And Now for Something Quite Different

If you've been with me for a bit, you've already met my friend, author and teacher, Matt Posner. Matt's latest venture is a non-fiction manual, written almost textbook style, entitled How to Write Dialogue. It's (obviously) aimed at writers of all levels who wish to sharpen their dialogue-writing skills, but I'll let Matt tell you a bit more about himself and his book.

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Hi Laurie!

Thanks for hosting a sample from How to Write Dialogue, my technical manual for writers at all experience levels. This book offers prescriptions for good dialogue writing with plentiful and, I hope, entertaining examples, both those written by me, and those written by my bullpen of contributors including J.A. Beard, Cynthia Echterling, Marita A. Hansen, Junying Kirk, Stuart Land, Mysti Parker, Roquel Rodgers, Jess C. Scott, Chrystalla Thoma, Ey Wade, and Georgina Young-Ellis.

The book also has essays on dialogue by Tim Ellis and Jess C. Scott and numerous illustrations by fine artist Eric Henty.

Here's a selection from a part of the book called "Dialogue Provides Information."

See what you think of this next example.

Example 36 — Elinor and Marianne

"Mother is coming to visit me," said Elinor. "For a week."

"Really?" asked Marianne. "She hasn't come to stay with me in… what is it? Eight years?"

"Your house is crowded, with your two nephews in the guest room, that you took in when your husband's brother died. And the stray dog you adopted on one of your monthly trips to Perth Amboy."

"Do you really think that's why?" Marianne asked, setting down her coffee cup. "Don't you think there might be another reason?"

Elinor sighed. "Not again, Marianne. Puh-leeze, no more 'Mom loved you best.'"

"She said so."

"When?"

"When we three all went to Newport News to settle Grandma's estate. Three years ago."

"And you still have her emerald brooch," Marianne complained.

"I do not."

"You do. And Mom said she preferred you."

"She was joking," said Elinor. "It was ironic. You two were cuddled up with a bowl of popcorn watching The Way We Were."

"That never happened!" Elinor was shocked.

"Yes it did!"

"No," Marianne sniffed. "We were watching The Bridges of Madison County."

This passage, my imitation of chick lit, seems to be about the two sisters quarreling over their mother's love, and really it is, with lots of conflict and characterization, but there's necessary exposition in the passage also. We learn about who lives in Marianne's house; that Marianne is married; that she travels to Perth Amboy; that Grandma is three years dead; that there is an emerald brooch in dispute. We also are alerted to Dad's apparent absence (he wasn't in Newport News).

Dialogue passages like this are a staple of fiction, and an alert reader recognizes one for what it is, the satisfaction of a technical requirement rather than an attempt at verisimilitude. However, if you add enough positives to dialogue like this, your reader will probably not mind.

The technical action in this case is to have the characters remind each other of what they have done in the past. It can be accomplished in a number of ways.

1) Have the characters narrate their past actions during a conversation, resulting in a short in-character summary rather than a fully developed scene.

2) Have characters who are getting to know each other relate stories of their pasts.

3) Have one character tell a second character information about a third character, who may or may not be present to react.

4) Have characters argue over past action and narrate prior events as components of the argument. (This is what I did in the previous example.)

Note that people's versions of events are not entirely trustworthy, and people may well dispute each other's accounts of the past.

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Matt Posner is a New York City teacher and a writer of fiction and nonfiction. The author of the acclaimed ongoing young adult fantasy series School of the Ages and co-author of the top-selling advice book Teen Guide to Sex and Relationships, Matt lives in New York City with his wife Julie. Matt is also a member of Bernard Schaffer's Kindle All-Stars and maintains a growing series of interviews with writers at his website http://schooloftheages.webs.com. Matt has an MFA in Fiction from the University of Alabama at Tuscaloosa.

How to Write Dialogue is Matt's sixth full-length book.

Links: http://schooloftheages.webs.com

http://www.facebook.com/schooloftheages

http://www.twitter.com/schooloftheages

This book: 

http://www.amazon.com/How-Write-Dialogue-Tim-Ellis-ebook/dp/B00GM02410/ref=sr_1_20?ie=UTF8&qid=1384384447&sr=8-20&keywords=matt+posner

http://www.amazon.co.uk/How-Write-Dialogue-Tim-Ellis-ebook/dp/B00GM02410/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1384384481&sr=8-11&keywords=matt+posner

http://www.amazon.ca/How-Write-Dialogue-Tim-Ellis-ebook/dp/B00GM02410/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1384384527&sr=8-8&keywords=matt+posner

Happy Writing!

The Gryphon's Song by Matt Posner

This is actually an excerpt from Matt's book Level Three's Dream. When I read the second volume of the School of the Ages series back in October, this poem struck me. I immediately emailed Matt and asked his permission to include it, so I thought, What better way to end the month?

Shall I sing, as planned?” asked the Gryphon.

            “Sing,” said the Mock Turtle, still looking worried.

            The Gryphon struck a proud pose, front legs extended, raising the greasy beak. It then threw out its wings majestically as it sang a high note.

            “Bel canto,” said the Gryphon. “You should read about it. The exaggerated motion of the wing loosens inhibitions and allows the voice to be free.” The creature then sang:

In youth I loved the hippo

And the hippo did love me.

Find Level Three's Dream on Amazon

We went about cavorting

And swimming in the sea.

            But then the seasons changed,

            And the hippo’s love was gone.

            Oh, love’s a thing that turns and turns

            But living must go on.

And then I loved the hydra,

And the hydra’s love was mine.

I loved the scaly kisses, and

The passion serpentine.

            But then the seasons changed,

            And the hydra’s love was gone.

            Oh, love’s a thing that goes and comes

            But living must go on.

And then I loved the werewolf,

That lupine made me swoon.

I loved to feel that doggy tongue

And holler at the moon.

            But then the seasons changed,

            And the werewolf’s love was gone.

            Oh, love’s a thing to pass some time,

            But living must go on.

And then as I grew older,

I loved the kraken too.

Its fine caressing suckers

That stuck to me like glue.

            But then the seasons changed,

            And the kraken’s touch was gone.

            Oh, love’s a thing that cannot stay,

            But living must go on.

Still I was growing older,

And the bonnacon had my heart.

That burned up several acres

With each resounding fart.

            But then the seasons changed,

            And the bonnacon’s passions cooled.

            Oh, love’s a thing we love to love,

            But better not be fooled.

At the end I loved the dragon,

That was harsh and cold as bone,

Who answered my romantic talk

In stern, imperious tone.

            But then the seasons changed,

            And age was the dragon’s doom.

            The years go by, you find yourself

            A' weeping at a tomb.

Of all the lovely creatures

I’ve loved since my birth,

There’s not a one to stay with me

From sea to sky to earth.

            And how the seasons change,

            And how their love is gone.

            Oh, love’s a thing that goes away,

            But living must go on.

Matt says:

My Gryphon is not like Carroll's Gryphon (who was a washed-up blatherer longing for his Public School days) but has a female diva-like personality. I gave this Gryphon a song that was meant to be, as with some of the songs in the Mock Turtle section of Alice in Wonderland, both ridiculous and bittersweet. The ridiculous part is the rhymes to do with various mythical creatures and their body parts; the bittersweet part is the acknowledgement of how transitory love can be, and how sad a person might feel after many failed affairs. The closest real-world equivalent would be "Raspberries, Strawberries" by Kingston Trio, but this is a female version of same.

This is my favorite song from Level Three's Dream, and I'm honored that you chose it.

Matt Posner

My initial intent with this project was to post one long poem or two shorter ones from each poet. Matt sort of messed that up. I fell madly in love with this poem the first time I read it, but instead chose to borrow "Famous Fathers," the one I posted earlier this month. Still, I couldn't get this one off my mind. My decision to post each poem separately had a lot to do with this particular piece. I really hope you all enjoy it as much as I do.

Vampire Poet

You'll find Vampire Poet, along with
Matt Posner's other books, on Amazon

(with respect to A.E. Housman)

When I was one-and-twenty

I heard a vampire say,

Give nuts and guts and gullet,

but not your poems away.

Give veins away, and arteries,

But not your words for free.

Oh, I was a youthful poet,

No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-thirty,

The vampire said again,

The words given forth from spirit,

Will draw you down to pain.

They yield you shame and misery.

You know not what you do.

Now I am one-and-forty.

The vampire's words are true.

Originally from Miami, Florida, Matt Posner is a New York City based novelist and special educator. Matt is the Dean of School of the Ages, America's Greatest Magic School.  Matt's poetry, featured in this post, is part of his participation in The Exploration Project, New York's premiere avant-garde improvisational band. Talk to Matt at his facebook fan page "School of the Ages Series" and at his website http://schooloftheages.webs.com.

Matt Posner

The Exploration Project CD
is available on Amazon

When I asked for participants, Matt sent me a copy of Vampire Poet, his book of poems, and told me to take my pick. I homed right in on this one. As a huge fan of Hamlet how could I not choose a piece that begins, "Now Polonius?"

Famous Fathers in Literature
By Matt Posner
For the Exploration Project
December 8, 2007
Short Version




Now Polonius, as you can see, was likely to give advice.
All his advice was very traditional and very honorable and in fact very silly.
His list of dos and don’ts was followed up by a ludicrous paradox as he declared,  
“And this above all, to thine own self be true.”
Do what you don’t want, don’t do what you do want, and be true to yourself.
Polonius followed his own advice and was true to himself
What was true to himself was that, in pursuit of political advantage, allied to a treacherous and morally vacant king, he used his daughter to increase his royal access.
What was true to himself is that he spied on Prince Hamlet, whom he would have liked to either add to his family or remove from the line of succession.
Ultimately Polonius got his whole family killed, himself due to hiding behind the arras, and Ophelia due to her bad singing and a swan-dive with flower-petals into a Danish tarn, and Laertes ventilated with his own poison blade when he took over his father’s job as the king’s do-boy.
Polonius:  Why day is day, night night, and time is time; Were nothing but to waste night, day and time.
The worms waste no day, night, or time gnawing upon you, Polonius, nor the rest of us neither.

Now William Tell is a hero among fathers.
Lake Lucerne’s Uri Canton hunter bowman master of arms.
He would not bow his head before the Austrian governor’s hat and risked having that proud head posted high penetrated by a pike.
This was a risk because Gessler the Governor was a black-hearted man, and like all tyrants and also teachers, maintained status by people fearing consequences.
Tell’s gesture of defiance to Gessler won him much admiration, but Gessler was having none of it, and so William Tell had to shoot an apple off his son’s head.
We don’t have the son’s name; doesn’t matter, he was a boy.
What matters is that William Tell, Uri Canton archer armsman, kept one more arrow in hand.
William Tell:  Gessler, this arrow was for your heart, if the boy was harmed.
Come now, heroic William, and Tell the truth:  do not all fathers harm their sons?

Now Abraham is the example of what I mean. Tested by Hashem, what was he to do?
He took Yitzchack – that’s Isaac to you – up onto Mount Moriah where an altar was.
He tied Yitzchack down to the altar, and the son all unprotesting.
The son submitted to the will of his father, and would not some of our fathers appreciate such submission?
A young man in prime of life readied for sacrificial slaughter at the hands of white-bearded patriarch Avram does not resist, chas ve sholem! And tears were in the eyes of both.
Came then an angel to halt the sacrifice, and a ram was found tangled in some brush and was put on the altar and was slain instead.
God, Hashem, the Father, told Abraham, Avram, the patriarch, to kill Isaac, Yitzchak, the son.
Instead a ram was slaughtered, another father perhaps, after a fashion.
Avram:  I don’t want to do this, but we must all submit to the will of Hashem.
I guess it was better for him when he thought he knew what the Father wanted?

Now Victor Frankenstein was a Swiss who wanted to be like God.
This was in the eighteenth century or so when all the literati celebrated men’s spiritual nature.
Why couldn’t a man being so suffused with spirit create a life form full of vitality?
Women could do it easily enough, so why not a man? But Victor didn’t impregnate himself.
Instead, he combined some body parts in a big cauldron in Geneva and did alchemy and whatever and the result was an enormous ugly dude named Adam.
Adam Frankenstein, or the Frankenstein monster, was so smart that he taught himself to read by looking through a knot-hole in a cabin and poring over the works of Milton.
He then tracked down Victor who had utterly repudiated him the second he made him.
Then began a dance of death as Adam the monster killed what Victor the father loved and Victor the father chased Adam the monster around trying to off him until they wound up somewhere near the North Pole.
Victor:  How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavored to form? For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardor that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart.
Seems like a lot of fathers feel that way, not just Victor.

Now Rabbi Isaac Saunders was known through his community as a tzaddik, a saint among men.
Accordingly, he never spoke to his son, Danny, except to ask him scriptural questions at public events.
Every day father saw son, and son father, but no small talk, no how are you, no events of the day.
What Reb Saunders asked, nu, Danny always knew the answer. And when Danny brought his less religious friend, Reuven Malter, HIM Reb Saunders talked to.
To his friend the father talks, but not to the son. Oy vey es mir, it’s meshugenah.
An explanation eventually became clear. The great man did indeed love his son and was indeed proud of him.
It’s only that Reb Saunders believe this way of raising a son would make that son also into a tzaddik, another saint walking upon the earth.
Instead, Danny quit being Chasidic and went off to study psychology at Columbia.
Danny Saunders:  “Quietness has nuances and meanings, almost as if the silence is speaking to me.”
And I am asking, can the son by his silence speak also to the father?

Now Mr. Bennet had the benefit of five daughters, three of whom were very silly because they came out of his very silly wife.
Men who marry very silly wives make very silly decisions and must at one time have been themselves very silly.
So with such silly sisters and two smart ones, Mr. Bennet had to decide how to solve the silly and sad situation.
He settled for sitting in his library smoking his pipe rolling his eyes and making clucking noises with wry glances and remarks to his favorite daughter Elizabeth.
It is no wonder that she loved this somewhat absent father, for the gifts of sense and humor are great gifts he bestowed upon her, and a father at the desk, pipe in mouth, with his newspaper spread out before him, is an appealing figure.
Indeed one so swiftly becomes sick of the silly sisters and the silly Mrs. Bennet who is the silliest and least socially skilled, that Mr. Bennet’s own sad-sack silliness is obscured.
Mr. Bennet:  “My child, let me not have the grief of seeing you unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are about.”
It would, I am sure, be comforting to a son to find his father always greater than himself.

Now O-konk-wo is from Um-u-o-fia in Nigeria. As he, a rough father, brutalized his sons,
So then the white father came from Europe to brutalize Nigeria,
And so the Holy Father came to protect the victims by changing their beliefs and ways entirely,
Which made O-konk-wo angry, who had beaten his son N-wo-ye for not being manly enough,
And who had sacrificed his adopted son, I-ke-me-fun-a, which maybe made N-wo-ye wonder at his character.
Your father kills your brother and then vaunts at you, and see whether you feel like planting yams all day.
O-konk-wo’s father was U-no-ka, a lazy layabout who was always borrowing money and playing a flute or something.
So O-konk-wo didn’t want to be like that, so he went the other way and became a proud, domineering rage-aholic,
So nervous by nature that, at a funeral, he accidentally shot and killed someone else’s son.
Okonkwo:  “When did you become a shivering old woman, you, who are known in all the nine villages for your valor in war? How can a man who has killed five men in battle fall to pieces because he has added a boy to their number? Okonkwo, you have become a woman indeed.”
Yes, he beat and killed boys, but he was good at growing yams.

And there are other fathers of whom one might speak.
But Lear is the greatest of all fallen fathers, and thus to end with him.
Lear’s protestations, with a few tweaks, speak to all whose folk have betrayed them withal.

• Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow!
• You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
• Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!
• You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
• Vaunt couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
• Singe my bare head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
• Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world.
• Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once,
• That make ingrateful man!
• Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! Spout, rain!
• Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are mine own kin.
• I tax you not, elements, with unkindness;
• I never gave you kingdom, called you lov’d.
• You owe me no subscription; then let fall
• Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave,
• A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d child:--
• O! O! ‘tis foul!

Originally from Miami, Florida, Matt Posner is a New York City based novelist and special educator. Matt is the Dean of School of the Ages, America's Greatest Magic School.  Matt's poetry, featured in this post, is part of his participation in The Exploration Project, New York's premiere avant-garde improvisational band. Talk to Matt at his facebook fan page "School of the Ages Series" and at his website http://schooloftheages.webs.com.