A Lesson in Dialogue
It’s come to my attention recently that a lot of dialogue sucks. I have come to this conclusion by way of reading novels, watching scripted television programs, and feeling bemused by filmed comedic sketches on the Internet. The recent cultural output has exhibited a marked decline in the quality of written speech between various characters. Not to mention other types of dialogue—racial, cultural, etc. As I write this on a plane, a quiet Latino man is laughing his ass off next to me watching Rush Hour 2. My point stands; we used to make things in this country.
I figured it was worth offering all you idiots a lesson. It’s difficult to watch you all—and I do mean everyone on this subscriber list—flail around when trying to imagine two people talking. I can tell almost all of you have never had friends before, or have hung out in general. I can tell that just from reading your email addresses. There’s a stench coming off them. A putrid essential nature, And what it says is, “I’ve never had genuine human connection. And that’s why I’m subscribed to this dogshit.”
I’ve broken down my framework for writing believable dialogue into a few concrete lessons. Follow along.
Make your characters different races
Any worthwhile exchange of dialogue is about a power dynamic. Nothing interesting is said between two people who are of the same station in life. That’s why your characters should always be of two different races, the only recognized difference between people. If you’re starting from a place of more experience and skill, you can choose two races that are closer together on the hierarchy. But if you’re just starting out, go as wide as possible—one of your characters should always be what you imagine is the worst race (your preference), and the other one should be what you imagine as the best race (a tan Greek). This way, every line is suffused with, alternately, seething resentment and sneering condescension.
Here’s an example. I’ve decided to illustrate my point by picking two real-life figures to engage in an exchange of words. First, let’s see what happens when they’re the same race.
“Hey,” says character actor Chris Messina. “You are the love of my life, Christine Pelosi.”
“What’s up?” says the daughter of Congresswoman Nancy Pelosi and potential challenger for her vacant seat Christine Pelosi.
In the above exchange, nothing happens because they’re both Italian-American. Watch what happens when we switch the race of one of the characters.
“Hey,” says star of Lost Naveen Andrews. “You are the love of my life, Christine Pelosi.”
“Look, everyone, it’s Sayid from Lost,” says daughter of Congresswoman Nancy Pelosi and potential challenger for her vacant seat Christine Pelosi. “Let’s make fun of him for things he can’t change.”
The crowd of Christine Pelosi’s friends, longtime movers and shakers in the San Francisco political establishment, proceed to cook Sayid from Lost’s ass. He thought he could come in here and profess his love for the heir to one of the city’s most prominent families. Little did he know, the Pelosi family likely has an enduring distaste for whatever he’s got going on.
The amended version is so much more dynamic, full of the complexity and electricity that make literature worth engaging with.
Put your characters in difficult spots
Take the aforementioned classic, Rush Hour 2, a sequel to a movie in which Jackie Chan drops the hard-R but people have kind of given him a pass I guess. Much of the movie involves Chan hanging from some sort of metal railing while Chris Tucker yells at him. Some of the shit they say in these moments is some of the funniest shit ever written lowkey. And he says stuff while he’s hanging off the railings that he’d never say if were sitting down in a chair I think.
Placing your characters in dangerous situations, or even just positions in which things are slightly off-kilter or uncomfortable, can prompt different emotional valences.
Let’s see another example. I was going to come up with other real-life examples, but maybe it’s easier just to keep it with the people from before.
“Christine, this is a lovely spread,” Naveen says. He runs his hands along the tablecloth, marveling at the bounty of dried goods, tinned fish, and other sundries.
“Thanks, Naveen,” Christine says. “I ordered most of it from Goldbelly, a service for which I’ve racked up thousands of loyalty points.”
“I feel as though nothing can go wrong in this situation.”
“It won’t,” Christine says.
The two of them kiss furiously in the chilly air of Nob Hill.
There’s nothing really happening here, because everything and everyone is so comfortable. Let’s see how the vibe changes when he put these two in an unfamiliar situation.
“Christine, I love this spread you’ve laid out for us, but please—take the controls!” Naveen shouts. “I’m not fully trained on how to handle the Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk Super Six-One.”
Christine Pelosi and Naveen Andrews switch spots in the cockpit. She grabs the steering handle.
“Somalia is so beautiful from up here,” she says. “If only we weren’t on a treacherous mission to capture Mohamed Farrah Aidid.”
You hear that? That’s my damn heart racing!
Just by placing these characters in a Black Hawk helicopter flying low over Mogadishu, presumably with Jeremy Piven and Eric Bana and Nikolaj Coster-Waldau and the rest of the gang, we’ve unlocked a new register for them to speak to each other. More people should think about doing stuff like this—it can’t all fall to me.
Introduce class consciousness
Some of the best stuff out right now is all about class. Upstairs vs. downstairs vibes. The haves and the have-nots. It’s all suffused af with class. Everything good right now is about class, and how people with less are angry at people with more. That’s the kind of shit that gets me out of bed. Parasite, Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery, Downtown Abbey. And I could go on. Basically, if you are even remotely serious about this, you better be thinking about the strictures of class disparity in the West, and how that clashes with our purported belief in the ideals of equality and democracy.
Might as well stick with the same characters. No sense in stopping now. Here’s what dialogue between them looks like when they’re of the same class.
“My Goldbelly subscription has paid off in dividends,” Naveen Andrews says. “I love having enough money to be able to use it regularly.”
“Right?” Christine Pelosi agrees. “Fine desserts shipped from all over the world is one of the many pleasures we can indulge in without feeling guilty because of how much money we have.”
“I love how much money we have, collectively,” Naveen says, nuzzling his head into the crook of her arm.
“Same, Sayid. I mean—Naveen. There’s definitely no one out there that would resent us for our ill-gotten gains.”
The above exchange evinces absolutely no sense of class consciousness. It’s like the author doesn’t even know about class. Class is like the big thing now.
What I try to do is always make every line of dialogue drenched in, soaking, dripping wet with class consciousness. Here’s how I’d change it:
“Thanks for sponsoring my Goldbelly subscription, Christine Pelosi,” Naveen says.
“Of course, Naveen Andrews,” Christine says. “It’s the least I can do after all that time you spent hungry.”
“That feels slightly condescending to me. Are you feeling guilty about how your family has tightened its vise grip on the San Francisco Democratic establishment, much like the Newsom family, and are thus trying to self-medicate said guilt by allowing me access to some of the best desserts the world has to offer?”
“You may have hit on something,” Christine says. “But what else am I supposed to do with all this generational wealth?”
“I will use the Goldbelly subscription, but not without awareness of my enjoying the spoils of the moneyed class. Also, what do you mean all this time I spent hungry?”
“When you were on the island.”
“In Lost?” Naveen asks.
God—I wish this never ended! I’m riveted.
The author in this exchange clearly knows a lot about how money works, and thus how power works. Because everything is about power, especially money. And sex. I mean everything is about power. Except sex? But money. Sex and money are not about power. Money is about sex. No sex is about money. I can’t fucking get it right. Fuck.
Sex
Sex has gotta be part of it. After that last section, I just knew I had to include this at the end. But keep it normal. Make sure the sex stuff is normal. I don’t know, just don’t write weird shit. Some of the stuff I read these days has like the weirdest dialogue. And people are saying weird stuff. Most people in the world just say stuff like, “Damn.” “Dude that’s insane.” “Fuck.” Just write lines like that. I don’t know why everyone gets all freaky with it.
“Christine Pelosi,” Naveen Andrews says, “may we fuck?”
“Yes, Sayid,” Christine Pelosi says. “Do me like I’m your Nadia.”
“From like Season 4?” Naveen says. “No. Today you will be my Shannon.”
The erotic charge from their words is the fuel that powers their lovemaking engine.
See? You can’t get to that contrived metaphor at the end without the unbearably sexy dialogue preceding it. You just can’t.
Hopefully this all helps. We should add a paid option, dude—for real this time. I can’t be giving this stuff out for free.
Ritam’s Footnote
Lost is about to be on Netflix. I’m standing at the gates with a chainsaw, ready to gore all new stans with a “Oh, you haven’t heard of The Lost Experience ARG? fohhhhhhhhhhhh.”
Anyone notice that the Hulu logo here kind of looks like “um”?
um