Seeing a baseball manager's comments reprinted verbatim is always hilarious, because about 3/4 of the sentences are ungrammatical (usually, agreement problems or subject switching within subordinate clauses) or downright illogical. He got his idea across to his listeners, but not in a way that would ever be legitimate argumentation on paper.
Oh, absolutely. That's part of what makes writing good dialogue for a novel or a play such an art. You have to get the
feel
of the crazy rhythms and logic of how people actually speak but put enough structure in it so the reader (or audience member) can follow, but not so much structure that it feels stilted or contrived.
That's part of what makes writing good dialogue for a novel or a play such an art. You have to get the feel of the crazy rhythms and logic of how people actually speak but put enough structure in it so the reader (or audience member) can follow, but not so much structure that it feels stilted or contrived.
I use the "this is the character, this is how s/he thinks and speaks, be consistent and be true to it" method. Seems to mostly work.
But I don't think I write better than I talk, or talk better than I write, so I may be out in left field (ah, baseball!)
I believe that my speech and writing are way more in sync than they used to be.
You know how you know when you're completely unenthusiastic?
When you get a package from your publisher containing the first galleys of your new novel, and your reaction is "What fucking EVER."
Three uncorrected ARCs of "Matty Groves." And I seriously don't give a shit.
And I seriously don't give a shit
Well, if it was all skipping through happy meadows, everybody would be doing it.
Eh. They dangled and dodged and basically devoured any remnants of enthusiasm I had left for dealing with them.
Screw it. Back to WMGGW.
Ashes
Orange limns the horizon,
burns in protest;
feeble stand
against the night.
Pale blue sky flees upward,
bound by endless navy.
Silent boats glide towards shore, their white sails
falling,
shrouds for the dying day.
Quenching, drenching, clouds pass away
and the parched land
lives. Muted greens and golds,
under a crown of stars.
Released from durance,
free to live
unencumbered.
Golden brass with sinuous sound;
smooth moves and liquid notes,
Cascading,
a cajoling wail down the spine
hits a nerve,
leaves the soul thirsty.
Cool breeze off the lake, cool beer
slides down the throat.
Day’s fire is banked.
