If you’ve read the review of my first published book, Dr No Commitment, you will have seen that one reviewer said the book contained the best dialogue she has read in a year. She went on to say in her full review that she kept reading on because she wanted to hear the next thing that came out of my hero’s and heroine’s mouths. I was not only thrilled about this comment, but a little stunned. I thought they were just talking.
So, because I love dialogue in books, I’m always a bit annoyed when the only clever thing a heroine says is in her own head.
“Are you new in town?” asks the hero.
The heroine answers, “Yes.” And boy, am I glad I came here because aren’t you just a yummy hunk of a man?
“From the city?”
“Sydney.” Anyone can see you aren’t from a big town. Your pants are too tight. Well, pants can’t be too tight when you’ve got a great tush, but just turn around and ahhh . . . “Could you help me fix this fence?”
“You city girls sure aren’t handy.”
Handy. I could be very handy if I could just get my hands on . . .
Is she boring or boring? What if . . .?
“Are you new in town?” asks the hero.
“Do you call a farm in the middle of nowhere, town?”
“Only figuratively speaking. If I asked you if you were new here, I’d be a bit of a dill, wouldn’t I, when I know that my uncle owned this property until a month ago? Unless you were hiding inside while I was visiting, of course.”
“Why would I hide? Is this story a romantic suspense?”
“It’s a rural romance, and you are unhandy, and I’m here so that you can look at my behind and eventually fall in love with my brain.”
“Well then, sweet cheeks. Turn around.”
“Was that my line or yours?”
“Darn. Someone forgot the dialogue tags,” she said, glancing around as if the tags might be behind her.
He laughed. (nope, not a comma because you can’t talk and laugh – try and you’ll spit everywhere) “So, where’s this computer that needs fixing.”
“Computer? I don’t know that you need a fantastic body if you’ve got a brain.”
“That’s sexist.” He put his hands on his hips. “You’ll have brains and a great body. In a few more lines, the writer will have you explaining that you’re only here to write your thesis on gluteraldahide, if that’s how you spell it.”
That’s nonsense, of course, but more fun than a whole lot of thinking. I loved writing the dialogue for my second book, Losing Patients, because my hero and heroine, Sam and Bree, constantly spar. The dialogue below is from a scene when she has just burnt her evening meal and he turns up for a date she didn’t think she had with him.
****
Too tired and dispirited to begin another meal, she took a shower. On her way back to the bedroom, she heard a movement. Heart thumping, dressed in a towel and with dripping hair, she slowly peered around the doorway, preparing to confront the serial murderer and rapist in her sitting area.
‘Hi,’ said Sam, large as life. He pushed his hands deep into his pockets, hunching his shoulders slightly. ‘The house stinks.’
‘Thanks.’ She straightened. ‘You’d be the smell inspector, would you?’
‘I knocked and called, but now I realise why you didn’t hear me.’ His eyes indicated her dripping hair.
‘You could at least apologise for scaring me.’
‘You scared me,’ he said, glancing toward the sink. ‘I thought you’d incinerated your last date.’
Hm. I think I showed that rather than telling.
So, because I love dialogue in books, I’m always a bit annoyed when the only clever thing a heroine says is in her own head.
“Are you new in town?” asks the hero.
The heroine answers, “Yes.” And boy, am I glad I came here because aren’t you just a yummy hunk of a man?
“From the city?”
“Sydney.” Anyone can see you aren’t from a big town. Your pants are too tight. Well, pants can’t be too tight when you’ve got a great tush, but just turn around and ahhh . . . “Could you help me fix this fence?”
“You city girls sure aren’t handy.”
Handy. I could be very handy if I could just get my hands on . . .
Is she boring or boring? What if . . .?
“Are you new in town?” asks the hero.
“Do you call a farm in the middle of nowhere, town?”
“Only figuratively speaking. If I asked you if you were new here, I’d be a bit of a dill, wouldn’t I, when I know that my uncle owned this property until a month ago? Unless you were hiding inside while I was visiting, of course.”
“Why would I hide? Is this story a romantic suspense?”
“It’s a rural romance, and you are unhandy, and I’m here so that you can look at my behind and eventually fall in love with my brain.”
“Well then, sweet cheeks. Turn around.”
“Was that my line or yours?”
“Darn. Someone forgot the dialogue tags,” she said, glancing around as if the tags might be behind her.
He laughed. (nope, not a comma because you can’t talk and laugh – try and you’ll spit everywhere) “So, where’s this computer that needs fixing.”
“Computer? I don’t know that you need a fantastic body if you’ve got a brain.”
“That’s sexist.” He put his hands on his hips. “You’ll have brains and a great body. In a few more lines, the writer will have you explaining that you’re only here to write your thesis on gluteraldahide, if that’s how you spell it.”
That’s nonsense, of course, but more fun than a whole lot of thinking. I loved writing the dialogue for my second book, Losing Patients, because my hero and heroine, Sam and Bree, constantly spar. The dialogue below is from a scene when she has just burnt her evening meal and he turns up for a date she didn’t think she had with him.
****
Too tired and dispirited to begin another meal, she took a shower. On her way back to the bedroom, she heard a movement. Heart thumping, dressed in a towel and with dripping hair, she slowly peered around the doorway, preparing to confront the serial murderer and rapist in her sitting area.
‘Hi,’ said Sam, large as life. He pushed his hands deep into his pockets, hunching his shoulders slightly. ‘The house stinks.’
‘Thanks.’ She straightened. ‘You’d be the smell inspector, would you?’
‘I knocked and called, but now I realise why you didn’t hear me.’ His eyes indicated her dripping hair.
‘You could at least apologise for scaring me.’
‘You scared me,’ he said, glancing toward the sink. ‘I thought you’d incinerated your last date.’
Hm. I think I showed that rather than telling.
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