Writing a dialogue can be challenging. For most writers, it’s much easier to narrate a story in their own voice, instead of jumping from one character to another. But… there is thrill too, in writing dialogues.
Think about a dialogue that you can remember at this moment — maybe from a book or a movie. What was it about? By its definition, it must have been a conversation between two or more people. But there is more to a dialogue than mere conversation. A dialogue is about capturing or imagining a conversation. It’s an expression, it gives voice to different characters. Therefore, when you write a dialogue, you will have to make sure that you give a voice — and through that voice, a personality — to each character. And then you work on the message you are trying to convey. Which means, you need to:
- Know well how a character speaks.
- Let that character speak what you want them to speak.
Once you have the above two points in mind, you can work on the structure of a dialogue by following the below mentioned points.
Value your words. Dialogues are not meant for entertainment only. Give them value and give them worth. Each dialogue should add to the story. If it does not, edit it out.
Use your words wisely. When a character speaks, ensure the voice of the character is set with the help of dialogues used.
Let dialogues speak for themselves. When you write a set of dialogues, don’t try too hard to explain them. Use words that are self-explanatory.
Let the reader read between the lines. When you write a dialogue, try and keep the reader refreshed and let them read between the lines. Give that space to the reader. Allow them to pause and reflect.
Let them be imperfect. When we speak, we don’t care too much about the technicalities of the language, right? Let your characters do the same. This is perhaps the most common mistake that writers make while writing a dialogue — they write such perfect sentences that no one in their right mind would utter in a conversation.
Let’s consider an example.
The example below is from Yann Martel’s book Beatrice and Virgil. When Beatrice asks Virgil about the pears (as Beatrice has no idea what they look like or feel like), Virgil goes ahead and explains everything about the pears. The conversation continues for a while, creating beautiful imagery. Note how these dialogues are framed using simple language, appropriate pauses and meaningful words and ideas. All this adds much value to your reading experience.
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(Virgil and Beatrice are sitting at the foot of the tree. They are looking out blankly. Silence.)
VIRGIL: What I’d give for a pear.
BEATRICE: A pear?
VIRGIL: Yes. A ripe and juicy one.
(Pause.)
BEATRICE: I’ve never had a pear.
VIRGIL: What?
BEATRICE: In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever set eyes on one.
VIRGIL: How is that possible? It’s a common fruit.
BEATRICE: My parents were always eating apples and carrots. I guess they didn’t like pears.
VIRGIL: But pears are so good! I bet you there’s a pear tree right around here. (He looks about.)
…
BEATRICE: What does a pear taste like?
VIRGIL: Wait. You must smell it first. A ripe pear breathes a fragrance that is watery and subtle, its power lying in the lightness of its impression upon the olfactory sense. Can you imagine the smell of nutmeg or cinnamon?
BEATRICE: I can.
VIRGIL: The smell of a ripe pear has the same effect on the mind as these aromatic spices. The mind is arrested, spellbound, and a thousand and one memories and associations are thrown up as the mind burrows deep to understand the allure of this beguiling smell — which it never comes to understand, by the way.
BEATRICE: But how does it taste? I can’t wait any longer.
VIRGIL: A ripe pear overflows with sweet juiciness.
BEATRICE: Oh, that sounds good.
VIRGIL: Slice a pear and you will find that its flesh is incandescent white. It glows with inner light. Those who carry a knife and a pear are never afraid of the dark.
BEATRICE: I must have one.
VIRGIL: The texture of a pear, its consistency, is yet another difficult matter to put into words. Some pears are a little crunchy.
BEATRICE: Like an apple?
VIRGIL: No, not at all like an apple! An apple resists being eaten. An apple is not eaten, it is conquered. The crunchiness of a pear is far more appealing. It is giving and fragile. To eat a pear is akin to . . . kissing.
BEATRICE: Oh, my. It sounds so good.
VIRGIL: The flesh of a pear can be slightly gritty. And yet it melts in the mouth.
BEATRICE: Is such a thing possible?
VIRGIL: With every pear. And that is only the look, the feel, the smell, the texture. I have not even told you of the taste.
BEATRICE: My God!
VIRGIL: The taste of a good pear is such that when you eat one, when your teeth sink into the bliss of one, it becomes a wholly engrossing activity. You want to do nothing else but eat your pear. You would rather sit than stand. You would rather be alone than in company. You would rather have silence than music.
All your senses but taste fall inactive. You see nothing, you hear nothing, you feel nothing — or only as it helps you to appreciate the divine taste of your pear.
BEATRICE: But what does it actually taste like?
VIRGIL: A pear tastes like, it tastes like . . . (He struggles. He gives up with a shrug.) I don’t know. I can’t put it into words. A pear tastes like itself.
BEATRICE: (sadly) I wish you had a pear.
VIRGIL: And if I had one, I would give it to you.
(Silence.)
***
Kalampedia 