di·a·lect [dahy-uh-lekt]

The question of writing in dialect, particularly when it involves phonetic spellings, is usually answered emphatically, "NO! Don't do it."

Strictly following EVERY rule of writing [of course], I gave the parade lady (in my trilogy) the voice of a street version of a southern black Appalachian woman. As with most things in literary fiction that was an enigma. Later the reader understands who that woman really is and her message (role) in the story.

I've seen dialect done extremely well by Jewell Parker Rhodes in her Douglass' Women. She did a reading (by memory) that totally silenced the room. I would dare anyone to tell Jewell not to write in dialect. She did it masterfully.

Historically, the grand master of dialect is Mark Twain. Recently there was the [misguided] notion to sanitize Mark Twain's writing and remove the offensive N-word [and a bit more].

Having heard several stage productions (by Hal Holbrook) of Mr Clemens' essays, I'd doubt he would go along with such a project. He didn't treat any subject delicately, and his writing would not be immune from his brisk no-nonsense opinions either.

Substitute "damn" every time you're inclined to write "very"; your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be. Mark Twain

"Fixing" Mark Twain's writing would make as much sense as "fixing" Shakespear. (Who comes up with these ideas?)

Like anything in fiction writing, dialect has to be a justifiable part of the story. And, it has to be done extremely well.

Catch this link, it is what started me thinking on this topic: http://www.dailyrecord.co.uk/news/scottish-news/2011/02/20/fans-love-scots-writer-s-e-book-but-can-t-understand-slang-86908-22937251

Character development through dialogue

Actions speak louder than words, the saying goes. In writing the words have to create the visual experience for the reader. Characters can't run from point A to point B to...Z endlessly.

A writer has to give a voice to the characters. Their voice has to be realistic (no one speaks grammatically correct ALL THE TIME) as well as match the character. Each of my beta readers caught Shasta using a double negative. (Can't not, no nothing...) I wrote it that way because six year old kids, especially those who have lived on the street, aren't going to have perfect grammar.

The dialogue has to have the tone of the character and situation. A couple of years ago, my friend Jen Garsee wrote a great blog entry where she had different characters say the same thing. (If I find the specific link, I'll edit it into this post.)

There are rules to dialogue too. In the UK, for example, the ending punctuation is outside the quote mark. In the US, the ending punctuation is inside the final quote mark. There are rules about when to use single and double quote marks. There are format rules requiring each speaker to begin a new paragraph, indented, even if they speak only one word.

There is the endless argument about the dialogue tag -- he said -- part of the formula. One that always gets someone riled up on a writing forum is whether the tag for a question is 'said' or not. If I use a tag, I use 'asked' when it is a question. Technically, I've been convinced that 'said' could be correct. Even if it is, it reads silly. Anything that doesn't read right, even if it is correct, pulls the reader out of the story. Not good.

I attribute deep emotions to my characters. Written dialogue doesn't show when someone's voice drops to a whisper. So I tag it that way. This isn't correct either, but I used it in Storm Surge: “Be careful, don’t cut yourself,” I warn. Maybe it is just me but when I warn someone, I say it different from asking what time it is.

Excessive tagging is boring reading. If it is clear who is speaking, drop the tags. If more than two people are talking, it is unlikely they are going to take turns, 1-2-3-1-2-3-1-2-3, so the unruly characters need their lines tagged.

The fastest way to get me to throw a book in the recycling bin is to make me stop and count down to see who said what when the conversation is long-ish and sentences could be said by anyone in the room. Sometimes this can be fixed with direct address rather than tagging, for example, "Yes Sister, blah-blah-blah." That clearly indicates the speaker is not the nun, but you're screwed if both speakers are nuns. heh heh heh

There are some of the basics about dialogue. A good writer develops a feel for when dialogue is needed to advance the story, to set the pace, to give information, to develop a character.

Do I always get it right? No. Mark Twain had dialogue mastered. Jen Garsee is great with dialogue writing. You don't have to take my word for it, Jen has two YA (young adult) books published by a big publisher. http://www.jeanninegarsee.com/

Shasta the Explorer

(excerpt from High Tide)

Shasta comes to find me after school. My case notes, Weekly Summary Report, and Needs Assessments have been updated; so I take the time to pay back some of the attention she missed yesterday.

“What did you study in school today?”

“We studied the explorers that came to California,” she says in a disappointed tone.

“Explorers?” I ask with piqued interest. “Why don’t you be the guide and we can explore your short cut?” I deliberately demonstrate I had paid attention to what she said this morning.

“Well okay, but you can’t tell no one else,” she insists with deadly certainty.

“Deal!” I agree and offer her a pinkie-promise as a sign of my sincerity.

Quickly, Shasta hunkers down and tiptoes down the hall in the direction of the alcove where the staff hang their coats.

I follow behind her a slight distance.

She stops abruptly and turns toward me. “You gotta get down!” she harshly whispers the command, motioning me lower with her hand.

“Of course,” I whisper. “And that would be because of–”

Shasta stands up straight, hands on her hips, seemingly annoyed with my adult ignorance. "Because of the bears! Haven’t you seen the California flag?” Her voice is full of indignation and disappointment in me.

Quickly, I stoop down. I’ve seen the flag. I know enough to hide from bears. My Mamma didn’t raise no fool!

We tiptoe near the wall as if in step to Henry Mancini’s ‘Pink Panther.’ Rushing to stand flat against the wall next to a statue of Saint Ann, Shasta motions for me to do likewise. I don’t even want to think about what we look like sneaking around the hallways of the convent. I can just imagine what would happen if Mother Elizabeth came around the corner.

We tiptoe past the saint and down the hall in tandem, then slip in an alcove behind the statue of Saint Ursula. Shasta pushes on the wall behind Ursula.

I look back to make sure we weren’t seen. However I am sure our names would have been sounded had any one of the sisters noticed us. A faint click earns my undivided attention. To my surprise, Shasta pushes open the panel to a hidden passageway. It’s an interior hallway, but there is sunlight coming through narrow horizontal windows high in the walls.

“Wow! How did you find this?” I whisper my amazement, as Shasta shuts the secret door behind us.

“I’m a kid!” She beams.

Of course! I think sarcastically. That explains it! I simply smile and nod understanding.

Shasta leads hastily to a door with a small window. “Lift me up,” she requests. “I wanna see inside.”

No wonder she agreed to show me the secret passage without protest; she has an agenda of her own. I marvel at how long she must have wanted to see in the window. Before I agree to help her look, I peek through the window to see if there is something she shouldn’t see beyond the door. It looks safe enough for a child’s eyes.

“Come here, Little One. Ah, you grew while I was away!”

Shasta giggles at the thought she grew so much in one day. Growing is a big thing to a first grader. She slides her arm around my neck, and leans closer to the door to see through the window.

Together, we look through the glass at an open-air courtyard garden fully in bloom around a larger-than-life size gray statue. Although the statue is facing away, from the look of it it’s a statue of Saint Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of these Franciscan nuns. There is a marble bench in front of the statue.

Shasta nudges me. We both catch a glimpse of a brown-robed nun move from the bench. My instincts scream, Run!

From High Tide http://www.nadinelamanbooks.com/books.html