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From my writing professor today:
His wife, a poet, was on the phone with another poet, when a sentence drifted to him in sudden clarity: "...lately, when I think of Howard, I think of a man who has never been to Paris." He crept away to ponder alone. What did it mean? There seemed to be a lurking judgment in that statement; perhaps disappointment, or evidence of something lacking in him. It ate at him for weeks. Finally, he could stand it no longer; in the middle of dinner, the question burst from him. What did you mean?
His wife indignantly rejoined, "You eavesdropped on my phone conversation?!"
You married a writer! It's what I do!
In the ensuing argument, he never did find out what she meant by it. But he's going to Paris in May.
What does dialog reveal? There is dialog all around us. You all have to be eavesdroppers— you all have to be as rude as you can be. This is the scut work of fiction.
His wife, a poet, was on the phone with another poet, when a sentence drifted to him in sudden clarity: "...lately, when I think of Howard, I think of a man who has never been to Paris." He crept away to ponder alone. What did it mean? There seemed to be a lurking judgment in that statement; perhaps disappointment, or evidence of something lacking in him. It ate at him for weeks. Finally, he could stand it no longer; in the middle of dinner, the question burst from him. What did you mean?
His wife indignantly rejoined, "You eavesdropped on my phone conversation?!"
You married a writer! It's what I do!
In the ensuing argument, he never did find out what she meant by it. But he's going to Paris in May.
