People Are Talking

“During the brief interruption of the trial, I noticed that you suddenly smiled like the cat that ate the canary. What was that about?” Defense Attorney Wilson asked Shelia, an expert witness for the prosecution.

Breathless and flushed, Shelia replied, “Oh, it was just my pager going off. I have it set to vibrate.” (Giggles were heard in the courtroom.)

The names are changed, but the above is my recollection of a bit of dialogue I once recorded on a stenograph machine in my role as a court reporter. Of course, official transcripts strictly identify speakers and words spoken, offering no descriptive commentary. That’s why the job lost its charm for me. Although I was recording or transcribing words all day long – and I do love words – being creative with them was not an option.

And learning to write compelling dialogue is not an option for anyone who wants to be a widely published author, particularly of fiction.

My years as a court reporter taught me a few things about dialogue. People don’t always use perfect English when they speak, but they do often have unique patterns of speech.

In an effort to learn how to write conversations, besides applying my experience, I’ve made it a practice to read first-rate books, including numerous books on writing. One favored aspect of good dialogue has emerged as clearly as the intention of Washington Democrats to malign President G. W. Bush on every aspect of his leadership, regardless. It is this: Dialogue should mostly be tagged “he said,” “she said.” Excessive use of adverbs interrupts the flow of reading as surely as my political comment interrupted, for some, the possibility of enjoying this article.

I’ve recently been scrutinizing the famous James Herriot books All Creatures Great and Small, All Things Bright and Beautiful, and All Things Wise and Wonderful. Not only does Herriot delightfully capture the dialect of the Yorkshire farmers, but the dialogue is flawlessly unhindered. Here’s an excerpt from All Things Bright and Beautiful in which Herriot is having a conversation with another veterinarian:

‘James Herriot!’ He said it as somebody else might have said ‘Winston Churchhill.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, this is grand. Jim, is it?’

‘Well yes, usually.’

‘Lovely. We’ve got everything laid on for you, Jim. The girls are waiting in the theatre.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Bennett.’

‘Granville, Granville please!’ He put his arm through mine and led me to the operating room.

One “he said,” and that’s it. A lesser writer like myself might tend to write, along a similar vein of conversation, the following:

“Stevie McHugh!” She ejaculated enthusiastically, as if I were a writer of the stature of James Herriot.

“That’s right,” I responded, a bit taken aback by her undue fervor.

“This is great. Your given name is Stephanie, is it?” she questioned
inquisitively.

“Well, yes,” I confessed, hoping all the while that she would call me Stevie, which is the name I’ve gone by practically since birth.

“Delightful. We’ve got editors ready to publish your every word. They’re waiting in the conference room,” she gushed without further preamble.

…You get the idea.

It occurs to me that court reporting had one more aspect that can be helpful to me as a writer. It taught me this principle: Never interrupt the flow of conversation without a very specific and plausible reason.

(published March 2006)