Are you using dialogue the right way in your memoir?

Dialogue is a powerful tool in writing your memoir:

• It invites readers into your story,
• it lets them participate in your experience,
• it acquaints readers with a character’s personality, values, perspective, and attitude,
• it can offer readers noteworthy information,
• and it can provide readers with backstory—significant events from the past.

But writing dialogue can be tricky. How do you reconstruct a conversation from 50 years ago, or even five years ago?

You can’t—at least not 100 per cent accurately—because, unless you wrote it down at the time, or have a recording, you must rely on memory, and we all know memory has a way of making everything foggy.

And yet, if you call your book “a memoir,” you claim you’ve written a factual story (not fiction), and you’re promising readers they can trust you to tell the truth. So how can you use dialogue if you don’t remember the conversation precisely?

Here’s how it works: Both memoirists and readers know it’s impossible to be exact about a conversation that happened long ago. A memoirist’s job, then, is to recreate that conversation as honestly as possible—to write in such a way that readers understand the dialogue represents the conversation's true message. Determine to avoid misleading readers in every detail.

So then, use accurate dialogue, and craft it well.

Write dialogue that sounds natural and unforced—like something you’d really hear.

If a character speaks in incomplete sentences, or if those involved in a conversation interrupt each other, or if they finish each other's sentences, write your dialogue that way: Keep it real.

If a character is hoity-toity, write dialogue showing she’s self-important and puffed up.

If a character was raised in a genteel household, write proper, courteous dialogue for her.

If he is an intellectual, choose words an academic uses, but if he grew up on a Missouri farm and didn’t graduate from high school, choose words he’d typically say.

If she grew up in Texas, her vocabulary differs from that of someone who grew up in Quebec. 

If someone habitually starts a sentence five times in five different ways, work that into your dialogue a couple of times to reveal that aspect of her personality, but otherwise eliminate those false starts.

Remember the wise old rule: Write tight. Leave out unnecessary talk—greetings, chitchat, and small talk—anything that doesn’t serve a purpose.

“In writing dialogue don’t write every word,” says Nancy Ellen Dodd. “For one, that would be boring, and two, it slows down the pacing. Write what is necessary to get the point across. That being said, you may have a character who is verbose and a character who barely completes a thought…. Keep dialogue brief and cut unnecessary words, unless the character is verbose.”

Cecil Murphey says it this way: “In real life, people speak in general, long-winded diatribes, or mention twenty things before they focus on what they want to say. In print, we need to delete the clutter and get to the point.” 

Here’s more wisdom from Cec: “Make your characters speak less than people actually do, …and speak more the way real people wish they spoke.”

After you’ve crafted a passage of dialogue, set it aside for a week or two and then read it aloud. Your ears and tongue will help you find spots that still need work. Keep polishing until you’re happy with it. In the end, it will be worth all the effort.

Spend a few minutes reading Jennie Nash’s excellent post, A Little Lesson in Dialogue.

Next Tuesday we’ll look at other aspects of dialogue so c’mon back!

Tuesday Tidbit: Powerful writing

Here's this week's 15 seconds of inspiration,

your Tuesday Tidbit:

“… Great books are not simply written.

They’re rewritten.

They’re edited.

And edited again.”

“…A proper edit…carves out truth,

truth that heals readers’ misconceptions—

about the world, themselves, God and others.”

Mick Silva, Higher Purpose Writers

Tips for using dialogue in your memoir

Dialogue, written well, can accomplish your most important goals: It can bring readers into your stories.

Dialogue, written well, can acquaint readers with your memoir’s key people. It can entice readers to keep reading. 

Dialogue can enhance emotions within a scene. It can add spark and pizzazz—or grief, or terror.

Dialogue can keep stories going—it can provide momentum.

Dialogue can share information readers need to know.

In journalism, writers must compose dialogue that’s true and accurate: It must be what a person really said. Readers count on true reporting.

In memoir, however, readers understand that conversations took place decades ago and that now, all these years later, you can’t write dialogue with complete accuracy, and that’s OK.

"Most readers are smart enough to figure out that

dialogue isn't word-for-word accuracy;

however, they assume the author

strives to be as close to the truth as possible."

Cecil Murphey

As a memoirist, your job is to reconstruct past conversations with integrity. Avoid distortions. Instead, write dialogue that makes your characters convey correct messages. Create dialogue that represents your characters truthfully.

Honest, accurate dialogue is important because your readers need to trust you. If they can’t trust your dialogue, how can they trust the rest of your message?

Create dialogue that sounds like the person speaking. Each of us has our own unique speaking style. Take time to pin down the distinct speaking style of each of your key characters.

Recently I read Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet about a Chinese family in 1940s Seattle. Author Jamie Ford created well-defined speaking styles for his characters.

The oldest generation in this story, Henry’s parents, spoke like this:

“No more. Only speak you American.” 

“...You one big smile this morning, Henry.…”

“...You liking you school now? Hah?”

“...I send you to school. I negotiate your way—into a special school. I do this for you. A top white school. And what happens? Instead of studying you're making eyes with this Japanese girl. Japanese!"

“...You must. You have no choice. This is decided.”

Henry and his wife always imagined their son Marty would marry a Chinese girl, but….

“‘Dad, I’m engaged.… She’s inside, Pops. I want you to meet her.’

“… [Henry] heard a click as the door opened behind him. A young woman poked her head out, then stepped out smiling. She had long blond hair, and cool blue eyes—the kind Henry called Irish eyes.

“‘You must be Marty’s father! … I’m Samantha, I’ve been dying to meet you.’ She stepped past his hand and threw her arms around him.…”

Here’s a later conversation:

“‘But what about afterwards?’ she asked. ‘After you were grown up—after he passed away? Did you feel like all bets were off and you could run wild if you wanted to? Man, I would. Being told I can’t have something would just drive me crazy, even if I didn’t know what to do with it in the first place.’”

The characters’ speaking styles are distinct.

As you draft your memoir, identify the speaking style of each key character:

If you’re writing a story about a cowboy from Texas, make him sound like a cowboy from Texas.

How would an orphan from Uganda speak? An introverted pathologist? An idealistic, energetic first-year teacher? A person whose mother just died?

If your character is grumpy, make her sound grumpy.

How would a charming lady speak? A surfer with a dry sense of humor? A shy teenager? A domineering car salesman?

How would a spinster from Boston speak? A man from Waco? A woman from Toronto? A person with only an eighth-grade education? A CEO with PhD after her name?

Experiment with dialogue in your memoir’s stories. Set your manuscript aside for a few days, then read it again.

Does it convey the speaker’s intended message?

Read your dialogue aloud. Is it stiff? Too formal or informal? Or does it sound natural?

Get real

“Only when you break down your usual way of thinking—the convenient, comfortable, easy, polite response—will you touch the textured grain of your life,” writes Natalie Goldberg.

“Submerge yourself below the standard version of the way your mother, father, school want you to remember your childhood to the way it really was for you,” she says. “If you were miserable, say it. If you hated peas and those white cardboard containers of milk, put that down.…”

Goldberg calls you, the memoir writer, to authenticity, to give yourself permission for “the disintegration of the not-true world you tried to maintain.”

Doing so can refine of the truth, upgrade the truth, hone the truth—not just for your readers but for yourself.

Each of us wrestles with distorted views of reality, sometimes because we choose to do so and sometimes because we are mere humans. This side of heaven, “What we see now is like a dim image in a mirror.”  “We’re squinting in a fog, peering through a mist.” (1 Corinthians 13:12, Good News Translation, The Message)

Do your best, nevertheless, to strive for what’s true and right. 

“Maybe you’ll find,” continues Goldberg, “that you were wonderful after all but [for all those years you had] believed your brother’s image of you instead. You weren’t a dummy for loving Shakespeare and Keats. You were just different.”

Energetic, passionate, and considered by many to be a master, Goldberg is a mentor and a cheerleader to all who want to write a memoir. She says, “It’s odd how we’re are supposed to be cool, smooth as butter, act as though there is no place in which we weren’t accepted or hurt. How ridiculous. This is a tough world. This is your memoir. Get real about your life.” (from Old Friend from Far Away: The Practice of Writing Memoir; emphasis mine) 

Look over your vignettes. Question your assumptions. Search for places you wrote what you felt obligated to write—for whatever reason.

Straighten up distortions, first in your thinking and then in your writing. Revise and polish your story to make it more authentic.

Doing so will benefit you and your readers more than you might imagine. The truth has a way of setting us all free.