A couple of months ago, I changed jobs. Perhaps one of the
most difficult parts of the transition to my new role was leaving behind the
writer’s group that I led. For two years I was able to connect with this
dedicated gang every other week, sharing stories in progress and offering my
tidbits of guidance.
But thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I’m still
able to keep in touch with several of them.
This week I got an email from Annette, who is diligently
working on her story. But she’s having difficulty mixing dialog with the
narration. “How do you do it? Is it
magic? Pixie dust?” she asked.
My response? It’s
like cooking. Sometimes you follow the recipe. Sometimes you improvise. There’s
no perfect formula that you can follow. Like anything else, it takes some
practice, weaving in a mixture of narration and conversation to keep your
readers interested. And sometimes you
can even inject humor into the most unexpected places to break the tension of a
scene.
I encouraged her to read any book and pay attention to how
the writer mixed narration with dialog.
And I offered her the sample from “Fleeing Beauty” that you’ll see
below.
This was
going to take some time to sink in. That was one thing about this project that
I knew was the right way to handle it. We were not going to rush through the
storeroom, ripping open every crate in ten minutes time. These were works of
art. Peter’s legacy was in this room. I intended to give each piece its due.
Malone sensed this and I think Ian did too.
After a while they folded the burlap and put it back in the crate.
Together they carried it over to a far corner and flipped it upside down. Then they rolled the worktable next to it.
Carefully they lifted the sculpture and eased it down on the center of the
inverted base.
“This is going to work,” Ian said
with delight.
“Two down, a hundred more to go,”
Malone said.
“That’s fifty-six to go.”
We both
looked at Ian. He shrugged. “I counted the crates yesterday. There were
fifty-eight all together. We opened one yesterday and this one.”
Malone
nudged him with an elbow. “You ever consider there might be more than one item
in some of these bigger crates?”
“No.”
“But it is a
possibility?”
Ian flashed
another grin. “I suppose, but we still have another fifty-six crates to open.
That means at least another fifty-six sculptures.”
“Nobody
likes a smart ass,” Malone muttered.
I cleared my
throat. Being a smart ass was one of my most redeeming qualities. At least, I’d
always thought so.
“Let’s look
for the next crate,” I said, handing Ian a slip of paper with the code number
on it. Malone leaned against the wall and winked at me.
“Nice way to
change the topic. And you are the exception to the rule.”
“What rule
would that be?” I asked innocently.
“That would
be the smart ass rule. You can get away with it. At least, you can with me. But
don’t encourage the kid. He’s not as cute as you are.”
I rewarded
him with a kiss. Hey, he said I was cute.
