I just finished Gillian Robertâs non-fiction take on how to write a mystery. One of her little tidbit thatâs stuck in my head is her advice on dialogue.
Dialogue must do three things:
- Advance the plot
- Provide action
- Enhance characterization
If your dialogue doesnât do these three things–cut it. Or find another way to move your story forward. Personally, I donât find dialogue that difficult. Itâs a matter of listening to your characters even when you as the writer donât want to. Here are eight example from authors who I believe write great dialogue (FYI – there is some profanity below):
1) Dashiell Hammettâs The Thin Man (1934. New York: Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Vintage Books, 1992, pg. 5)
We found a table. Nora said: âSheâs pretty.â
âIf you like them like that.â
She grinned at me. âYou got types?â
âOnly you, darlingâlanky brunettes with wicked jaws.â
âAnd how about the red-head you wandered off with at the Quinnsâ last night?â
âThatâs silly,â I said. âShe just wanted to show me some French etchings.â
2) Ernest Hemingway’s Farwell to Arms  (1929. New York: Scribner, 1957, pgs. 22-23). I despise his writing style, but I understand why people try to copy it.
“It’s not really the army. It’s only the ambulance.”
“It’s very odd, though. Why did you do it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “There isn’t always an explanation for everything.”
“Oh, isn’t there? I was brought up thinking there was.”
“That’s awfully nice.”
“Do we have to go on talking this way?”
“No,” I said.
“That’s a relief. Isn’t it?”
“What is the stick?” I asked. Miss Barkley was quite tall. She wore what seemed to me to be a nurse’s uniform, was blonde and had a tawny skin and gray eyes. I thought she was very beautiful. She was carrying a thin rattan stick like a toy riding-crop, bound in leather.
“It belonged to a boy who was killed last year.”
“I’m awfully sorry.”
“He was a very nice boy. He was going to marry me and he was killed in the Somme.”
“It wsa a ghastly show.”
“Were you there?”
“No.”
3) Elmore Leonardâs Maximum Bob (New York: Dell Publishing, 1991, pgs. 4-5).
“Dale , he’s put more offenders on death row than any judge in the state.” That shut him up. “What I’m trying to tell you is be polite. Okay? With this judge you don’t want to oiss him off.”
Dale was shaking his head, innocent. He said, “Man, I don’t know,” in a sigh, blowing out his breath, and Kathy turned her face away. “you gonna tell him how you see this?”
“When the judge asks for recommendations, yeah, I’ll have to say something…”
“Well, that’s good. Tell him I’ve been drinking since I was fourteen years old and I know how, no problem. Listen, and tell him I’m still working out the sugar house. Have a good job and don’t want to lose it.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all I can think of.”
“Just lie for you?”
“It wouldn’t hurt you none, would it? Say I’m working? Jesus.”
“You think I’m on your side?”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“Dale, I’m not your friend. I’m your probation officer.”
4) James Cainâs Double Indemnity (1936. New York: Every Manâs Library, 2003, pgs. 124-125).
âI havenât any reason. He treats me as well as a man can treat a woman. I donât love him, but heâs never done anything to me.â
âBut youâre going to do it?â
âYes, God help me, Iâm going to do it.â
She stopped crying, and lay in my arms for a while without saying anything. Then she began to talk almost in a whisper.
âHeâs not happy. Heâll be better offâdead.â
âYeah?â
âThatâs not true, is it?â
âNot from where he sits, I donât think.â
âI know itâs not me, I donât know what. Maybe Iâm crazy. But thereâs something in me that loves Death. I think of myself as Death, sometimes. In a scarlet shroud, floating through the night. Iâm so beautiful, then. And sad. And hungry to make the whole world happy, by taking them out when I am, into the night, away from all trouble, all unhappiness⌠Walter, this is the awful part. I know this is terrible. I tell myself itâs terrible. But to me, it doesnât seem terrible. It seems as though Iâm doing somethingâthatâs really best for him, if he only knew it. Do you understand me, Walter?â
âNo.â
âNobody could.â
âBut youâre going to do it.â
âYes, weâre going to do it.â
âStraight down the line.â
âStraight down the line.â
5) E.M. Forster’s Howards End (1910. New York: Barnes and Noble Classics, 2003, pgs. 310-11)
“Here are the keys,” said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick the up.
“I have something to tell you,” he said gently.
She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male.
“I don’t want to hear it,” she replied. “My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she I and her child.”
“Where are you going?”
“Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not to ill.”
“After the inquest?”
“Yes.”
“Have you realized what the verdict at the inquest will be?”
“Yes, heart disease.”
“No, my dear; manslaughter.”
Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved as if it was alive.
“Manslaughter,” repeated Mr. Wilcox. “Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don’t know what to do–what to do. I’m broken–I’m ended.”
6) James Ellroyâs L.A. Confidential (New York: The Mysterious Press, 1990, pgs. 12-13)
Kinnard ran out, tripped over Rudolph. Bud cuffed his writs, bounced his face on the pavement. Ralphie yelped and chewed gravel; Bud launched his wife beater spiel. âYouâll be out in a year and a half, and Iâll know when. Iâll find out who your parole officer is and get cozy with him, Iâll visit you and say hi. You touch her again Iâm gonna know, and Iâm gonna get you violated on a kiddie raper beef. You know what they do to kiddie rapers up in Quintin? Huh? The Pope a fuckinâ guinea?â
Lights went onâKinnardâs wife was fussing with the fuze box. She said, âCan I go to my motherâs?â
Bud emptied Ralphieâs pocketsâkeys, a cash roll. âTake the car and get yourself fixed up.â
Kinnard spat teeth. Mrs. Ralphie grabbed the keys and peeled a ten-spot. Bud said, âMerry Christmas, huh?â
Mrs. Ralphie blew a kiss and backed the car out, wheels over blinking reindeer.
7) Diane Gabaldonâs Voyager (New York: Delcorte Press, 1994, pgs. 220-1)
“Stop you?” I said. “What should I have done? Steamed open your mail and waved the letters under your nose? Made a scene at the faculty Christmas party? Complained to the Dean?”
His lips pressed tight together for a moment, then relaxed.
“You might have behaved as though it mattered to you,” he said quietly.
“It mattered.” My voice sounded strangled.
He shook his head, still staring at me, his eyes dark in the lamplight.
“Not enough.” He paused, face floating pale in the air above his dark dressing gown, then came around the bed to stand by me.
“Sometimes I wondered if I could rightfully blame you,” he said, almost thoughtfully. “He looked like Bree, didn’t he? He was like her?”
“Yes.”
He breathed heavily, almost a snort.
“I could see it in your face–when you’d look at her. I could see you thinking of him. Damn you, Claire Beauchamp,” he said, very softly. “Damn you and your face that can’t hide a thing you think or feel.”
There was silence after this, of the sort that makes you hear all the tiny unhearable noises of creaking wood and breathing houses–only in an effort to pretend you haven’t heard what was just said.
“I did love you,” I said softly, at last. “Once.”
“Once,” he echoed. “Should I be grateful for that?”
8) Jayne Krentzâs Family Man (New York: Pocket Books, 1992, pg. 58-9)
âYou upset her,â Justine said after a moment.
âDid I?â
âYes. Sheâs normally very calm. Quite unflappable. Sheâs also extraordinarily cheerful most of the time. Justine frowned thoughtfully as she picked up her cup of tea. âIâve often wondered how she does it. It doesnât seem quite natural somehow. Nevertheless, she’s rather a delight to have around, actually.â
âIs that why youâve kept her? Because she amuses you?â
Now, you can read all the craft books you like. Try to emulate the greatest writers every day of the week. But in the end the best way to master dialogue is to listen and practice.
And practice A LOT.
After ten years and just as many moves, I had to break down and buy a new chair for my office. The old one is raggedy. It squeaks. Wobbles. And it’s literally being held together by a screw. This chair has been with me while I logged countless writing hours, so I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out. It now has a home beneath the desk that gets less use. I suppose I’ll put it out to pasture eventually. When it has no legs to stand on đ
L.M. Elm, Historical Novelist 
