by Dave Freer
Great books need great dialogue. But they also need a bit more…
Here is the same scene twice – the first just dialogue: Two people in a stuck elevator. One is a criminal.
In the darkness of a stilled elevator, with just the dim glow of the emergency light.
“I don’t see how you could have got a gun past the metal detectors into the bank. It must be plastic. Ouch!”
“Next time I’ll break your fingers. Seems dumb for me to tell you how I did it. I might need to do it again. And you might live. Maybe.”
“You’ll never get away with this, you know. That’s why they’ve cut the power. You might as well just give it to me.”
“I will give it to you. Indeed I will… Back in your corner, dog.”
“But… but you said you would give it to me? I was just…”
“Oh, I’ll give it to you, all right. In two parts. First I’m going to give you a piece of lead through what passes for your brain. Then I’ll wipe it and press it into your hot, well, rapidly cooling little hand.”
“You… you can’t do that!”
“I can. I’m going to.”
“Please. Please! I have a family.”
“I’ll tell them of your deep remorse. Of your fear of the external forensic audit. Of how you decided you couldn’t live with the hurt it would do them.”
“But there isn’t going to be an audit. They’ll know you’re lying.”
“Oh I should think there almost certainly will be one. An independent and external one, when I tell them of your fears that Mr Jasmin had double-crossed you. They can hardly let your co-conspirator examine the books.”
“It was his idea. Not mine!”
“You mean I should be going to kill him instead of you?”
“Yes! Agh! That hurts… please. Look, really it was Malik Jasmin. I just… just put through the paperwork.”
“You couldn’t prove that. You got the money.”
“He got half. I paid it over… in cash. That’s why it looks it was meEEEE!”
“I’ll stop squeezing and twisting if you tell me how to prove it.”
________________________
And then with speech tags and added description.
In the darkness of a stilled elevator, with just the dim glow of the emergency light he looked sallow. It was an improvement. Before the power cut he’d looked like a bank manager. It’s amazing how appearances can be non-deceiving. He looked at the muzzle of the Glock, nervously. Maybe he was thinking that pressing the emergency button when I drew it was less than clever. The power had cut as he did it.
He attempted to recapture his courage, and dignity, after that shriek. It’s because I’m not very large, I think, that people have these delusions. “I don’t see how you could have got a gun past the metal detectors into the bank. It must be plastic,” he said, reaching for it. “Ouch!”
“Next time I’ll break your fingers,” I said, as he clung to his knuckles. “Seems dumb for me to tell you how I did it. I might need to do it again. And you might live. Maybe.”
He was used to being in control, so he still tried bluster. “You’ll never get away with this, you know. That’s why they’ve cut the power. You might as well just give it to me.”
I smiled sweetly. I could only hope it looked villainous in that light. “I will give it to you. Indeed I will…” He stepped toward me, reaching out a hopeful hand. But cautiously. He was beginning to learn. Amazing how educative being stuck in an iron box with a little man with a gun could be. I waved the Glock at him. “Back in your corner, dog.”
“But… but you said you would give it to me?” That was definitely a whine, now. “I was just…”
“Oh, I’ll give it to you, all right. In two parts,” I hissed. “First I’m going to give you a piece of lead through what passes for your brain. Then I’ll wipe it and press it into your hot, well, rapidly cooling little hand.”
I leaned forward and he shrank back against the wall: “You… you can’t do that!” He was on the edge of hysteria. And there was no air-conditioning in the stuck elevator to help with the beading of sweat. He stuck a finger into his collar.
“I can. I’m going to,” I said, voice absolutely level. I’ve found that more effective for threats.
It seemed to work. “Please. Please! I have a family,” said the banker.
He had a mistress too, but I didn’t think she’d miss him any more than his wife would, so I didn’t mention it. Instead I said in mocking sympathy: “I’ll tell them of your deep remorse. Of your fear of the external forensic audit. Of how you decided you couldn’t live with the hurt it would do them.”
“But there isn’t going to be an audit,” he said, clinging desperately to the vestiges of the power and control he was used to exercising. “They’ll know you’re lying.”
“Oh I should think there almost certainly will be one. An independent and external one, when I tell them of your fears that Mr Jasmin had double-crossed you. They can hardly let your co-conspirator examine the books,” I said deliberately offering him a straw to clutch at.
He seized it eagerly, desperately. “It was his idea. Not mine!”
His kind always make me want to puke, even after all these years. They’re the squirm seethe of maggots in the corpse of commerce. This was business not pleasure so I had to say: “You mean I should be going to kill him instead of you?”
He showed that there is honor among bank-executives. Of their kind of honor. “Yes!”
I couldn’t help myself. The old ones weren’t in any position to squeeze his testicles while pushing a gun into his ribs, but I was. They’d approve.
“Agh! That hurts… please. Look, really it was Malik Jasmin. I just… just put through the paperwork.” he said, his voice rising. That happens when you’re in danger of becoming a castrati singer.
I kept my voice even though. “You couldn’t prove that. You got the money.”
“He got half,” whimpered Cander. “I paid it over… in cash. That’s why it looks it was meEEEE!”
“I’ll stop squeezing and twisting if you tell me how to prove it,” I said, resisting the temptation to just pull hard, with difficulty.
_________
The point of this exercise – seeing as this is a writer’s blog is to show how the tags can shift the perception of the reader. The reader will remember (principally) the dialogue. But it’s the tags that change the emotional response of the reader to the words.
Your turn :-).
Mad Genius Club 
3 responses to “Dialogue and the other woman”
This is bad. I’m finding so many data dump conversations, a good example of dialog tags making a difference isn’t showing up.
“Daring. I wouldn’t have thought Art would want Wolf’s Head sold in his premises.”
“Art says keeping the Old Wolf busy with his wine is for the good of humanity.”
“I heard that Art owns thirty percent of the restaurant, the windows being his entire investment.”
“I’ve heard he charmed the refrigerated boxes as well. But all this glass is impressive.”
“So long as it doesn’t make you seasick.”
“Not as long as I have my feet firmly on the ground. I thought you were a Physicist, not a Magologist.”
“I’m incurably curious. Take your witch name, for instance. River, where the two women you introduced me to are Amused and Flattered. Am I correct in assuming that means you aren’t a native?”
“So to speak. My Mother, Firefly, is from here, but she traveled a lot when she was younger. My oldest sister was born in Red River, the next in Scandia and the next in Delhi. Then all the way back to Sahara, where I was born. I think I’d traveled the world before I was ten. At any rate, I gained my witch name from the Sahara Pyramid at birth, and kept it, even though I’ve been in five pyramids since gaining power.”
“Huh. And still traveling. Despite the sea sickness.”
“I like it.”
“Does it get better or worse as you get older? I’ve heard about all the witches steps to Power.”
“Get the twinkle out of your eye, I’m not going to discuss advancement through major life experience stepping stones. I expect I’ll get more seasick with advancing power. Pity overland travel is so slow.”
“It’s very odd, the three new sorts of people we have around, the last two generations.”
“Three? Gods, Goddesses and what?”
“Little Gods, Grollian Wizards and the Sea Kings. Not that they’re really kings, in the old literary sense.”
“They’re certainly lords of all they survey. Did you notice anything odd about our voyage north?”
“The way we never sloshed back against the dock, nor had a seriously unfavorable wind? The crew seemed ordinary, the captain very sure of himself.”
“And barnacles won’t grow on his hull and his ship will never sink, nor can he be drowned. If you believe everything you hear.”
“Well, people who aren’t witches tend to disbelieve what we can do as well, so I shouldn’t be too skeptical. And I wasn’t even as sick as I usually am. So, maybe there are mages with an affinity for the sea.”
“Ah. Magic users, sticking together. And the Little Gods?”
“They’re really being dumped on by the collective subconscious. But I know a bunch of them who have resisted and have reasonably normal lives. Some one being pressured into the mold of the God of War can be a soldier or a guard. No need to make a spectacle out of oneself. One of the ‘Gods of Chance’ is a stockbroker, another a speculator.”
“As I understand it, when there were only the thirteen old gods, you could pray to one of them, and he’d appear. Or at least the God of War and the God of the Roads worked like that. But now the prayer gets absorbed by the little gods, and the old, original god stays home, fat and happy.”
“Huh. I remember older people talking about that. So actually there would be a practical reason to have a little war god as a troop mascot—he’d keep the real thing from being used against you.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but the other old gods I’ve seen do always have a ‘God of War’ in their private guards. I thought they were amusing themselves.”
“Instead, it was practical. Huh. I don’t know why so many magicians with two power collection genes are . . . eccentric. I don’t know why the collective subconscious isn’t satisfied with the Old Gods. Or why they don’t invent something new.”
“That would be more interesting. Why not a God of Music? A Goddess of Beauty?”
“God of Thieves; goodness, look at all the Robin Hood and Black Bart tropes around. The God of Spies.”
“Yes, think of the stories about the Super Spy. He out fights, out talks, out magics everyone. He’s got the fastest horse, working equipment from the Exile. Always gets the girl, but never finds true love.”
“Unless she gets killed, so the Super Spy goes off to get revenge. That’s not fair!”
***
And with all the extras, it’s still a data dump, but hopefully less tedious:
***
At this time of day, the Sea View was quiet, even though far from empty. Perched on a headland with two hundred and eighty degrees of floor to ceiling windows, it lived up to its name.
Simon looked over the wine list. “Daring. I wouldn’t have thought Art would want Wolf’s Head sold in his premises.”
River chuckled. “Art says keeping the Old Wolf busy with his wine is for the good of humanity.” And the Wolf laughs and agrees.
That got a snort from Simon. He ordered a white wine, and opened his menu. The waiters whisked around with silent efficiency, pouring a smooth fruity Pinot Blanc.
“I heard that Art owns thirty percent of the restaurant, the windows being his entire investment.” Simon’s gaze crossed from the busy harbor on one side, lingered on the offshore islands, and moved on to the rough, rocky coast stretching to the south. He settled back in his chair and eyed her.
River suppressed a grin, he hadn’t seen her pour the vial into their glasses. “I’ve heard he charmed the refrigerated boxes as well. But all this glass is impressive.”
His eyes crinkled. “So long as it doesn’t make you seasick.”
“Not as long as I have my feet firmly on the ground. I thought you were a Physicist, not a Magologist.” All it had taken was a chance meeting in the street to turn into an invitation to dinner. A bit to her relief, not in a venue where she could easily seduce him. She was undecided about whether it had been wise to use her mother’s potion. No matter how strong, it can’t make me leap on him and ravish him in public. She slipped the vial into a pocket by feel, while she admired the view.
Embarrassed, he fussed with the silver ware and the shifted the wine glasses back out of elbow-knocking range. “I’m incurably curious. Take your witch name, for instance. River, where the two women you introduced me to are Amused and Flattered. Am I correct in assuming that means you aren’t a native?”
“So to speak. My Mother, Firefly, is from here, but she traveled a lot when she was younger. My oldest sister was born in Red River, the next in Scandia and the next in Delhi. Then all the way back to Sahara, where I was born. I think I’d traveled the world before I was ten. At any rate, I gained my witch name from the Sahara Pyramid at birth, and kept it, even though I’ve been in five pyramids since gaining power.”
“Huh. And still traveling. Despite the sea sickness.”
“I like it.” She took a sip of wine. The spells just about knocked her out of her chair. She hastily spun out a mental dampening; even a wizard might pick up on something like that.
“Does it get better or worse as you get older? I’ve heard about all the witches’ steps to Power.” He reached for his own wine glass.
She tried, and most likely failed, to suppress a smirk. “Get the twinkle out of your eye, I’m not going to discuss advancement through major life experience stepping stones. I expect I’ll get more seasick with advancing power. Pity overland travel is so slow.” She took another sip of wine. Mother should have warned me! River turned her attention to the menu.
Simon glanced at his, and settled back to continue his magology.
River jumped in first. “It’s very odd, the three new sorts of people we have around, the last two generations.”
The waiter reappeared to take their orders. Simon included an appetizer, and a wolf’s head shiraz to have with dinner.
“Three? Gods, Goddesses and what?” His fingertips traced a line her arm, pulled back.
“Little Gods, Grollian Wizards and the Sea Kings. Not that they’re really kings, in the old literary sense.” Was her knee actually touching his?
“They’re certainly lords of all they survey. Did you notice anything odd about our voyage north?” He retreated a bit. Damn, hadn’t she got enough into his glass?
“The way we never sloshed back against the dock, nor had a seriously unfavorable wind? The crew seemed ordinary, the captain very sure of himself.”
“And barnacles won’t grow on his hull and his ship will never sink, nor can he be drowned. If you believe everything you hear.” He smiled at her, then nervously shifted his gaze out the window as she reached for her glass.
She poured half of it into his nearly empty glass, then touched it to her lips. “Well, people who aren’t witches tend to disbelieve what we can do as well, so I shouldn’t be too skeptical.” She paused while the waiter delivered a platter of little tidbits. “And I wasn’t even as sick as I usually am. So, maybe there are mages with an affinity for the sea.”
“Ah. Magic users, sticking together. And the Little Gods?” He poured more wine for her, and sampled his own. He didn’t seem to notice anything, so the damping of perception spell must be working.
If I were already a Bright Crescent, I’d have power enough to be sure. But then, I wouldn’t be here trying to seduce this man . . . Right? “They’re really being dumped on by the collective subconscious. But I know a bunch of them who have resisted and have reasonably normal lives. Some one being pressured into the mold of the God of War can be a soldier or a guard. No need to make a spectacle out of oneself. One of the ‘Gods of Chance’ is a stockbroker, another a speculator.” River shrugged.
Salads arrived and they crunched for a moment.
“As I understand it, when there were only the thirteen old gods, you could pray to one of them, and he’d appear. Or at least the God of War and the God of the Roads worked like that. But now the prayer gets absorbed by the little gods, and the old, original god stays home, fat and happy.” It was definitely his knee drifting over to bump hers, not the other way around.
“Huh. I remember older people talking about that. So actually there would be a practical reason to have a little war god as a troop mascot—he’d keep the real thing from being used against you.” River leaned forward a bit. Extra cleavage couldn’t possibly hurt.
Simon removed his gaze from her. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but the other old gods I’ve seen do always have a ‘God of War’ in their private guards. I thought they were amusing themselves.”
“Instead, it was practical. Huh. I don’t know why so many magicians with two power collection genes are . . . eccentric. I don’t know why the collective subconscious isn’t satisfied with the Old Gods. Or why they don’t invent something new.” He’s fighting the potion, drat. River sat back and shifted her knee away.
“That would be more interesting.” Simon flashed a quick grin. “Why not a God of Music? A Goddess of Beauty?”
The white wine was gone, and Simon shook his head at the offer of another bottle.
“God of Thieves; goodness, look at all the Robin Hood and Black Bart tropes around.” She ran her hand up his arm. Strong wiry muscles. “The God of Spies.”
“Yes, think of the stories about the Super Spy. He out fights, out talks, out magics everyone. He’s got the fastest horse, working equipment from the Exile. Always gets the girl, but never finds true love.”
River met his warm gaze for a long moment. “Unless she gets killed, so the Super Spy goes off to get revenge. That’s hardly fair!” She leaned back and got a grip on herself, and her hands off Simon, as the waiter took the salad plates away and delivered her lobster.
It was that scary? Dudes, rough draft. Honest it will improve.