David - A roadside chat - sample of dialogue from Curvas Peligrosas for WOW

Good morning and greatly looking forward to our time together this afternoon. Thank you all for being involved, doing the work and advancing your stories.

Here's a sample of dialogue from the novella I am writing as my class project. Here are some of the things I'm trying to achieve in writing dialogue, in order of importance:

-Sound good when you read it out loud - fun to read

-Advance the story

-Develop the characters

-Entertain & inform

As a bonus, if you can tell which character is which without naming them, that's a very good thing.

Keep in mind that dialogue is just as effective in literary non-fiction and memoir writing. It's a splendid way to accomplish a lot with a few words.

A good rule to remember is that characters should simply say. We don't want to use other verbs or - heaven forbid - adverbs to describe their delivery. The words speak for themselves and the readers gets to have the fun of making that interpretation.

Here's that snippet from Curvas Peligrosas (Dangerous Curves)

Another motorbike, pulling up beside him. An even older bike than his. All peeling paint and rust. A man astride it that makes the bike look new. Skin darkened by sun, long white hair, tattooed arms and you can tell where muscle used to be. A pair of jeans that look like they’re ready to fall apart, no shirt. He shuts his bike down and a big plume of smoke rolls out with a bang. There are bull horns strapped to the front of his handlebars.

“'38 Knucklehead,” the stranger nods at his Harley. “Good shape.”

“My dad’s bike. He bought it brand new. Yours?”

“Shit, I don’t know, this thing’s had so many different parts. I’m just happy if it starts at all. But the engine’s a Knucklehead too. ‘36, first year they made ‘em. See it spit smoke? That’s the oil gets trapped in the cylinders. Yours knocking bad?”

Danders annoyed by the guy at first but is happy to talk shop with another dude and get his mind off the girl. Nice to speak English too.

“Yep,” he says. “Especially up here. Air must be getting thin.”

“Sure, but it’s also that low-octane shit they’re pouring down here,” the stranger says. “These engines don’t like it. They’ll start heating up and throw a shaft. Keep an eye on ‘er, all right?”

Companionable silence, both men still with their hands on the handlebars as if they are riding side by side.

“Where’s the next gas?” Danders says.

“Used to be one a couple towns further. If not, any of these guys’ll sell you a liter bottle of it, or close enough to gas. Get you down the road.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. You live around here?”

“Yeah, up the valley a ways. I’ve pretty much gone native. The living’s real good. I’d never be able to go back to that other life. Don’t think I even have a passport anymore.”

Danders instinctively pats his jacket and feels his.

“Digging your jacket,” the guy says. “You don’t see much of that anymore. All done by hand. What’s that on the back?”

Danders turns to show him.

“The Fighting Cocks,” the man says. “Where’s that club out of? You some kind of gang?”

“High school football.”

“Hey, wait! That’s right. Texas State Championship 1963. You played those cocky rich bastards.”

“The Patriots.”

“Almost beat them, too. Went into OT. You were in that game?”

“Outside linebacker, lined up as fullback too. Flat River High was so small you had to play both sides of the ball.”

“Ain’t you a little small for a linebacker son?”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Well shit,” the man says. “Here comes trouble.”

Malinche, dancing with her hips in faded blue jeans through the vendor tables. Calling out to the people who call back to her. Holding up a bag of something sweet. Her hair tousled by the wind, her eyes alight.

“Hola,” she says to the long-haired easy rider.

“Well hola to you.”