Requesting advice on complex choreography and dialogue

[RotGtIE]

I'm hitting a couple of snags in my writing. Specifically, the kind of snags that result in me spending an hour or longer in front of a word processor with about five lines of text to show for it at the end. This is obviously an unacceptable pace to keep, and I'd like to ask for some help in breaking it.

My two main problems are writing scenes which involve a dialogue between two or more characters, and scenes which involve complex choreography, such as combat sequences also involving more than two participants. In the case of the former, I find myself falling into a pattern of having characters banter uselessly for a while before growing frustrated and shoving lines into their mouths which finally advance the plot in the direction I had originally intended. It plays out like I've thrown a couple of amateur actors onto a stage with a vague endpoint and just told them to improv their way to it, with predictable results. In the latter, I quickly make a ton of technical errors (switching between tense or even subject in the same paragraph, using the passive voice inappropriately, and the like) and the whole scene just devolves into a robotic exposition of a few acrobatic stunts punctuated by their obvious results.

I'm not sure if it's lack of practice or a lack of inspiration. I don't have anything like the same sort of problems when writing monologues and descriptive narratives, but I obviously can't depend solely on those for a story which will rely so heavily on an ability to effectively write believable conversations and combat scenes as to make it imperative that I learn how to write them as well.

To that end, I'd like to ask for general advice that might help me more effectively write scenes like these, or examples demonstrating excellent execution thereof. Do you have any recommendations which I should find useful?

[ArachneJericho]

Probably the best advice is to read great dialogue and pick up what happens in it. The best dialogue results when two characters are at odds with each other, either directly (not necessarily a fight, but certainly a disagreement) or because one of them has a secret that affects their answers in intriguing ways, ways that make a reader ask: why did that just happen?

Here's some more detailed advice: http://www.expert-editor.com/id11.html

For writing advice with a punch and a lot of swearing, you can't do better than Chuck Wendig. In particular:

1. How NOT to write dialogue (don't follow this advice): http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2009/10 ... -dialogue/

2. 25 things you should know about dialogue: http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/07 ... -dialogue/

Also, you might want to post a sample of dialogue that you have, and other people on the forum can help point out where it might be going wrong.

Edit: And here's a tweet that summarizes all of the above: https://twitter.com/ChuckWendig/status/ ... 2216423424

Edit: and here's a scene from Kaguya Hime, my visual novel. Spoilers; highlight to read.

"Okāsan, I have a special request."
"Yes, Tsukiko?"
"I would like to leave the Moon, for a little while, and explore the Earth."
"Why ever would you want to descend there?"
I wondered why Okāsan thought I would descend to Earth, rather than ascend to it. I decided to put this thought from my mind.
"I want to speak to the people and see the animals there."
"I will not grant you that wish. I doubt you truly want to visit the Earth. And it would not make you happy."
"How do you know that? Have you ever been there?"
"... Not in the way that you mean it. But... from experience I know how that place breaks a heart. Especially the heart of one of us, Tsukiko."
"But even if everything there does change around me, I won't change."
"It's dangerous down there. We can die through other means, lives ended brutishly. Or... there are other ways to die, desperate and alone."
"I won't die."
"Do you have a goal then? Other than to see the people and animals there?"
"I just want to explore. It's too... unchanging here. Everything stays the same, except for me."
"Yes... except for you. Perhaps. Perhaps you should... no. Otōsan would never allow it."
She turned away, then hesitated. "Perhaps you should speak to Obāsan."
Then she hurried away, as if she'd said too much.

[Lexer]

A common problem writers run into when writing complex choreography such as battle sequences is getting the balance of detail and abstraction right. That balance becomes a problem when writing dialogue as well so it's not surprising they're both giving you trouble.

I often found that it's caused by the oft repeated mantra "Show, don't tell" which really should be "Know when to show and when to tell"

I used to have a problem with this too until I read Orson Scott Card's Elements of Fiction Writing - Characters & Viewpoint. I'm just going to paste an excerpt from it since it says it better than I can. Its the same excerpt that finally gave me permission to do a little telling and not worry about showing everything.

The sample writing is in italics, the unitalicized part is Card's commentary.

She sat down beside him. “I’m so nervous,” she said.

“Nothing to be nervous about,” he answered soothingly. “You’ll do fine. You’ve been rehearsing your dance routines for months, and in just a few more minutes you’ll go on stage and do just what I know you can do. Didn’t I teach you everything I know?” he said jokingly.

“It’s easy for you to be confident, sitting down here,” she said, gulping nervously at her drink.

He laid his hand on her arm. “Steady, girl,” he said. “You don’t want the alcohol to get up and dance for you.”

She jerked her arm away. “I’ve been sober for months!” she snapped. “I can have a little drink to steady my nerves if I want! You don’t have to be my nursemaid anymore.”

Talk talk talk. The dialogue is being used for narrative purposes — to tell us that she’s a dancer who’s going on stage for an important performance after months of rehearsal, and that she has had a drinking problem in the past and he had some kind of caretaker role in her recovery from previous bouts of drunkenness. Attitude is being shown through the dialogue, too, by having the characters blurt out all their feelings — and in case we don’t get it, the author adds words like soothingly and jokingly and snapped. The result? Melodrama. We’re being forced to watch two complete strangers showing powerful emotions and talking about personal affairs that mean nothing to us. It would be embarrassing to watch in real life, and it’s embarrassing and off-putting to read.

But with penetration somewhere between light and deep, we get a much more restrained, believable scene, and we end up knowing the characters far better:

Pete could tell Nora was nervous even before she sat down beside him — she was jittery and her smile disappeared almost instantly. She stared off into space for a moment. Pete wondered if she was going over her routine again — she had done that a lot during the last few months, doing the steps and turns and kicks and leaps over and over in her mind, terrified that she’d forget something, make some mistake and get lost and stand there looking like an idiot the way she did two years ago in Phoenix. No matter how many times Pete reassured her that it was the alcohol that made her forget, she always answered by saying, “All the dead brain cells are still dead.” Hell, maybe she was right. Maybe her memory wasn’t what it used to be. But she still had the moves, she still had the body, and when she got on stage the musicians might as well pack up and go home, nobody would notice what they played, nobody would care, it was Nora in that pool of light on stage, doing things so daring and so dangerous and so sweet that you couldn’t breathe for watching her.

She reached out and put her hand around Pete’s drink. He laid his hand gently on her arm.

“I just wanted to see what you were drinking,” she said.

“Whiskey.”

He didn’t move his hand. She shrugged in annoyance and pulled her arm away.

Go ahead and be pissed off at me, kid, but no way is alcohol going up on that stage with you to dance.

In this version there are only two lines of spoken dialogue and nobody gets embarrassingly angry in public. Furthermore, you know both Pete and Nora far better than before, because you’ve seen Pete’s memories of Nora’s struggle with alcohol filtered through his own strong love for her — or at least for her dancing. We also know more about Nora’s attitude toward herself; the “dead brain cells” line tells us that she thinks of herself as permanently damaged, so that she is terrified of dancing again. The scene still isn’t perfect, but it’s a lot better now because we were able to get inside Pete’s mind and see Nora through his eyes, with his attitude toward her, his knowledge of their shared past.

If you like, please post the passages that you have made so we can see where you're coming from. Maybe describe what you're trying to write so others can show you how they'd write it. Might not be how you would write it yourself but it would at least give you some ideas.

[RotGtIE]

Thanks, folks. It really helps to have instruction from subject matter experts on this kind of stuff. I'm beginning to feel the difference in what I'm accepting from myself now that I've got better guidelines to follow.

I've got two excerpts to share with regard to the topic at hand. I'm shooting for a style in my writing that will hopefully resemble the War of the Lions script, as I'm shooting for a fantasy setting and want to reflect that in the prose without going full Shakespearean. You never go full Shakespearean.

For the first, I should forewarn that it contains scenes of explicit violence. This is my attempt at setting up a combat scene with a few brief bits of choreography involved.

"Terribly sorry for the inconvenience, friend, but I do believe you know well how this business works."

Taking his position in obstruction of our path, the man spoke to me in terms too polite for the circumstances at hand. One might mistake him for a father attempting to explain to his child why he must be away for much of the day, or a sympathetic innkeeper who has been forced to reject a would-be patron for want of capacity.

Sadly, the scene was not so innocent. Eight men of fighting age - and of occupation, by the look about them - emerged from their places of hiding behind trees and bushes at our flanks. My traveling companion and I were quickly encircled by this unwelcome entourage. Their purpose was clear; these men had sprung an act of simple highway robbery upon us, and they meant to collect well for their labors.

"Unshaken" would be an entirely inadequate word to describe the woman at my side. Ever so slightly did she twist the corners of her lips upward in a mocking grin. Having felt my stare at her side, she turned only just enough to momentarily return the look in my eyes with one of her own. A glance was all that she needed to project her state of mind to me; eager, hungry anticipation lurked within her. There was not a hint of fear or, alas for these men, any desire for hesitation.

"We won't take your life or the clothes from your back," the man continued, satisfied that the show of numerical superiority gave him ground to speak plainly, "but everything else stays with us, lad." He paused, making an effort to cast his gaze upon the woman at my side conspicuously enough for me to notice. "And I do mean everything else. Understand?"

A few of the other men chuckled at the meaning in the words of their spokesman. Satisfied to play my part, I merely narrowed my eyes to meet the man before me with clear hostility.

"Seems to me that you do," he said, "but spare me the foul expression, would you? We've no designs on ending her life, you know. So feminine a figure should be of better service to us than in the manner of a corpse!"

What few words I might have had for him have been lost in the wake of his jubilant declarations. It is not overconfidence, but merely ignorance, which he falls victim to in this moment. Even in his villainy I can find little fault; men such as these are frequently educated in the ways of slaughter only to be discharged from war's gainful employment with no other skill of practical use at hand. More often than not, it is only a matter of time before such men succumb to habit, and then to temptation. If my heart could have been said to stir at this, it would have been in the direction of pity. Yet what I felt remained a mere absence of emotion. All that remained before me was a mildly unwelcome chore. I did not wish to see its duration needlessly extended.

I move, too suddenly to be advisable under a standoff so easily turned to violence. My swift motion takes the men at my side by a brief shock - several of them now stand with weapons drawn - but the action I have taken causes them to stall upon the sight of it. I have lashed out with one arm, and ensnared in my hand the throat of my companion.

She makes no play at struggle, or even surprise. She has known my intent since the moment of our encirclement, and eagerly welcomes it. "My goodness, Master," she teases, playfully coloring the tone of her voice with a gentle melody, "you are delightfully full of vigor today!"

My grip tightens, silencing her. I have no need of further words.

The man before us steps forward, reaching for his weapon. Though he is over the shock, it seems he still cannot believe his eyes. "Lord above," he shouts, "he's gone mad! He means to slay her himself! Stop! Stop him, now!"

The moment is upon us. Our would-be predators close in, little knowing that they have themselves become the prey. As I affix my gaze to the first target of my choosing, I speak the words that the woman at my side has been longing to hear.

"Dance with me, Deirdre."

---

It is often said that the forest is an accomplice to criminality, for even if the mighty timber within is felled, the event in whole shall be unmade for want of a single witness. To that end, this forest shall be my worthy ally. It obscures the piercing screams of my victims, preventing their distant travel. Blood spilled here today will merely be stolen as nourishment for the flora, and the fauna shall assist by devouring what mangled remains I leave in my wake. By such primitive means will my deeds today vanish into the void of ignorance.

Already, disembodied limbs have fallen to the ground by my hand. Several of my foes have been dispatched by decapitation, some others by impalement, and even one by having his torso separated from itself. Their blades bend and break into useless splinters of iron; a result of their hopeless challenges against my unstoppable weapon. Yet despite my victories, I find reason to chastise myself silently; I had neglected to count an additional three of their number before the melee. Such errors can easily cost the lives of the men who make them. Driving my blade with the increased force from my aggravation, I tear a man's lungs from his chest. His screams join the cries of agony surrounding me, though my ears remain indifferent to the cacophony of suffering I have created. I listen only for my greatest threat: the sound of fleeing footsteps.

"There you are!" I sweep my blade low, striking at what appears only to be nearby vegetation. But my weapon meets the trivial resistance of flesh and bone before emerging into the air once more. Two objects fall into my sight: a leg, freshly severed at the knee, and the body of a man who has lost his mobility.

He rolls onto his back to face me, his eyes pleading where his throat, choked by fear, cannot. I recognize this man. He was the spokesman of this doomed band. For all his words, it would seem that he was least among these men by measure of courage.

For the first time today, I adopt a warm smile and deliver my words to him. "Terribly sorry for the inconvenience, friend," my warm smile becomes a devilish grin, "but I do believe you know well how this business works."

His eyes widen in horror, only just in time to witness the last moment of his life. My weapon falls swiftly, carving into his body effortlessly. He falls limp; his end is instant.

For a moment, I consider my task complete, but a flicker of movement across my peripheral vision banishes the thought. The sun, at my back, has cast the shadow of yet another uncounted assailant into my sight. I have blundered twice, and now my attacker means to exploit this opportunity to his full advantage. He is already upon me. Even with my agility, I cannot hope to intercept his weapon with my own, still buried in its latest victim. I must take a risk.

"You fool!" I turned swiftly, swinging my free arm wide. It was a simple gambit, but an effective one. Surprised by my sudden movement, he halted his approach, and moved to parry the incoming attack. It might have worked, had he prepared himself to defend against the correct manner of strike. Ready to catch a blade with his own, he merely swung through empty air, as nothing greeted him but my open hand. It was a simple matter for me to seize him by the arm, preventing him from swinging his weapon once more. The maneuver had purchased enough time for me to raise my weapon toward him and thrust.

His breath caught in his throat, and his eyes widened in disbelief as he watched my blade sink mercilessly into him. The sickly sound of bone being crushed signaled that his spine had been smashed to pieces just above the hip.

His legs fell limp as I hoisted him up from the ground. After having a good look, I scowled once more. "You were too young for this style of life, boy. You should have fled." I opted to release my vexation upon my victim by swinging my weapon hard enough to loose him from it. He gasped in breathtaken agony as he struck the earth and rolled across the trail. Nothing could be done for him now.

A silence fell over the battlefield. The other men had finally fallen deathly quiet, leaving only the pained breaths of a boy as the final sign of life in this blighted place. A soft whisper, barely audible, escaped his lips. His gaze was fixed on my weapon.

"D...Demon..."

As for dialogue, I'm afraid all I've got at this point is the following display of derp. No content warnings here, unless you count cliche romance.

The light had been much kinder to the den than it had been to my humble study. Beaming in brightly through the shop's window, the last of the day's sunset shone as if directed upon our lonely visitor. Seeing me, she took to her feet, composing herself enough to deliver an undoubtedly rehearsed complaint.

"I'll have you know it's quite rude to keep a lady in waiting!" Planting her hands on her hips, she delivered the reminder with the most convincing pout she could muster.

"You'll have to let me know when we're visited by one, then, lest I offend her delicate sensibilities."

At this, she crossed her arms indignantly and spun on her heel to turn away from me in a manner too exaggerated to take as a lady whose sensibilities have indeed been offended. "Well, that's some greeting! What's a poor, brokenhearted maiden to do after hearing such hurtful words?"

"As it happens, I know a local tavern whereby she can drown her sorrows to her heart's content."

Nearly forgetting her act, she twirled back around at the insinuation with a renewed vigor. "Ah, but not a sorry fool sheds a tear at the Weaver's! We've only room for merry hearts, and we'll be having many of their sort in our company in short order!"

This young lady, or brokenhearted maiden, as you'll have her, is Myra - daughter of Patrick Weaver, and hostess by night at the Wine and Song. And, as the circumstances would have it, Patrick's most commonly called-upon asset for bringing me into his employ. Given her perfect success rate, I can't say I blame him; despite my little act, I've never been able to say no to this longtime friend of mine.

"Not until tomorrow, when the expedition's fleet makes anchor. And even then, the ones who come to drink might not be so interested in tales and lore as in unruly merriment!"

"Hush; you'll curse our fortune." She waved her hand, as if swatting the notion of an unwanted prediction away with the gesture alone. "But of course, you'll be quite occupied yourself, won't you?"

"Indeed. Between Paisley and the Baron's work, I think I'll be too tasked for working nights at the Wine and Song for some time, sorry to say."

Hearing what she knew was coming, Myra crossed her arms and pouted again. "Sorry, indeed! A hound hearing a dinner bell would be challenged to match your spirit about Deacon's new treasures. Surely you'll have forgotten we common folk within the week!"

"Nonsense, you'll be the first woman to mind when I've earned my estate."

Taken aback by the sudden declaration, Myra flushed, stumbling over her words. "Ah...you don't [mean that]...I mean, I wouldn't [mind]..."

"'Tis natural, of course; I'll need only the finest servants at my command."

Now realizing her mistake, Myra turned away once again to hide her reddened face and shouted, "W-well I'd be a sorry servant indeed...I've a mind to poison your food!"

"Goodness, you became quite the femme fatale in a hurry!"

"You only get what's coming to you for tempting a woman's scorn!"

A brief pause punctuated our tragic plans for the future, before we dashed it with soft laughter.

"You are a ridiculous man, Lucas. To think I came to ask but one favor!"

"You'd have me bore the tavern with stories tonight, I presume?"

"It'll be the last chance we'll have for a drop of sophistication in our entertainment for some time. You'll come, won't you?" She pleaded needlessly. Surprising, I thought; the sincerity in her tone never fell no matter how many times she had succeeded in enlisting my services. No matter how foregone the conclusion of my participation at her behest, she never failed to take seriously the formality of the request.

"It would be my pleasure, Myra. As it happens, I've come upon a newly unearthed myth from the southern kingdoms of old."

"Oh, how topical. And what is to be told of? Some ancient romance betwixt gods? A heroic epic, parhaps?"

"Now, let's not pluck an unripe fruit. You'll have to wait for tonight - I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

"I suppose I'll have to languish in suspense until then."

As if on cue, another passing cloud robbed us of our sunlight. Between us, we'd be lost to the passage of time without these occasional reminders of its flow.

"I'd best return to my duties before we lose the last of our daylight." She skipped to the door, but turned back before leaving to bid a better farewell. "I'll be looking forward to tonight, Lucas. Best not to disappoint!"

"Have I ever?"

"Oh, hush. Your pride wouldn't hear otherwise! Farewell, Lucas."

"And you as well, Myra."

With that, she made her exit. Stopping just long enough to see to it that she wouldn't be overheard, the cheerful woman dropped her smile and spoke to an absent audience. "You wouldn't know how you do, you oblivious man. Will you have me wait forever for you?"

With naught more than a sigh's length to collect herself, Myra set off for Weaver's Wine and Song, having reclaimed the smile befitting a young maiden, that none would be the wiser.

These are my most recent edits on some very old pieces of prose. Although I'm quite a bit happier with them than previous versions, I can't shake the feeling that I'm falling short of the mark.

[Lexer]

Thanks, folks. It really helps to have instruction from subject matter experts on this kind of stuff. I'm beginning to feel the difference in what I'm accepting from myself now that I've got better guidelines to follow.

I've got two excerpts to share with regard to the topic at hand. I'm shooting for a style in my writing that will hopefully resemble the War of the Lions script, as I'm shooting for a fantasy setting and want to reflect that in the prose without going full Shakespearean. You never go full Shakespearean.

For the first, I should forewarn that it contains scenes of explicit violence. This is my attempt at setting up a combat scene with a few brief bits of choreography involved.

So what don't you like about the fighting scene? The only complaints I have is that I have no idea why he suddenly decides to choke his companion and why the bandits suddenly shout out in concern. Did she turn into his sword or something? There are some bits where you change tense and some questionable word choices. Nothing a bit of editing wouldn't fix.

I don't see anything wrong with the example of your dialogue either. It reads naturally and fits the setting (or what I assume the setting to be). What exactly bothers you about it? I if it's just because you don't see what you write often in other people's works then it's not really a problem. That there is your style. It's supposed to be something you don't see much in others.

Also, for Shakespearean dialogue in a video game, you're better off looking towards the Legacy of Kain series than with Final Fantasy Tactics.

Edit:

I guess I should have also asked what are you shooting for with these scenes? What is their place within the overall context of your story and what do you aim to show in them? Because on their own, they're not bad at all.

[RotGtIE]

Beats me! Maybe I'm just overthinking it. I revised those scenes after reading up on the advice and resources posted ITT and I think everything helped a ton. Particularly the balance between show and tell. It helped me tremendously to keep that in mind.

The combat scene had a lot more step-by-step descriptions, i.e. bad guy does this, protag swings in that direction, bad guy goes argh, next bad guy takes a swing, protag parries, follows up with a Jedi kick; that kind of nonsense. I was thinking of it in a very binary way before - either too much with the descriptions or too little with only a paragraph of vague allusions to the combat which had happened. Didn't really have the presence of mind to try mixing in both and dialing it down so it wouldn't get tedious.

I am pretty concerned about the issue of the neck grab. This scene serves as a prologue which lies chronologically somewhere in the middle of the story and so I wanted to allude to what might be happening without completely giving it away, kind of like keeping the monster in the horror movie off-screen until it's ready for the big reveal, but I'm aware of the danger that I'd wind up just confusing and annoying the reader rather than creating just enough mystery for them to be curious about. It's a tough call.

I'm relieved to hear that the dialogue reads well. I just about lost my mind on that one. Must have spent a good twenty minutes trying to come up with each spoken line. I was extremely worried about the volley effect. I think maybe spending so much time on a passage that only takes a minute or two to read through was driving me loopy.

It's a huge relief to hear that you don't find there to be enormous flaws in these. I think I can get back to making the donuts now. This was a big help - thanks again.

[Lexer]

So she DOES turn into his sword! That sounds pretty cool and seems to be an important part of their characterization. I wouldn't hide it so much. The mystery and so on will come from the reasons behind everything. You can easily create tension in the space between the actual start of the story and the chronological location of the prologue. Or heck, use a different prologue altogether if you really want to keep it vague.

Most writers spend hours getting something right. It could be the difference between smooth reading or jarring the reader out of it. We all do it in some form. Don't worry about spending a lot of time on something the reader will go through in seconds. It's better than the reader stopping and going "What?"

Good luck, buddy! Don't forget to have fun with it.