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Me: “What do you love about dialogue?”
Also me: “The fact that only in a dialogue I can tell you to shut up!”
When I find myself standing on stage in front of an audience, I know I’m in trouble. I’m in trouble because the audience will not be conversing with me: it’s going to be me doing the talking and them doing the listening. With everyone looking at me, I need to say something like, “Why, isn’t this awkward… what was it? Oh, yeah…” I get closer to the mic and say, “Just picture me naked.” If I’m lucky, they’ll laugh, and I’ll get the feedback I need.
Since the people in the audience aren’t going to reply, this is the closest I can get to feeling like we’re having a conversation. And that’s where I feel at best: in a dialogue. Composing my response according to what’s being said to me. Reacting. Retorting. Countering.
I enjoy the challenge of finding the right way to talk to a person. It requires engagement and sensitivity—to mirror their words back to them while keeping my words true to me, so that I too get to reflect myself. Because otherwise, what’s the point?
Nobody tells you where to go
In my writing, dialogue often drives the narrative. The story doesn’t have an agenda, the characters do. I let them lead the way. It’s their motivation that shapes the plot.
Put two people in a room together—it’s most likely that one of them is trying to achieve something. And the responses of the other will determine how far they can progress in that direction, how far they can push each other’s boundaries. What will they say to get what they want?
How it usually works
I’d start with a little piece of a sentence, for which I have zero context, like, “Can I have a word?”—I have no clue who said that to who, or why. But I can already feel something, a need. And then I have a reply, like, “Sure. Do you mean now?” and by then I’ve figured out that the one replying is a guy, and the one who’s asking is this girl, who’s, let’s say, working with him. And she doesn’t want to feel pushy, so she says, “No, doesn’t need to be now.” But if I’m in another mood, she might just say, “Yes. Now.”
When writing Rosenfeld, I sometimes let the dialogue tell me the story. I start off with a little prior knowledge and let the characters reveal the facts through their answers. Like that time when Noa decides to interrogate Teddy about a matter of great importance:
[Noa:] “I had a thought and I’d like to find out if it’s true.”
“What thought?”
“Okay. You and Jamie.”
“Well?”
“That’s it, that’s the question.”
“You want to find out if I fucked Jamie?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Shit. That reaction means you did.”
“Right.”
“Really?”
“Really. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Exactly, why wouldn’t you? I get it, she’s very attractive. And does it still happen sometimes?”
“No, no. Not anymore.”
“When did it happen? When you and Lara were still together?”
“Yes.”
“And Lara knew?”
“No. Why would she know?”
“So what happened?”
“Why do you ask all these questions, monster?”
“Because I want to know.”
“Why?”
“Because it turns me on.”
“Yeah, right.”
I didn’t know what Noa would ask or what Teddy’s replies would be. I did know that he’d slept with Jamie, but I didn’t know exactly what happened—the details surfaced as they went on talking. I was curious to see what they’d say to each other. I look at it as a character-driven story, with dialogue being the manifestation of the characters’ drives; the technique; the how.
Undisciplined Characters
When you let a character decide for themselves, they won’t necessarily do what you want them to.
There’s a scene in the novel where Teddy takes Noa out for lunch. They’ve slept together only once, and she can’t wait for it to happen again. He, on the other hand, begins to think that she’s probably too fragile for the kind of relationship he might be willing to have. In the back of his mind, he is considering ending things with her.
They start talking, and pretty soon she realizes she needs to find the right words to get him to want what she wants. But no matter what she says, he’s not convinced. I get involved and try to help her out, but he’s holding his ground. So I make her keep trying, over and over again. It takes a couple of days until Noa finally delivers a monologue that proves to Teddy that he wants it too:
“And say that I did let you push me away, what then? You’d be alone? That would last all of fifteen minutes. And then what? Someone else who isn’t me comes along? What are you going to do with someone else now? (…) Then you might as well stick with me. You won’t find anyone who’s better suited for you than I am. What would she have that I don’t? Success? You don’t care for that because it has nothing to do with you. Talent? You’re in good hands. Beauty? I’m pretty enough for you. Big tits? Okay, maybe, but that’s not a good enough reason.”
He looks at [her] and takes a deep breath. “Don’t make this any harder.”
“Money? You have enough. Humor? No competition here. What? What could she possibly have that would make you move even an inch? (…) Nothing. It’s me, Teddy. I saw the list. There’s no one after me.”
It works. She wins this round.
Look at that: I guess sometimes a monologue is the answer. And now I realize that this whole essay is eerily similar to standing on stage, hearing only my own voice, so I’ll wrap it up: “Just picture me putting my clothes back on! Goodnight. There will be no encore.”
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Rosenfeld by Maya Kessler is available now via Avid Reader Press
