David R Slayton

Nov172007

Workshop on Dialogue Format I

As my novel makes the rounds of trusted “beta” readers, I am getting a lot of feedback on how to format dialogue. You think it would be the easiest thing in the world but when do you capitalize? When do you use a comma versus a period? Is a single space appropriate now, or should I still use two? All of these things are coming back with conflicting opinions.

A quick flip through some of Gail Simone’s issues of “Birds of Prey” tells me that a character’s name should always be preceded by a comma when they are being addressed, but this is fantasy. What about titles like sir, your lordship, my liege, and so forth? It’s time to hit the books.

Here is a dialogue-heavy passage from R.A. Salvatore’s Sea of Swords, which I’ve broken into six parts for analysis.

1 “You did this to me,” Wulfgar remarked.

2 “Did what?”

3 “Your words put me here, not those of Captain Deudermont,” Wulfgar
clarified. “You did this.”

4 “No, dear Wulfgar,” Robillard said venomously. “You did.”

5 Wulfgar lifted his chin, his stare defiant.

6 “In the face of a potentially difficult battle, Captain Deudermont had no choice but to relegate you to this place,” the wizard was happy to explain. “Your own insolence and independence demanded nothing less of him. Do you think we would risk losing crewmen to satisfy your unbridled rage and high opinion of yourself?” (Salvatore, R.A. Sea of Swords. Wizards of the Coast, 2001, 112-113)

Let’s look at the style first. Salvatore doesn’t use a lot of “he said/she said.” He’s big on alternate words like “clarified” or “remarked.” Stephen King, in his excellent book On Writing, suggests steering away from these alternates. I prefer a mix but try to not overdo it. Wulfgar is a character of action, so Salvatore makes him a man of fewer words than the intellectual wizard, Robillard. The characters’ sentence patterns well-reflect their characterization. The characters’ word choices are also appropriate to their personality. Wulfgar doesn’t use Robillard’s fancy adjectives, “unbridled” or “high.” Wulfgar is more to the point. These are subtle tricks and Salvatore employs them to great effect. I’ve always admired his combat choreography and pacing, but I’ve never noticed how good he was at this technique before now.

Now let’s look at the punctuation, the real reason why we’re here. Part one is easy. Wulfgar makes a single line remark. It’s a complete thought, but it still ends with a comma:

1 “You did this to me,” Wulfgar remarked.

This is pretty simple. You open the quote, end the remark with a comma and end the quote. Wulfgar is a name so of course it gets capitalized.

In part two, we know Wulfgar is talking to Robillard, so Salvatore just lets the responding question stand alone:

2 “Did what?”

No “the wizard” or “Robillard said.” Leaving this out creates more white space and speeds the flow of the passage. There are only two characters present so Salvatore doesn’t have to worry about confusing us about which is speaking. In a longer dialogue I’d be careful to not confuse the reader, but Salvatore gives us another pointer in part three.

Part three contains an insertion:

3 “Your words put me here, not those of Captain Deudermont,” Wulfgar clarified. “You did this.”
It’s not much more complicated than part one. Wulfgar speaks, ending on a comma. Salvatore closes the quote and gives us a pointer to indicate who is speaking “Wulfgar clarified.” The pointer ends on a period and Salvatore opens a fresh quote so Wulfgar can finish his accusation.

Part four deals with a character’s name being spoken. This is the part I’ve been waiting for:

4 “No, dear Wulfgar,” Robillard said venomously. “You did.”

Salvatore opens a quote. He puts a comma before “dear Wulfgar,” as “dear” is modifying “Wulfgar.” Instead of saying “Yep dear, Lady,” the pause of the comma goes before the dear: “Yep, dear Lady.” I’ll still have to thumb through some books to see a concrete example for a title, but I suspect I’ll find it says “As you wish, my lord,” the knight said. King would drop the “venomously,” but I think the adjective here it appropriate. Salvatore is aiming for sarcasm and the “dear” might give the wrong impression without the “venomously” in the pointer. We should also note that we’re still ending on a comma in the first part of the dialogue.

Part five has no dialogue, but Salvatore opens a new paragraph since the action shifts entirely to Wulfgar:

5 Wulfgar lifted his chin, his stare defiant.

Part six opens a new paragraph and I’m anxious to see how Salvatore handles the pronoun. Does it get capitalized? No:

It’s a much longer ending than the insertion style we saw in part three, but the punctuation is very similar. The important thing is that “the wizard” isn’t capitalized.

Oct42007

Today’s Randomly Overheard Phrase That Would Make a Good Band Name

“Bash the Squeaker.”

My coworker was saying that yes, her dog’s new toy is very annoying and she’s certain it will not be long until someone “bashes the squeaker” in order to end their pain.

Sep122007

It Broke My Heart: David’s Response to Everything is Illuminated

It’s my goal in the next twelve months to catch up on all of the great books I’ve missed in the last few years while I was focusing solely on reading for my education. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve learned a lot by reading classics and books on writing. I’ve even managed to slip in the occasional young adult novel or fantasy epic in order to keep current with the trends, but the extraordinary amount of time it takes to really read what’s good and bad out there just hasn’t been available.

I took time out this week to read Jonathan Safran Foer’s Everything is Illuminated. It’s another wonderful book I wish I’d read years ago. Aside from being the most playful with language and style that I’ve seen in a long while, it’s also the most beautifully written. It’s brief and easily digested in small chapters and I quickly found myself pulling it out of my bag whenever I had ten minutes at the bus stop or five minutes in line at the bank.

What worked for me was the development of character. I really don’t want to ruin anything for you but the characters take their time to reveal their secrets and while you’re waiting on them to give up the goods, you get taken for a ride in the whirlpool history of the fictional village around which everything is centered.

The style is extremely original and you find yourself having to backtrack often as one character edits the writings of another. It’s a bit like As I Lay Dying, which I hate, but without the incredible misery of Faulkner’s classic. Everything made me cry, certainly, but it made me laugh quite a bit too and it’s been a while since a book did that for me.

My critical piece on it will be up on my main site shortly if you’d like a deeper analysis with a bit more fancy vocabulary.

What didn’t work for me: Well, absolutely nothing.

I love this book. It is one of my favorites: instantly and completely. I hope to write a book half this good by the time I die.

Sep62007

Aronofsky, Alan, and the Fear of Death: David’s Response to The Fountain

The light right now, outside the bus window is perfectly golden. My copy of Everything is Illuminated just arrived and yeah, I saw the movie first.

I missed the Fountain at the theatre. I had intended to see it simply to take in its visual effect but I have to say, I really regret it now that I’ve seen the movie. There is much more to take in than simply the sight of it. It’s been a few weeks and I’m still thinking about it, so suffice it to say, I really liked it. My good friend Alan, over at randomtope, didn’t care for it but I think my expectations were a lot lower (which might explain why every movie I paid to see at the theatre this summer was a real letdown).

The theme in the Fountain that I connected with is the same theme that acted as a capstone for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: that of death and our extreme fear of it. In both narratives, the fear of death is the primary motivator for villain or protagonist (I’m not here to discuss Harry Potter so if you’re trying to avoid spoilers, don’t worry). I’ve been thinking a lot about the fear of death and why it can motivate us with such force, particularly when we’re not aware that it is the feeling in the driver seat.

My recent birthday filled me with a particular sadness and in trying to examine it, I found it associated with having gotten older without accomplishing certain goals, particularly that of finishing my novel and seeing it in print. At the bottom of it all was the fear of death. It is inevitable, unavoidable, but few of us can face with it with any measure of nobility of grace. The character of Izzie in the Fountain managed to do that. Her husband’s inability to accept such a thing and the heroic efforts he put forth to avoid it, are the source of the movie’s plot.

At the Fountain’s core it is an old tale: Enkidu’s death stirred Gilgamesh on a similar quest at the dawn of written literature. The biblical tree of life (nicely tied in to the Fountain) symbolizes our frustration with our inevitable end and how no way to stave it off is within our reach. Gilgamesh was told his quest for immortality was an overreach of human ego and he was robbed of the prize he journeyed so hard to find.

In fantasy, our characters cheat death. Sometimes they return from it, fulfilling a crucial component of Joseph Campbell’s hero’s journey or Plato’s actualization of the Philosopher-King. But even these characters must face the descent into death and a key element of their triumph is how well they handle themselves. Perhaps one of the reasons I like comic books is that they are a suspension of this cycle: characters die, sometimes repeatedly, but it just doesn’t stick. They return, just as Campbell’s hero must come back to enlighten the world or Plato’s Philosopher-King might return to the cave in an attempt to free others. In all of these cases, even comic books, the characters grow and change. Their brush with death has enlightened them, toughened them, scarred and given them knowledge.

I liked the Fountain and recommend it to you. Just don’t tell Alan.

Aug312007

David’s Response to The Summoner, by Gail Martin

Who doesn’t like a good ghost story? Gail Martin’s The Summoner begins on Haunts (Halloween), with spirits walking and a royal coup. Martris Drayke is tasked with avenging his family, overthrowing his half-brother, and fleeing for his life. En route he has to learn to control his necromatic spirit magic.

What worked for me: The opening hook worked for me. Martin set up a compelling reason to get on board right off the bat. Her world is three dimensional and distinct. Magic is handled in a practical way and Martin makes it look easy in how she blends action and ghosts to the character’s reality. The characters don’t stop and emote while running for their lives. The romantic affections build: they don’t just drop out of the sky. These are two fantasy conventions that always drive me nuts.

What didn’t work: I felt like the vampires were shoe-horned in at the last minute. The two typos I noticed concerned them but hey, she didn’t use elves. There is also an eleventh hour plot device that wrapped things up a bit too tidily for me.

Apr192007

The Year of Writing Ferociously

Blog forgive me, it’s been fourteen months since my last vacation. Today did not start off too well. Inanimate objects aren’t obeying my mental commands. I’m clumsy. I spill coffee on the floor. My shirt slips off of the steamer. I drop the steamer wand on my foot, prompting an under-the-breath invective of words I “must not use in front of my nephew.” I’m not going to shave. With this level of gracefulness, a razor in hand isn’t a good idea. I overslept for the third day in a row. My allergies prompted an inaccurate nose-blowing which results in a change of shirt and another round of steaming. Then it’s time for a game called “Slayton has lost his wallet.”

This is not a game of “David lost . . .” because I am not the originator. My brother Bonner began this game in his early twenties, when we both lived with my Grandmother Dyess. Every day Bonner would come home for lunch from his job at Sears and every day he would lose his keys. This would prompt a near rabid search by everyone to find his keys and get him back to work, usually late. It drove me nuts, even then, that he couldn’t just put the damn things on the hook by the door and there they’d be when he needed them.

Last year I began to experience a similar, daily crisis. Determined to not repeat the behavior that had driven me so crazy in Bonner, up went a hook, a habit was formed, and the problem of David versus the keys is solved.

The brain is sneaky, and I knew what my brain was about. I wasn’t losing my keys because I was absent-minded. The game isn’t about that. It’s about being a bit overloaded and stealing time. It’s about “I don’t wanna.” By losing my wallet this morning, I’m subconsciously saying “I don’t wanna go to work today.” I find the wallet, inexplicably, in the bottom of a basket of clean clothes. It’s managed to crawl to the very bottom. My wallet in pocket, my shirt snot-free, and three cups of coffee drunk during this debacle, I’m out the door.

One of the best things about exclusively taking public transportation is that you have to give up your sense of control. The wallet game has cost me a window, forced me to take a later bus, and therefore forced me to breathe and calm the hell down. The bus is on time today, and the driver is beyond polite. He explains how the drivers vote today on the routes they get and he hopes to keep this one, the 20, and thanks the passengers for riding with him.

The train cuts through the campus and as always, provides me with the best possible people watching. I’m late for work, which is a problem. I’m going to owe my job some time tonight, shaving a few more hours off of studying and trying to work through Eastlight’s plot problems. My inner child won his fifteen minutes, but the wallet game has put me behind.

This is the most challenging semester I’ve had in a while. Fortunately it is also one of the last in my undergraduate career. I knew that finishing my second BA in English Literature was going to make 2007 a challenging year. I knew that my writing time would be greatly impacted as I balanced the studies against my likeable, and unfortunately interesting, day job. But I also knew that the courses I’m taking and the papers I’m writing would ultimately make me a better writer. I set out to thicken my skin against rejection, and I think it is working. Guthrie took second place in my school’s annual writing contest and I’ve finally learned what the hell a dangling participle is. Vacation, research in Greece, is in three weeks. And I have 2008 to look forward to.

I’ve made a decision to take 2008 off from my perpetual college career. This is unusual. I’ve gone to school, on a part-time basis, for most of my adult life. 2008 is about three things: catching up on the popular reading they don’t assign in Literature classes, burning my accumulated vacation hours at writing conferences, and churning out more deliverables in the writing department.

At the moment, avoiding another sneeze, scratching my beard stubble, and trying to think happy thoughts, it sounds like paradise.

Apr82007

“Every time I have time to think, I think of this.”

I always feel like writing, just not always what I should be.

What’s playing right now? Ani diFranco, Cloud Blood from To the Teeth

It’s on o’clock on Easter. It’s snowing hard outside and the cat is glued to the window to watch. I have a ton of German homework to do and Eastlight isn’t going to edit itself, but I’m distracted this early afternoon by thoughts about heroes, specifically my heroes.

I’m trying to expand the page I have on myspace.com and they ask for heroes. I quickly noticed that most of mine were women. Most of my favorite authors are women. Most of my favorite musicians are also women. The pattern is inescapable. Women are a tremendous influence on my life. That brings me back to Easter, which brings me back to Spring, which brings me back to my grandmother.

Her birthday was April 2nd. She died in the month of May some years ago. I’ll never forget that spring. Grandmother died the Sunday before finals started. My grandfather, on the other side, died the week before mid-terms. I started the semester with a flu so severe they put me on an IV for dehydration. Needless to say, it was not a stellar term for my academic record.

My grandmother got me. Not completely. I was a very weird kid after all. But she tried. She encouraged my creativity, saving me cereal boxes and panty hose eggs to build spaceships with. (The eggs made the absolute best escape pods). She bought me Star Wars action figures and let me play in her private bathroom, where the bright yellow carpet made for a great alien landscape. Okay, she spoiled me a lot. She let me build a toy city in her spare room. Comprised of lego bricks, plywood, discarded bits of furniture and bits of junk, it was my finest childhood creation. She let me be a world builder. When I set up my Ewok village in a pot of dirt with real plants for trees, she crocheted me strings of green for vines. I could always raid her spice rack for magical ingredients.

My grandmother was once a violist and when her tutor/fiancé left her for California and a symphony job, she took it hard. My grandfather wooed her and she was honest with him that she needed time to heal. Their marriage lasted over fifty years, until her death. She always loved music.

My grandmother was a wonderful cook and while I have copies of all of her recipes, I have no skill for baking her cinnamon rolls or cakes. I practice sometimes, in her memory, but it never tastes the same and it never will. There is no way to bake in the here and now and mix in the ineffable qualities that only a childhood memory can contain.

My grandmother and I did not agree about religion or politics but we did not argue. I think I chose the exact right age to move out of state, before my adulthood could ruin our ideal of what our relationship had been when I was a child. Her faith was not something she proselytized about to me. I felt it was sincere in the way she did not feel the need to announce it.

My grandmother was a poet. She typed these little religious poems out years ago, in courier typewriter font and put them away. But we kept discovering them, so she did not hide them too hard. She was embarrassed by them, as she was by her proper first name, Ruby.

I miss her all the time. I miss her strength. And she was very strong. I never saw her shy from a burden, hard thing, or task in her life. I miss her letters, most of all. They came too rarely and I did not call nearly as often as I should have.

I do not have a bad thing to say about my grandmother, though my siblings and parents can find a few. My grandmother encouraged me, took pride in me, loved me, and she was one of my heroes.

Apr72007

Gray Days are My Fave – If I can be at home

Or, April showers and all that. Today the city is rainy with a bit of sleet. There’s a thing I’m helping with at work so I’m going in. Too bad, this would be a great “mental health”, call in sick day to work on Eastlight. I would thrive in Seattle, like a low light plant or happy mushroom. There is nothing better to me than a day on the couch, hand editing or free writing with a big mug of coffee. Instead I’m out the door and on the bus now. The caffeine is starting to kick in and the ipod is serving up some Spoon mixed up with the National, so I’m picking up and thinking about my listening habits.

The Republic begins with a dinner party. Socrates is pleasantly forced to attend and when he attempts to reason with Polemarchus, the son of the host, Polemarchus replies that you cannot “convince us if we refuse to listen.”

I’m in heavy editing mode right now, trying to trim “my words like kudzu” as Miss Snark suggests. It makes me feel like I’m operating with my blinders on. On the bus, head in the world of Aegea and face glued to laptop, I don’t even notice the woman who sits next to me. She’s well dressed and comments sideways that I’m obsessive for working on the bus. I give her a quick sideways librarian finger to the lips and get back to work. This is my time, precious, and I won’t be distracted. I’m not listening.

Lately, I’m on a delayed signal. Marnie Christenson, the goddess of indie rock goodness, gives me great album after great album and they sit. I listen to them and put them aside. Then a few months or weeks later, it will click in my head. I go back to it and fall in love. Not driving, I’m almost wholly disconnected from the radio. I’ll often discover a song in a television show or movie and think it’s new. Having been raised without access to secular music in junior high and most of high school, I thought Duran Duran was sparkling new in 1989.

I’m not trying to live some intellectual, aesthetic life. I keep my eye on pop culture and watch what TV I find clever. But lately, I find myself having cut down a lot on my reading and this I think, is a mistake. I can’t just write in a vacuum, spinning out what I think is gold. I need to measure it, get the pulse of what’s popular and what is selling. I need to thicken my skin and open myself to more criticism and input. More importantly, I need to remember that writing is all well and good, but without an audience you’re just talking to yourself.

I turn to the lady beside me and ask her where she’s from. Detroit it turns out. I let her know I’ve heard it compared to “bombed-out Beirut” but never been. “Yep,” she replies. “Beirut on the Lake.”

See? There is someone with a life experience I’ve never had. The rest of ride was informative and colorful, as only public transportation can be. Writing and editing are important David, but they aren’t much good without life!

Apr42007

Compact Lite

By now you may have heard of The Compact, the group in San Francisco who try not to buy anything new for a year. They have exceptions for food and things like toilet paper, but when it comes to cars or clothes, they buy only used. And I think it’s pretty neat.
I decided to try and implement a few of these steps and run an experiment. So I’m not buying clothes this year. I’ll make exceptions for a job interview (which includes meeting with agents or publishers), or a funeral (my wedding suit is in prime condition). Till then, I’ll be that guy in the slightly worn slacks.
Somebody asked me what it felt like so far (as if I’d quit smoking or something hard) and I had to say that it feel a lot like when I stopped driving. This prompts a:
“YOU DON’T DRIVE?!”
Yep. Gave it up. Hated it. Was bad at it. It impaired my drinking.
It’s a pretty stupid story about how I totaled my car on an ice patch only to realize I’d let my insurance lapse by a couple of days.
“Mr. Slayton, to get your license back…”
“No, seriously Your Honor, just keep the damn thing.”
The first week I went through withdraw. I couldn’t just run to the mall and buy something. Then I noticed, I wasn’t buying as much stuff. I had more time to read on the bus. I wasn’t late as often because the bus schedule taught me discipline. I wasn’t as angry from negotiating traffic. Then, once the car loan balance was paid off, I started realizing the financial changes: no car payment, no insurance, no tickets, no gas, and no maintenance.
I’m finally getting my license back for my next Europe vacation, but it would take a lot to make me own another car.

Mar222007

Got a Shovel?

I love my city. I think anybody who knows me, knows that. But we do have one nasty brown cloud on warm days and it’s greatly aided by the urban heat island effect.
Our geologist turned small business owner turned mayor is launching some efforts to help with this and other environmental problems.

So if you’re local, check it out:
http://greenprintdenver.org

I’ll be joining up for one of these:
http://greenprintdenver.org/trees/list.php
If you’re there, say hi.
And if you’re not local, think about these kind of effort in your own area.

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