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  Whatever Ethan may be trying to do, what the author is trying to do is have one character fling at another a long list of already-known grievances. And Frampton succeeds.

  A PLEASURE TO READ: GOOD DIALOGUE FLOWS WELL

  When you have a good exchange of dialogue going between charac-ters—a nice rat-a-tat-tat of give-and-take—should you interrupt it with sentences of description? If you do, won't you break the flow? If you don't, will your novel start to seem as if it should have just been a play?

  Again, there is (surprise!) no simple answer to this. There are options, choices, stylistic considerations. Some writers naturally use a lot of uninterrupted dialogue (Raymond Carver, Irwin Shaw, Anne Tyler). Others' style runs more to dialogue interwoven with large blocks of narrative (Toni Morrison, Eudora Welty). You shouldn't alter your natural voice, even if you could. Rather, become aware of the options within your preferred style.

  So what are they?

  With infinite variations, you have three basic choices: (1) mostly uninterrupted dialogue; (2) dialogue slowed down but not really stopped by bits of narrative; and (3) dialogue brought to a dead halt for judiciously placed chunks of narrative.

  LET 'ER RIP: THE VIRTUES OF UNINTERRUPTED DIALOGUE

  The following passage, from Irwin Shaw's Bread Upon the Waters, illustrates the two pluses of dialogue that is mostly uninterrupted: fast pace and readability. Almost no narrative details slow down the rapid-fire exchange of comments between protagonist Allen Strand and his eighteen-year-old son Jimmy. This is especially important in this scene because nothing much is happening. Shaw is building background for the story to come, setting up his characters. There is little tension, and so a sluggish pace or fragmented presentation might very well lose reader interest. Strand and his son are having breakfast together:

  ''You look positively gaunt. People will think we never feed you. Have you eaten anything today?''

  ''I only just got up a couple of hours ago. I'll do justice to Mom's dinner.''

  ''What time did you get in this morning?'' Jimmy shrugged. ''What difference does it make? Four, five. Who keeps track?''

  ''Sometimes, Jimmy,'' Strand said, a touch of irony in his voice, ''you must tell your old man what you do until five o'clock in the morning.''

  ''I'm searching for the new sound,'' Jimmy said. ''I play or I listen to music.''

  ''I understand they stop the music at Carnegie Hall well before five o'clock in the morning.''

  Jimmy laughed, stretched____''Carnegie Hall isn't where

  it's at this year. Haven't you heard?''

  ''You have purple rings under your eyes down to your shoulders.''

  ''The girls love it.''

  And so on, for another two pages. Swift and easily read. When that's what you want, let the dialogue flow without distraction.

  BEST OF BOTH WORLDS:

  DIALOGUE BALANCED WITH NARRATIVE

  Your second option is to intersperse narrative throughout the dialogue. If you do this well, you can keep the pace almost as fast as uninterrupted dialogue, plus add bits of narrative that visualize the characters and action. Two gains for the price of one. Do this well means choose dialogue and narrative that reinforce each other, not compete with each other.

  Reinforce each other doesn't mean that dialogue and narrative both say the same thing (''Damn you!'' he shouted angrily.) Rather, both add new information, but both kinds of information carry equal weight in moving the story forward. Here are Quill and John, from Claudia Bishop's mystery novel A Taste for Murder, breaking into a suspicious warehouse:

  Moonlight leaked through the open ventilation shafts in the roof, picking out the cab of a semi truck and four Thermo King refrigeration units. John took her hand, and they made their way carefully across the floor.

  ''If anyone comes in,'' John said very quietly, ''roll under the cab and stay there.''

  Quill nodded. ''These things are locked, aren't they? How are you going to get in?''

  ''There's a maintenance door under the roof. Give me a leg up.''

  Quill crouched down and cupped her hands together. John put his hands on her shoulders, stepped into her cupped hands, and sprang up. Quill staggered back; he was unexpectedly heavy.

  She waited, searching the darkness. It was quiet. Too quiet. Quill bit back hysterical giggles. Time stretched on. Suddenly, a dark shape appeared at the back of the unit. Adrenaline surged through Quill like a lightning strike.

  ''Safety door,'' said John. ''You can open the units from the inside once you get in.''

  ''God!'' said Quill. ''Did you find anything?'' A low growl cut the air. Quill's breath stopped. John grabbed her hand. The growl rose, fell, and turned into a snarl.

  ''The dog's back,'' said Quill. ''Oh, hell!'' John thrust her behind him. Quill could smell the rank, matted odor of an animal neglected. John flattened himself against the metal unit.

  Notice how here, unlike in the Shaw scene, the dialogue includes only two or three exchanges between characters before being interrupted by an equally long stretch of action. Yet the reader's attention isn't fragmented; action and dialogue each add new information, and together they make a whole.

  However, the reader's attention will be fragmented if you interrupt the dialogue too much. Consider this disastrous passage:

  Vivian said to her husband, ''I'm just not sure.'' She set the plate of fried eggs in front of Dave and frowned. ''There are so many problems with Mother coming to live with us.'' Vivian put a hand on her hip. ''For one, you'd have to give up your den.'' She began to pace distractedly. ''And I don't know how the girls would react to Mother's being here.'' She paused. ''Or her to them.''

  This is fatiguing to read; we are constantly bounced between what Vivian is saying and what she's doing. We want to say to the author, ''Oh, for heaven's sake, just let her talk!'' This writer would do better to choose one or two worried gestures for Vivian and bunch them all either before or after her dialogue.

  STOP THE PRESSES: DICTUS VERY INTERRUPTUS

  Why would an author want to interrupt a conversation for long para-graph(s) of narrative, description or thoughts? Won't that completely distract the reader from what the characters are saying? And won't it also diffuse any tension in the dialogue?

  It can, if used carelessly. But if used well, a long interruption to a conversation can actually increase tension. The trick is in placement. Coming just before the last exchange, or last few exchanges, the long interruption can have the same effect as that long pause at the Academy Awards after ''The envelope, please.'' All the nominees are holding their breath, knowing that something important is coming. The fumble with the envelope, the silence while the presenter scans the results (the nominees are still holding their breaths), the smile as the presenter says, ''And the Oscar goes to.. ..'' That's the effect you're after.

  Thomas Gavin gets it in his 1994 novel Breathing Water. Wilhelm, a reporter, is interviewing by phone an old woman whose long-ago-abducted grandson has been restored to her by a stranger named Dusseau. Above Wilhelm's desk is a picture of Toad of Toad Hall, from Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows:

  ''Do you trust him?'' Wilhelm asked. ''The boy is my grandson.'' ''I mean Dusseau. Do you trust him?'' After the slightest pause Mrs. Kane said, ''He's behaved like a perfect gentleman under my roof. . . .'' ''Has he asked you for money yet?'' Mrs. Kane said nothing.

  ''I'm not trying to get a story out of you, Mrs. Kane. It just—when a body's got a strong reason to want to believe something, he doesn't always look at it too close. I'm asking the kinds of questions that a—friend might ask. Somebody with your interests at heart. You've let a stranger into your house. I'm only asking what you know about him.''

  On the other end of the line Wilhelm heard irregular breathing, like somebody with bad dreams turning in her sleep. ''All I know, Mr. Wilhelm,'' said Mrs. Kane, ''is that he brought my Powell back to me. That's all I need to know.'' Wilhelm looked at Toad, thought of Toad's mincing trot as he came out from under the
shadows of the prison archway, thought of Toad's manic glee at having once again outsmarted the stuffy Victorian forces of order. He thought of all the sorrow the real Toads of the world caused, and the sorrow he himself had caused the wife who left him in his own jolly Toadlike recklessness, and knew it made no difference that your passion was for justice rather than motorcars, the result in the life of a Toad's family was sorrow. He saw Dusseau, the drifter with Driftwind painted on his gypsy wagon, as a free-spirited Toad of Toad Hall, a hypnotic charmer who had charmed Mrs. Kane into a faith she was afraid to question. ''Do you suppose, Mrs. Kane,'' he said, ''that there's any chance—any remote possibility— that the reason this Dusseau happened to know what little town to drift through so the boy could recognize you is that he's the one who snatched the boy in the first place?''

  This is almost all dialogue, until the last paragraph, when Gavin breaks the exchange with a long (comparatively) section of Wilhelm's thoughts, in which description and regret and memory mingle. The effect is to create high contrast, which makes all the punchier the return to dialogue in Wilhelm's last, emotionally significant question. Interrupted dialogue has been used to increase drama—and so increase tension.

  To use this technique, choose a section of dialogue that culminates in an important speech; there's no point in using structure-induced drama for a discussion about cooking pork chops. Keep the dialogue interruptions minimal until the long narrative block right before the pivotal speech. Also, place both speech and interruption near the end of the scene (otherwise, whatever follows will seem anticlimactic).

  PACING, DRAMA AND CHARACTER

  What does all this have to do with creating good characters? Quite a lot, actually. A ''good'' character is not necessarily one we want to ask to dinner at our home; a good character is one we want to read about. Readable dialogue—natural-sounding, concise, well-paced—frees the reader to concentrate on the content of the speech. It's like setting a book in clear type, rather than in crabbed and frustrating handwriting (such as mine). What counts in creating characterization may be the content of the dialogue, but its presentation can determine whether or not the content is ever perused at all.

  So pull out one of your scenes heavy on dialogue and experiment with it. First, remove all possible interruptions to the characters' exchanges. Does the characterization stand out more sharply? Is the scene improved?

  Next, add to the stripped-down dialogue only those sentences that deepen visualization and/or understanding of the immediate emotional atmosphere: gestures, bits of description, tones of voice. How does the scene read now? Better or worse? What's been gained, what lost?

  Finally, go back and take another look at the stripped-down version. Can you heighten its impact by adding one long chunk of emotional narrative, which might be character thoughts, memories, uncertainty, anger, etc.? Where should it go?

  ''Don't interrupt,'' your mother taught you. But your mother wasn't a writer. In your fiction, interrupt your people—or don't—according to whether it helps us better experience whatever they're experiencing. That's the best characterization method of all.

  SUMMARY: THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAKS HIS IDEAS

  • Unless the character is a real rambler, keep dialogue artificially concise—but not so concise that we feel we're listening to a slogan writer.

  • Avoid stilted, wooden, formal dialogue—unless spoken by a stilted, wooden, formal character.

  • Don't make use of ''As You Know, Bob'' dialogue. Find another way to convey background information.

  • After you've written a scene with much dialogue, consider whether it would benefit from fewer bits of narrative interspersed among the speeches—or from more. If more, should it be in small chunks or one long, dramatic interruption? If the latter, where should it be placed for best effect?

  Appearance, possessions, nicknames, occupation, background, mannerisms, speech patterns—by now it may seem that you know too much about your character's externals, too many details. How will you fit them all into the novel and still have room for action?

  Obviously, you won't. You will have to choose which to include, which to leave out. But leaving out even fascinating details needn't weaken your book. In fact, it can strengthen it.

  To see how, consider a different art: cooking. You're baking a cake, and halfway through you discover you lack some ingredient. What will happen if you leave it out? You try it, and the cake turns out to be—

  A flop.

  Or: better than the original—less sweet, lighter, more satisfying.

  Or: just about the same as if you'd put the ingredient in.

  But you'll never know unless you experiment. And as it is with cakes, so it is with fiction. Sometimes leaving out ingredients usually considered necessary results in a purer, more focused, more original story. Sometimes it results in a flop. And sometimes all you get is the same story, slightly shorter.

  Let's get specific. In previous chapters, we've considered several different ways to characterize your protagonist. Which might you experiment with leaving out, and what might happen if you do?

  LEAVING OUT DESCRIPTION

  The master of omitting description, of course, is Raymond Carver. His spare short stories are almost all dialogue, broken by stretches of the character's internal ruminations. Little of the external world is described. Here, for instance, is the opening to ''Night School'':

  My marriage had just fallen apart. I couldn't find a job. I had another girl. But she wasn't in town. So I was at a bar having a glass of beer, and two women were sitting a few stools down, and one of them began to talk to me. "You have a car?'' ''I do, but it's not here,'' I said.

  Throughout the rest of the story, we will never get a description of the narrator, the bar, the car or the women (except for ''They were both about forty, maybe older''). Why not? All three people are central to the plot. And wouldn't it aid characterization to describe the kind of bar the protagonist prefers (plush or sleazy?), the car he drives (Ferrari or Ford Escort?) and/or the kind of women he allows to pick him up? Yes, it would. But Carver gives up these chances for characterization in order to gain something else.

  Read the opening again. Do you sense how the absence of the external world makes the story seem closed in, limited, suffocating? That's the way the world seems to the protagonist (this is often true of Carver stories). There are few physical details because these people's physical worlds are limited and uninteresting, even to them. Only words and thoughts have genuine force. By leaving out description, Carver underscores his characters' reality.

  Should you try this in your work? Not if the surroundings are important to the protagonist, or demonstrate her individuality, or are exotic enough to the reader that he needs your help in visualizing them correctly. A historical novel, for instance, needs a wealth of physical detail, or it will feel too much like the present. A story about the fashion industry needs visual descriptions. So does one about base-ball—the topic itself is physical.

  If, however, you have a detached or alienated character and want an ambience to match, go through and delete nearly all the description. Is the story improved? If not, you can always put it back in.

  LEAVING OUT DIALOGUE

  The opposite approach is to concentrate on description (as well as on exposition and characters' thoughts) and to use dialogue sparingly. Pulitzer Prize winner John Cheever often does this. When he does include dialogue, it's often reported indirectly rather than reproduced word for word, as in the opening to ''O Youth and Beauty!'':

  At the tag end of nearly every long, large Saturday-night party in the suburb of Shady Hill, when almost everybody who was going to play golf or tennis in the morning had gone home hours ago and the ten or twelve people remaining seemed powerless to bring the evening to an end although the gin and whiskey were running low, and here and there a woman who was sitting out her husband would have begun to drink milk; when everybody had lost track of time and the baby-sitters who were waiting at home for these di
ehards would have long since stretched out on the sofa and fallen into a deep sleep, to dream about cooking-contest prizes, ocean voyages, and romance; when the bellicose drunk, the crapshooter, the pianist, and the woman faced with the expiration of her hopes had all expired themselves; when every proposal—to go to the Farquar-sons' for breakfast, to go swimming, to go and wake up the Townsends, to go here and there—died as soon as it was made, then Trace Bearden would begin to chide Cash Bentley about his age and thinning hair.

  We will never hear exactly what Trace says to Cash—and very little of what anyone says to anyone else in this story. What does Cheever gain from this?

  Just the opposite of Carver's gain. In Cheever's story, the setting is everything—so much so that in real life people refer to a certain kind of New England upper-middle-class suburb as Cheever country. This distinctive milieu has shaped all his characters' attitudes, actions and feelings. Cheever conveys this not only by the richly detailed descriptions of social mores, but also by minimizing the dialogue. Dialogue is individual, and Cheever's characters very often are not. They're creatures of their place and time, even somewhat interchangeable. Giving them little dialogue subtly conveys this to the reader. It also reduces the story's immediacy—which in turn reinforces the sense of the author as an anthropologist detailing the strange tribal rituals of a distinctive culture.

  Minimizing dialogue is tricky; most readers like to ''hear'' characters' own words. If you try this, compensate with three things:

  • a setting compelling and individual enough to warrant all the attention you give it, and which you know in thorough detail

  • a strong enough prose style to make lots of description interesting to read

  • enough action to keep all that description from making the story too static

  If you have those strengths, give minimalist fiction a try. LEAVING OUT OTHER, CAREFULLY SELECTED DETAILS

  Omitting a detail works like a hole in a photograph: The eye immediately focuses on the tiny bit that is missing. Why is that little piece cut out, rather than any other little piece? The effect is, paradoxically, to give heightened importance to what is not there.