Dialogue Is Not Conversation

Young writers often confuse dialogue with conversation, under the assumption that the closer you get to reality, the more convincing you sound. But dialogue is not conversation. Dialogue is a construct; it is artificial; it is much more efficient and believable than real conversation. Just as fiction itself distorts reality in order to achieve a larger truth, so dialogue eliminates all the false starts and irrelevant intrusions of real life in order to reveal character and move the encounter toward a dramatic conclusion.

JOHN L’HEUREUX

Click Off the Lights

I have noticed that when all the lights are on, people tend to talk about what they are doing – their outer lives. Sitting round in candlelight or firelight, people start to talk about how they are feeling – their inner lives. They speak subjectively, they argue less, there are longer pauses. To sit alone without any electric light is curiously creative. I have my best ideas at dawn or at nightfall, but not if I switch on the lights – then I start thinking about projects, deadlines, demands, and the shadows and shapes of the house become objects, not suggestions, things that need to done, not a background to thought.

JEANETTE WINTERSON

It's Never Too Late

Writing is not like dancing or modeling; it’s not something where—if you missed it by age 19—you’re finished. It’s never too late. Your writing will only get better as you get older and wiser. If you write something beautiful and important, and the right person somehow discovers it, they will clear room for you on the bookshelves of the world—at any age. At least try.

ELIZABETH GILBERT

Set It Up in the Beginning

Generally speaking, if you don’t set everything up in the beginning, you’ll pay for it, in the middle or in the end. So I would rather pay for it at the beginning. It’s not television and they’re not going to go off into the icebox, or they’re not going to change channels. An audience in a movie will forgive you for just about anything for the first ten minutes or so. But really nothing at the end.

ROBERT TOWNE

The Inner Critic

It’s not good to think very critically when you’re trying to write. Any sentence could be stifled by the critic in one if you allow him to get the upper hand. But, by and large, keeping in mind that I am a little wary of the critic in me, I think once you start trying to put images and words of dialogue together, in some way the imaginary world takes over and somehow shuts out all the harassing critical thoughts that you might otherwise entertain.

JOHN UPDIKE

Any Experience that Touches You Is Good

Any experience that touches you, in any particular way, is good. It can be a horrible experience. I saw a car crash when I was fifteen here in Los Angeles and five people died as a result of it. I arrived at the scene within twenty seconds of hearing the collision. It was the worst mistake I ever made in my life. I didn’t know what I was running into. People had been horribly mangled and decapitated. So for months after, I was shaken. It’s probably the reason I never learned to drive. I was terrified of automobiles for a long time after that but I turned it into a short story called “The Crowd” six or seven years later….  So out of this horror—this really terrible event—you take something that has taught you a certain kind of fear and you pass on to others and say, “This is what the car can do.”

RAY BRADBURY

Writing About Sex

Writing about sex is kind of like writing about music. It’s a thing that isn’t about words, really, and doesn’t lend itself to verbal descriptions. When I’m writing sex scenes, I don’t ever think about how the scene is going to unfold. I just put myself there with the people, and they do what they do. I don’t think people ever know why anything is erotic. I don’t think we need to know. People often know what they like, although if they’re lucky they might be surprised. But I do think it’s mysterious.

MARY GAITSKILL

You Stop When You Know What's Going to Happen Next

When I am working on a book or a story I write every morning as soon after first light as possible. There is no one to disturb you and it is cool or cold and you come to your work and warm as you write. You read what you have written and, as you always stop when you know what is going to happen next, you go from there. You write until you come to a place where you still have your juice and know what will happen next and you stop and try to live through until morning when you hit it again. You have started at six in the morning, say, and may go on until noon or be through before that.

ERNEST HEMINGWAY