Writing the novel: Part 2

In which we discuss dialogue.

Specifically my lack thereof.

Is it possible that journalism has destroyed my ability to use dialogue? I think I have in my head the idea that quotes are used as gravy and don't quote what you can better paraphrase — which those of you who are journalists will recognize as fairly standard advice to each and every Journalism 101 student to every pass through a college gate. And so while I know dialogue should be used to build narrative tension and to create immediacy and intimacy, I can't make myself put dialogue onto the page. I keep thinking, "I can tell this story better than the characters."

This is a bad thought to have. So I have forced some dialogue into my story because I think in my head there should be some, but I feel wrong about putting it in as I'm writing. And as a result I feel it is awkward and someone will look at and go, "What tha...that doesn't belong there!" (Wait, isn't that an example of dialogue? What can't I get that into the story?!) So here I present to you the next installment of the untitled novel, complete with totally tacked on stilted dialogue.

I just keep telling myself to finish the first draft. You can go back and revise it when you're done. Then you can worry about the dialogue.

[ps- After Googling "dialogue" I learned that the more common North American spelling is dialog. I do that a lot. I think it's my English genes.]

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With the first order of business taken care of, Bernie drove to his girlfriend Eileen's house. She was an older woman with not the cleanest reputation in town. But then again, it was a small town and any hint of gossip was just gossip enough for those who kept up with those things. She was what was once referred to as a handsome woman. Not beautiful or fair or even pretty, but also not unattractive. Her face was lived in and she had the air and look of someone used to hard times, though she'd had a relatively uneventful life. Eileen did nothing to hide her fondness for liquor and smoke, which didn't help her reputation in a dry, evangelical Christian town like Collins. She was, at that moment, smoking a cigarette on the porch of small two-bedroom shotgun house. It was attached to its twin where her cousin and his wife lived with their two young children. The kids, who looked like little pillows with hats bundled up in their winter coats, were playing in the yard when Bernie arrived.

Eileen greeted him with a long kiss and when they parted Bernie took her hand and pulled her inside. They sat at the kitchen table and he told her about the draft and the Air Force and that he reported for basic training in February. She took it with a straight face, which was one of the things Bernie liked so much about her. She was not a hysterical woman. Then he asked her to marry him. She thought about it carefully, but only for a moment and then accepted.

That was how it was between them. They didn't expend a lot of words.

Their wedding would be a small, church affair with family and a few friends. Rushed, but then again they didn't have a lot to prepare for. This was never, even under the best circumstances, going to be an event to remember. Years later, no one in town would talk about the wedding except to comment on how unmemorable it was and to wonder, if they had been able to remember, if there had been any sign then of the trouble that was to come.

"Are you staying for dinner?" she asked, getting up and making her way to the sink where the red beans were soaking.

"Might as well." He stared off into space as Eileen drained the beans.

"The toilet's acting up again. Can you take a look at it? Since you're here."

He got up and went into the bathroom. He flushed the toilet a few times and it seemed fine. So he just sat down to be alone while the beans cooked.