Out of the Mouths of Your Characters
Using dialogue to define your fantasy world…
Show — don’t tell. How many of us have had that hammered into our heads — our very souls? Just me? Certainly not.
This is not an argument against that edict. Personally, I embrace it. Engage the senses of the reader. Help them feel like they are actually there. Don’t leave the reader as a mere spectator.
But –
What about those who actually live in your fantasy world? The people that grew up in your painstakingly detailed magical milieu? Wouldn’t they have a unique perspective? Different priorities? In-depth knowledge? Have you ever gone on a trip to someplace entirely new and overheard a casual conversation between two natives? The cadence of their speech. Their word choices. The things they find important — or trivial. The ways they interrupt one another. The things they find funny.
Not giant blocks of exposition. Engaging conversation.
“How ironic that this region named Dreadmarsh on the map should be the most beautiful.”
“Hmm?”
“Mostly because of the flowers, I suppose. Just look at all the colors. Breathe in the fragrances.”
“Yep. Once ye ken which blossoms be hallucinogens, which is carnivorous, and which be just plain poison, then the beauty of the marsh really shines through.”
“Sorry — did you say, carnivorous?”
Nobody asked for a lecture on the dangerous plant life to be found in the marsh. Just two people exchanging thoughts. One is obviously new to the region and the other probably a native. The adorable, folksy speech certainly gives that away. Crucial information is passed along. There might even be a chuckle involved. The native’s casual attitude toward the terrible dangers contrasts nicely with the newcomer’s naiveté.
“Now, where’s this dragon hoard I’ve heard so much about?”
“We’ve narrowed down the location of the wyrm’s lair to the hills above Swansong Lake.”
“Where?!”
“Those chalky hills overlooking the water…some of them have caves…”
“Swans?!”
“No, I don’t recall swans in the caves.”
“The lake, you idiot! There be swans in the lake?!”
“Stop shouting at me.”
“Sorry. Fear makes me shouty.”
“Fear?”
“Aye.”
“Of…”
“Them hissing, winged beasts.”
“Dragons?”
“Swans!!”
“You’re shouting again.”
“You’re not helping.”
“So, you’re afraid of swans.”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“But, not dragons.”
“Swans are MEAN!”
“Well, sure…”
“Everyone thinks they’re so regal, and pretty, and perfect — then they turn on you with a hiss and a wing-beating.”
“As opposed to dragons…”
“Dragons be honest and killsome. You know what you’re getting with a dragon.”
“Besides, swans don’t hoard gold.”
“Never have. Bastards.”
For an even richer experience, you can listen to this dialogue here: https://soundcloud.com/greygrooters/swansong.
Not everyone is comfortable writing dialogue, but readers seem to enjoy it. The back-and-forth. The give-and-take. The advantage of being able to present a concept in conversational tones. Relaying information in the way your characters actually speak. The opportunity to convey some emotion or humor along with the facts. Establishing priorities of the characters. Giving them added dimension.
Then again, writing description that gets the job done can be its own challenge. Not every reader feels the same way about colors, scents, or sounds. My wife loves the odors of skunks and manure — she grew up in the country. I am often annoyed by the music of birds chirping at sunrise. My favorite color is green — but, not any green. I prefer cooler shades and darker tones. Bluer greens, not yellowish greens. Details like these sometimes give me pause when I want to convey a scene to a reader in a sympathetic fashion.
Maybe that’s the time to show through words. After all, the writer is doing exactly that — all the time. It’s all words. The writer’s words that a reader simply has to take at face value. Pages could be spent in description of a 19th century setting, with its Gothic mansion, bizarre family, and gruesome magicks.
Or:
“Remember Great-Aunt Genevieve?”
“Wasn’t she the one who dismembered Uncle Jack with an axe and sank him into three different peat bogs?”
“Right. He was furious when he came back home.”
“I remember! He soaked her in pitch, lit her on fire, and had her burning body torn apart by four horses as she screamed. Eye for an eye, our Uncle Jack.”
“Except he is often inclined to take the entire head.”
“There is that.”
“She was alive through it all, wasn’t she?”
“Until the very end, yes.”
“I read somewhere that Great-Aunt Genevieve is buried in five different unmarked graves.”
“I read that too. Why do they do it?”
“Try to kill Uncle Jack?”
“Yes.”
“The money and the property, I suppose.”
“What about his immortality?”
“That too, I imagine.”
“No. I meant, don’t they know you can’t kill what’s immortal? That’s what immortal means, right?”
“There’s always those who have to put it to the test.”
“Seems like. Poor fools.”
Then:
“I do enjoy all the stories of Great-Aunt Genevieve.”
“All true, I assure you.”
“What happened to her?”
“You know that tale.”
“The one about her being buried in five different graves?”
“That’s the one.”
“It’s not true.”
“How’s that?”
“I checked.”
“Well, aren’t you the industrious lad?”
“Only in the name of science.”
“Fair enough. See the urn, over on the pedestal?”
“Cremated? Seems almost…anticlimactic.”
“No. Not cremated. She wouldn’t burn enough for that.”
“What?”
“Just the head.”
“You mean — in there?”
“That’s right.”
“Explains the vague aroma of stale lavender.”
“Her signature fragrance.”
“Well, a fitting end for such a mad old biddy, if you ask me.”
“Careful.”
“Why?”
“She can probably hear you.”
When I’m struggling to find my own voice in writing, sometimes I look to those of my characters. Not only do they tend to have plenty to say, but their words give me insight when I’m trying to find my way. If I can speak to the reader through someone who is there in the scene, I feel more confident in my ability to share that scene more fully. In any case, it makes the writing more fun for me. That’s rarely a bad thing.
