And then the bubble pops. A friend, whose judgement you trust, reads the manuscript and tells you that the plot detail you really loved is actually impossible. Of course, this tiny little plot detail is the one on which the whole of the rest of the book hinges. So… what you must do is rip up the story from that point on and rewrite it.

That’s the kind of situation I’m in now. At about the start of 2008 I finished the draft of a novel about the financial world in Tokyo. The dénouement (what a nice word that is, especially with the accent!) includes an account of a massive earthquake that rocks Tokyo. What it does not include is any account of the Lehman’s debacle – and any book dealing with financial matters which has any pretense to realism should definitely include a reference to this event.

So, seeing that the (long overdue) earthquake hasn’t occurred, but the collapse of the banking world has, I am busy rewriting, and it’s sometimes a bit painful to be retreading these old paths.

How is this different from the first burst of writing? On the one hand I know too much. I know how the story’s going to end, and how it’s going to come about (I tend not to micro-plan stories in advance but I like the ending I have already). So it’s boring not to create it from scratch.

On the other hand, I have a much clearer picture in my head of the
characters than I did first time round. They’re more real to me than they
were, and as a result, their dialog, as well as their actions, makes more sense to the reader. Because I am closer to them, I also have an emotional involvement with them – something that wasn’t really there before – and I think this makes a real difference to the writing.

One reader of the first draft made the valid criticism that he didn’t really feel he cared too much about what happened to the protagonist – there wasn’t enough there to hold psychological interest, though the story itself was interesting.

I am trying to rewrite the last quarter of the book from scratch, rather than re-use previously written material, and this introduces an obvious advantage to the rewriting process – the ability to revise and remove awkwardness in style and plot. But to me the major advantage, boring as it may be to actually perform the rewriting, is that I have become better acquainted with my characters, and I can breathe more life into them.

Dialogue can make or break your short story or novel. No matter how good the plot or subject line, poorly-written dialogue can turn a reader off quicker than anything.

I recently read a draft novel manuscript that had a fascinating premise, a compelling story line, and conflict aplenty. I was, nonetheless, completely turned off because every character in the story sounded exactly alike. They all used the same stilted Shakespearean speech, and sounded as if they were reading from Hamlet. Even a street smart black activist student, who was portrayed as aggressive and racially sensitive, talked as if he was the villain from Othello.

This is not to suggest that the character should have been lampooned, or that his dialogue should have been a parody of ‘Amos and Andy’ or ‘Shaft.’ But, the character would have been more credible and believable if the dialogue had been less formal, with more use of modern slang, instead of the formal speech that was employed. The only slang word this character used in the first chapter, in over a half page of dialogue, was the word ‘ofay,’ which was inserted in a formal sentence, making it stand out like a pimple on prom night; and it was as unwelcome and out of place as a pimple. Reading the passage, which described his encounter with his professor, I had difficulty telling which of them was speaking without looking at the tags, or going back to see who spoke last. This was clearly a case of poor dialogue ruining an otherwise good story.

A more effective technique is to give each character a distinctive voice; either through the words they use, or some other action that belongs to that character and that character alone. Dialogue should be written so that the reader knows immediately which character is speaking.

A good way to learn to write effective dialogue is to eavesdrop on the people around you. Note the quirks that distinguish one speaker from another. For example, teenagers these days seem to put the word ‘like’ indiscriminately in their speech. Here’s an example of a conversation I overheard on the subway one day, “He was like really out of control, and like I just couldn’t get into what he was like saying, you know.” That is an actual line of dialogue that could be used in your story. You have to be careful in most cases not to use what you hear verbatim. People don’t often say what they want to say as succinctly as you need your characters to speak to keep your story moving; but informal expressions in your dialogue will make your characters sound like real people.

If you want your writing to keep people interested, in addition to a strong plot, and an interesting theme, you need characters that people find believable. This means learning to write dialogue that holds a reader’s interest as much as the plot. Dialogue, when well written, can help to identify a character more effectively than paragraphs of description or narrative, and it can help keep your story moving. More importantly, it can keep a reader interested in your story from the opening sentence through to the end.

You can check Charles’ page on RedRoom for commentary on leadership, politics and life in general, as well as information about his books.

In many ways, Elmore Leonard’s skill is greater, as one of his rules for writing dialog is not to use dialect when reporting characters’ speech. Other rules he lays down for writers are not to use adverbs when reporting characters’ dialog (in one of his books, one character is herself a novelist, and claims to have written novels “full of rape and adverbs”), and not to use any word other than “said” to describe the act of speech by a character.

Maybe this comes from his experiences as a scriptwriter, where the actor is given the words and told to interpret them. At the initial stage of the script, only the words are provided – the director and actors then agree on the interpretation. This can only be done effectively, though, if the words themselves provide the meaning, which means the words you put into characters’ mouths have to be accurate; exactly what that character would say in that situation.

Take this exchange from Leonard:

“Man, you knew it, didn’t you? You look at this shit laying on the bottom, you knew it wasn’t gonna go off. You run the price up on me with nothing to worry about.”

Chris said, “That’s why people like me like to get hired by people like you.”

(Freaky Deaky, Elmore Leonard)

See, no adverbs, no “complained” or “whined” for the first speaker. Just the words, ma’am — and they work so well with no ornamentation. You know the tone of voice of both speakers – you can place the sort of person speaking, and you can even picture their relative positions and bodily attitudes while they speak.

I sometimes break Elmore’s adverb rule, but since learning about it, my adverb quotient has decreased radically, and so has my use of words like “exclaimed”, “screamed”, “protested”, as I’ve learned to use my inner ear more to listen to my characters’ conversations.

I was reading a book that discussed the importance of empathy. The author routinely used the adjective “empathic” to describe those possessing the quality of empathy. I have always heard and used the adjective “empathetic”, although upon looking it up it seems both words are valid.

Are there any rules or guidelines regarding the proper use of these two words?

Both empathic and empathetic derive from the noun empathy:

The power of projecting one’s personality into (and so fully comprehending) the object of contemplation. –OED

Since both forms of the adjective are recognized by the OED and Merriam-Webster, speakers and writers are free to choose the form they prefer.

The older form is empathic (1909). The form empathetic derives from the more familiar pairing of sympathy and sympathetic. The earliest date for the use of empathetic given in the OED is 1932. It could be that scientific writers prefer the older term.

The word empathic makes me think of the word empath.

Neither the OED nor M-W has an entry for empath, but I know from a StarTrek episode that an “empath” is a being who can feel another’s pain–literally.

“The Empath” (1968) is excruciating to watch. Gem, the “empath” of the title, is an alien who combines feelings of empathy with the power to heal. When Kirk and McCoy are injured by torture, she is able to heal them with her touch. However, in healing them, she takes their injuries into herself, suffering horribly in the process.

Because of the StarTrek influence, I do see a difference between empathic and empathetic. I would use empathetic to describe the empathy an ordinary person feels. I’d use empathic to describe the feeling experienced by an empath.

Although neither the OED nor Merriam-Webster has an entry for empath, Answers.com Science Fiction Dictionary has. The word is illustrated with excerpts from the writings of J. T. McIntosh, H. Ellison, A. McCaffrey, M.Z. Bradley, S. Stewart, and M. Rosenblum.

I was wondering if you could share your thoughts on how to flow from sentence to sentence. I feel mine can be a bit jumpy as I tell the story.

Much is written about “transition sentences,” that is, sentences that bridge paragraphs, but that’s not what this question is about.

This question is about what a writer can do to avoid writing paragraphs that all progress to a beat of dumpty-dumpty-dump.

Two things contribute to the flow of sentences within a paragraph:
1. sentence length
2. logical progression of thought

In browsing my shelves for examples, I realized that some very popular writers don’t seem to share David’s concern regarding “jumpy” narration.

Here’s a typical paragraph from Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code:

Langdon and Sophie stepped into another world. The small room before them looked like a lavish sitting room at a fine hotel. Gone were the metal and rivets, replaced with oriental carpets, dark oak furniture, and cushioned chairs. On the broad desk in the middle of the room, two crystal glasses sat beside an opened bottle of Perrier, its bubbles still fizzing. A pewter pot of coffee steamed beside it.

Not a complex sentence in sight. It doesn’t seem to matter if Brown is being reflective or describing action. Most of his sentences are simple or compound. Here and there the reader comes across a noun clause introduced by that, or a an adverb clause introduced by as or as if. Mostly it’s dumpty-dumpty-dump.

Yes, Dan Brown is a wildly successful writer and I’m happy for him. His gift, however, is story-telling, not writing style.

Here are two examples from a novel by a writer who is both an effective story-teller and a fine stylist. The first is a paragraph in which the narrator is reflecting on his life. He is attending the opera with his employer.

I suppose I had once aspired to come here and walk among these beautiful, elegant people as one of their own, but that had been long ago, before all my dreams had been dashed like porcelain on paving stones. Now that I was finally here, I felt all the more like a Welsh collier’s brat, as if I were still twelve, nose running, and starting to outgrow my brother’s cast-offs. I was in the right place at the wrong time. Such was the refrain of my life.– Some Danger Involved by Will Thomas

The first sentence is long and leisurely, suggesting reflection. It contains no fewer than four clauses and numerous phrases. The second sentence has multiple clauses and phrases, but the last two are simple sentences, brusquely bringing the introspection back to the present moment.

The second example is from an action paragraph in which the narrator is about to be murdered.

The cross spun in a circle, and when it stopped, a pistol was clapped to my head. It was my own revolver. I recognized the filed-down sight. I closed my eyes and felt surprisingly at ease. I was ready to die now. I gave it all over. At that point, I would have preferred a bullet to slow death. –Ibid.

The first sentence has three clauses joined by the most commonplace conjunctions and and when. The loosely joined clauses suggest a spinning motion. The next two sentences are simple and staccato. Short sentences take the reader along rapidly. They convey the breathlessness felt by the man in danger. The next sentence has two clauses, but they are short and, again, joined by the nearly invisible and. The next three sentences are simple. With the length of the sentences the writer has conveyed both the fear and resignation felt by the narrator.

The writer striving for a pleasantly flowing style will vary sentence length and kind, crafting length to thought.

Here are some joining words with which to introduce subordinate clauses.

Subordinate conjunctions
after, although, as, as if, as long as, as much as,
as soon as, as though, because, before, even if, even though,
how, if, inasmuch, in order that, lest, now, provided (that), 
since, so that, than, that, though, till, unless, until, when, whenever, where, wherever, while,

Conjunctive adverbs
accordingly, also, anyway, again, besides, certainly, consequently,
contrarily, finally, further, furthermore, elsewhere, hence,
henceforth, however, in contrast, incidentally, indeed, instead,
likewise, meanwhile, moreover, namely, nevertheless, next,
nonetheless, now, otherwise, rather, similarly, so, subsequently,
still, that is, then, thereafter, therefore, thus, undoubtedly, yet