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By Robert Yehling
©2003 Robert Yehling and Word Journeys, Inc.

MICRO-LANGUAGES: The Art of Dialogue

Remember when microbreweries burst upon the scene in the 1980s and early 1990s? The little small-town beers with their distinctive regional associations, tastes and labels presented a diversity that captured the imagination and spirit of America's beer drinkers. So it is with dialogue. It might have one overarching name, but the shapes and forms of dialogue are as varied as the characters who say it and the writers who develop it. There are many tricks, tips and techniques of dialogue, all of which are good to know because dialogue is the vehicle that drives your characters through your novels and narrative non-fiction works. Unless you're E.L. Doctorow and the book is Ragtime, or Joyce Carol Oates and you're writing Blonde, it pays to fill your characters' mouths with strong, plot-moving dialogue.

When I edit books, the situation I see over and over again is a writer's unwillingness to step aside and let their characters speak. Sometimes, this is a question of undeveloped back story. More often, it's simply not allowing or trusting the characters to talk their way into and out of situations, engage in discussion with each other, and move the book along. The reader looks for ways to relate to your characters. The best possible solution is to allow the characters to speak with each other or themselves, using their own voices. The more authentic the voice, the greater the dialogue—and the more memorable your character and book. Think of Jose Mondragon in John Nichols' The Milagro Beanfield War, Japhy Ryder in Jack Kerouac's The Dharma Bums or the Vampire Lestat in Anne Rice's book of the same name. In each case, the writer allowed the characters' minds and voices to drive the story—and their voices became unforgettable to those who read the books.

Why? Because these characters, and other memorable characters, spoke in their unique language while grasping something that was familiar to us at our deepest levels. Dialogue is the micro-language of the character. Each person on the planet has his or her own vernacular, slang, colloquialisms, phrases, cliches, and pieces of foreign languages that become part and parcel of the spoken word. Each of us has a micro-language. When I speak casually, I invoke phrases from Hawaii, Australia, Great Britain, Germany, the Deep South, India, Southern California, sports, corporate America and literature. Sometimes it drives people crazy — my grandmother once asked me why I write good English but don't speak good English! — but this is how I speak. Why? Because people, languages or words from these places became imbedded in my soul—and my writer's ear was attuned to the way the people from these places spoke. This is the bedrock of my micro-language.

When writing dialogue, look at each character as the owner of his or her language. Get to know that language, and let it fly on the page. A character's voice develops in back story when you assign traits, habits, idiosyncracies, odd experiences, physical appearance, travel experiences and ethnic background. Also, before I write, I will let the characters chatter in my head for awhile.

By the time I start typing words, they're not my words at all. I'm simply funneling dialogue by trusting that they will speak in their micro-languages and allow me to be the recorder, while my role is to maintain some sort of plot navigation. If my words or rhythms of speech interfere, the character's spoken flow will be disrupted. Break up sentences, write fragments, throw in foreign words or regional vernacular, and let your characters make metaphorical statements close to their hearts. Let their micro-languages carry the scene. This advances the plot, shows the character on many levels, creates all sorts of delectable nuances about your character, and thoroughly entertains the reader.

Here's an example of how micro-language works in dialogue from Make Me An Eagle, a narrative non-fiction book I'm writing. The story concerns my father's approaching death from lung cancer. While this is a true story, it illustrates how the cadence and style of a person's (character's) micro-language defines the scene. Here, this proud retired Marine officer has an epiphany that stuns the narrator – me.

"When I go, you just check up on your Ma, your brother and sister," Dad says. He gulps down the remainder of the Ensure; his face balls and wrinkles like an old gnome's fist. "This is awful."

"Then why drink it?"

"Keeps some weight on me. A lot of protein in it. Gotta drink the damn things, 'cause I ain't hungry anymore."

"Of course I'll keep an eye on them." My God, he's starting to pass the mantle of the family.

"As for your Ma, I don't want her sitting around a dark house after I go. That's a bunch of crap. She's still young. Make sure she gets out."

"I can do that."

"And son?" Dad leans forward; his eyes glisten. "You make sure she knows it's OK with me to find a man to keep her company. She don't need to die just because I'm going to."

"Did I hear you right?"

"You heard me. I ain't gonna say it again. Hurts too much." A tear rolls down his cheek. "I don't want her to be alone for the rest of her life."

I could have told this story in straight narrative form, but the impact would've been far less. The reader would have missed my father's voice inflections, cadence, and corn-fed vernacular that espoused his lower Midwest values. His own language drives home the gravity of the moment, that of a proud, protective and loving husband who knows he must let go – and has the inner strength to do it.

Give your characters the fullest use of their own micro-languages, and you will find out that you can write superb dialogue.