haven’t had this conversation, okay? It could cost me my job.’
‘What conversation?’
We ching our wineglasses together like we always used to.
[C18 London: A homeless orphan is taken in by a criminal family hoping to profit from his ‘eddycation’ by offering him as pupil to a lawyer. Son Ned complains to his burglar friend, Zacky.]
The front door suddenly crashed open. ‘Coming through! Out the way, brat!’
Abigail was barged aside by a small wiry boy, head shaven to a tawny shadow, carrying a bulging canvas bag slung over one shoulder. He made straight for the kitchen.
‘Ho there, Ned!’
‘Zacky! Good swag?’
‘Candlesticks, mate, damn’ ’eavy ones too.’
‘Is the constable on your tail?’
‘Nah, ’e’s such a lardyguts ’e can’t run fast enough.’ Zacky Cobb dropped the bag with a loud clank and looked around. ‘Where’s this rich fop they’re all talkin’ about?’
Ned shrugged, ‘Dunno. Pa took him up Holborn to find work.’
‘Couldn’t ’e ’elp you instead?’ Zacky nodded towards the table where his friend had been pasting labels onto Dr Physick’s medicine bottles.
Ned pulled a sour face, ‘He’s too grand for this, he’s a scholar you know – and my pa thinks the sun shines out of his miserable rump.’
Zacky sniffed noisily and aimed a scornful gobbet of spit into the fire, ‘Book learnin’! Who’s got time for that ploddin’ stuff when you’re tryin’ to stay alive?’
Ned was enjoying his grumble, ‘Truth is, I don’t want his help anyway. It’s bad enough sharing upstairs with him.’
‘’Ow much longer?’
Ned shrugged again, ‘’Til he gets into his house, I s’pose.’
‘An orphan and ’e’s got a ken of ’is own?’ Zacky was astonished.
‘Nah, it belongs to his rich godparents who’ve scowred off somewhere and left him locked out. Little Lord Matthew’s in a bit of a chafe about it, as you might believe.’
Zacky’s dirt-streaked face sharpened. ‘P’raps I could ’elp ’im sneak into this gentry-ken – and then you’d be rid of ’im at the same time.’
Ned brightened, ‘Do yourself a favour too – ’tis sure to be a place worth robbing.’
Context
Homicide Lieutenant John Brannagan has been summoned to NYC Mayor´s office to account for his fruitless efforts to catch a serial killer who´s spreading terror and death in the Big Apple.
Crossing his arms, Mayor Connolly asked in a defiant tone, “Do you or don’t you have a concrete plan to catch the goddamn serial killer, Lieutenant?”
“We’re following up on a lead that looks promising,” Brannagan said, without elaborating.
Connolly went straight for the jugular.
“In other words, you don’t have shit!” Given your incompetence, what do we do now, Lieutenant? Should we ask Scotland Yard for help, as an old lady from Gramercy Park suggested?” His voice dripped in sarcasm.
“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” Brannagan replied, his tone equally sarcastic. “Scotland Yard could never catch Jack the Ripper.”
Context: Sophia and Fitz met the previous night at a casino. From vastly different social circles, they hit it off before she was pulled away by her crowd. They see each other again the next day when he accompanies his employer to a meeting. During a break he confronts her about what happened.
“What was that, then?” Fitz pulled out the chair next to her and sat back, resting one arm on the table. He reeked of strong spirits.
“You certainly took care of the sober part last night, didn’t you?” she dissembled, sniffing.
“Aye, no thanks t’ye,” he said sourly.
“To me?” Sophia raised an eyebrow. “How am I responsible for your debauchery?”
He stared at her through his tangle of curly locks and scratched at his jaw. “I think yer very well aware o’ what ye had to do with it an’ I’ll tell ye, I don’ appreciate bein’ played with.”
She laughed lightly. “I don’t think that’s true, Fitzpatrick. I think you enjoy it a great deal.”
“Not when I can’a finish the game,” he muttered.
Sophia’s cheeks warmed. “How much did you win last night? You had quite a pile of chips when I left.”
Fitz shrugged. “I don’ know. Left it there.”
“You left it? Well, I’d imagine they brought it back for you, there must have been at least forty thousand units in front of you.” Her brow furrowed at his nonchalance about it.
Catching the look he snorted. “What? S’only money. Lord Scot pays fer whatever I’m needin’.” He ran a hand up his crisp cotton shirt to sourly tug at his cravat. “An’ all I need’s enough fer ale an’ whores.” Fitz met her eyes with a direct challenge as he said the word.
Sophia felt a smile tug at her lips. “And did you have enough for that last night?”
“I did.” Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees as he met her eyes. “Two of ‘em. Both with long dark hair, though not as black as this,” he said softly, reaching out to brush a strand from her cheek.
From PEACE ON EARTH Vol. 5 of Of Human Vice and Valour, Historical saga
Context
Summer 1945. A war-ravaged village on the outskirts of Turin, Italy. Pier Venturi, (40) housing commissioner in the commune’s provisional government, is working at his desk when a stranger walks in, shoves his registers aside and sits down on the desk.
“Hei, there, Venturi,” he hailed, without bothering to introduce himself, “I hear you are the man to talk to around here.”
Pier looked up, the hair on his neck stiffening. ““About what? And who are you?”
“The social coordinator for this burg,” the other answered. “I guess they didn’t bother to tell you…”
“Your name?” Pier asked.
“Giaco Villiani, if we want to be officious.”
Officious? asking who one is talking to? Pier shrugged, waited for the other to come to the point.
“We need space for our meeting hall,” Villiani said as though he were asking the time of day.
“Eh,” Pier’s chin bobbed up, “You and everybody else.”
“I hear you’ve got yourself a whole theatre…”
Pier pushed his registers back toward the intruder’s rump. “Yes, to raise money for the Patronato Scholastico. We’re converting the old school gym with the approval of the town council; the work done – on their own time”, he stressed, “by village volunteers”
“Well, we need a space for our Casa del Popolo. The top floor of this building will do.”
Pier blinked: a Casa del Popolo? What was that, an equivalent of the fascist Dopolavoro? And who was ‘we’?
“There are twenty three families living up there,” he said, “until we can find them some other place.”
“Well, can’t you move them to somewhere else now?”
“If there where anywhere else, they wouldn’t be living up there. The roof leaks and the windows are still shattered. But the poor devils up there are not the worst off. Leaky though it is, they have a roof over their head. I have a couple of hundred families with no roof at all, and it’s pushing October.”
“We all have our problems. But a Ca del Popolo is important to us.”
“Who is this ‘us’ you keep talking about? On whose authority are you making this request?
“‘This Us’” the man mimicked, “is the FIAT CLN. I am the delegate for this burg.”