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I’ve been working on a sitcom script for the last little bit and that’s meant wrestling a lot with dialog. I know good dialog starts with being a good listener, and I’ve been trying to get out a little more to coffee shops, dude ranches, laser tag emporiums, and other places where “real people” hang out, to hear how they speak and to pick up language I might not have used myself.
I’m also trying to come up with a handful of basic working techniques that’ll help me get more consistent and credible results. I thought some of the folks who drop by this site might be interested in sharing techniques we’ve been taught or figured out. If you’re feeling generous, add a comment to this post — no technique too small, too cheesy, or too obvious.
Here are a few of the things I’ve been messing around with:
backstory-a-licious: The clearer the character’s backstory and driving motives, the more personal their reactions to any situation. This week I finally figgered out the backstory for one key character in the sitcom. It was a pretty simple sketch of a backstory, but even that really helped turn his words from “generic Cecil banter” to something more specific.
messing up the tennis match: I find I too easily get into dialog volleys of “Ingmar, what’d you have for dinner?” “Well Dave, I had tacos for dinner. How about you?” Dialog can start to get into this predictable back and forth as I race toward a particular plot objective (for example: “feed Ingmar and Dave!”). The aforementioned backstories help remind me to stay focused on what drives the characters, not just the plot point that’s driven me to write this particular scene. I’ve also been encouraging characters to interject more tangents, and I’ve been occasionally allowing them a genuine word fumble — something that’ll surprise the other characters and hopefully the audience.
keying in on key phrases: for some characters I focus in a phrase or two that they use. They don’t even have to actually use it in the piece, it’s just something I keep in the back o’ my mind as I write their lines. For example, in this micro-musical I was messing around with, there’s a character whose voice keys off the phrase “How ’bout that?” (stolen from a kid who played Tom Sawyer at Disneyland — as he walked away he called out to my kids with a light twang: “I’ll come back later and we’ll go look for treasure — how ’bout that?”) Whenever I thought I was getting off track on that character’s voice, I’d ask myself “is this the sorta thing my ‘how ’bout that’ guy would say?”
So that’s a few from me. How ’bout that? And how ’bout you? — any dialog tips/techniques/tricks you’d be up for sharing?
-Cecil

It’s comforting to know we still have fire fighters amongst us — people dedicated to finding fires and then fighting them. Fire needs to be fought.
There are other primal forces that need to be fought, of course. I’d like to be a wind fighter. I’d go around putting out dangerous winds. Or perhaps a dirt fighter. Or I could combine both, and I’d fight hazardous dirt-wind constructs, like dust storms. But there doesn’t seem to be a market there. It’s hard to fight wind and dirt, sure. But also, maybe we just don’t fear wind or dirt as quite much as we fear fire. Certainly, we don’t fear them as much as we should.
We have disease fighters, and we call them doctors, nurses, researchers. We have crime fighters, and we call them police or detectives. Some people call them “bobbies.”
It’s different with fire. It’s a different kind of fear. Our fear of fire makes us smaller, crouching, even cold. We need to be reassured straight-shot with a steady gaze. A roundabout word won’t cut it. We need to be told yes, there are fires. There will always be fires. But have no fear.
There are fire fighters too.

you’ll ever get from your six-year-old
is the one that comes
after you’ve taken him and a friend of his trick or treating
two skipping ninjas out in the dark
going as long and as far as they want
extracting candy ninja-style from houses
you were sure weren’t open for trick or treat business.
Then later, back at the house, they eat a kit-kat or two
they play, they’re pooped, friend goes home.
House goes still. CD plays Tony Bennet
bouncing off the evening’s plates and glasses.
You sit down.
And you get
that hug.

I’m 39 and convinced that I’m middle aged.
Which is fine by me. In fact, I like it. It’s kind of like I’m floating around in the middle of a lake in an inflatable tube. There’s lots of water on all sides. My feet are trailing in the water while my head leans back onto the perfect cushion that is the side of my inflatable tube.
I’m not sure what the tube symbolizes. Possibly just that I really like floating around in inflatable tubes. I think the water may be time. And my feet are probably standing in for “actions considered but not taken.”
Anyways, however the imagery shakes out, it’s really not a bad place to be.
I’ve been asking my fellow 35-40+ year-old friends what they think the last few days — “Are we middle aged?” — and many of them seem pretty sure that we have a ways to go. “Didn’t you get the memo?” they ask. “40 is the new 30.”
But I don’t know. I’m not so sure the 30-year-olds are ready to sign off on that.