Edit: repetition buries this dialogue and opening scene

Bill sent his prologue and first chapter, and I fear that Bill isn't going to care for my reaction. It may well be that what he's written just isn't my cup of novel, and thus can disregard my opinions. For opinion is all that it is, of course, as with any reader or editor. You be the judge.

First, Bill, I would delete the prologue. It's all backstory and foreshadowing, with very little happening. Which is what many beginning writers use prologues for. Which is the reason I and, I've read, a number of agents skip them. Miss Snark, for example, is as anti-prologue as I am. A prologue can work if it's an intense scene with conflict and action -- but if it is, why not make it chapter one and then do a time transition? In this case, there wasn't that. Here's how Bill's chapter one opens:

Jon sat up and dropped his papers on the desk. It was almost four and he was tired and bored, so let his phone continue, savoring the legitimate interruption of his routine and suspending his faculties in a little panorama of perspective. On the third ring he plucked the receiver from the cradle and swivelled his chair about to gaze out over the skyline of Manhattan.

"Hello?"

"Jon?"

He recognized Liz's voice and his face softened. "Hello."

"Jon? Something awful has happened."

"What's the matter?" His wife was no stranger to catastrophe. No doubt the ring had come off the bathtub stopper again.

"It's my mother." Her voice began a quaver, then straightened.

"I thought your mother went home this morning."

"She did. But she came back awhile ago saying she's dying. I don't know what to do. I'm frightened." Her voice caught on a sob and disintegrated as she burst out crying.

Jon sat silent a moment, gathering the impact of his wife's words. "Here," he said, drawing out his sentence in a Midwestern drawl. "There's no use crying. Of course she's dying. We all are."

But this philosophic levity did not stop the sobs. "I don't know what to do," she choked.

Jon frowned. "Liz, stop." He waited, then spoke more sharply. "Liz! Stop it. I can't talk to you when you're like that!"

Presently the sobs abated.

"What makes her think she's dying?"

"She's been to see the doctor."

"When you phoned this morning you said she was going to see the doctor and then going home."

"I know. She left. But she came back here instead. She walked in and said `I'm dying!' Just like that. `I'm dying!' Can you come home?"

"Sweetheart! I'm at the office. I'm at my job. I have to work."

"Jon, I'm frightened."

"I'm sure you are. But you've got to pull yourself together. Tell me what happened."

"What do you want to know?" asked Liz, with a sniffle.

"Well, apparently she's not bleeding to death on the living room floor."

"No. It's not like that."

"Is she there now?"

"Yes."

"Can she hear what you're saying?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"All right. Your mother says she's dying?"

"Yes. That's what she says."

Jon paused, chagrined, and stymied. He raised his hand to smooth the longish hair at the back of his head. He didn't actually know how to handle this. "She left this morning saying she was going to the doctor, then home, but came back to the apartment?"

"Yes."

"What doctor?"

"I don't know." Her voice faded as she queried her mother. "Buchsbaum."

"The one at Columbia-Presbyterian?"

"Yes. And then she came in saying, `I'm dying! I'm dying!' Just like that. `I'm dying! I'm...'"

"OK, OK. What did the doctor say is the matter with her?"

"That's just it. He didn't say exactly. But it's the same as before. And the same that makes her talk that way."

"You mean that word...from that Sunday? Amyotrophia?" The thought of it annoyed him.

"Yes."

"Well, ask her again." He had the feeling he could get worked up and then find it all a misunderstanding. "If she knows she's dying, she must know what she's dying of."

(removed 635 words of backstory)

"She says she doesn't know," said Liz, coming back on the line. "They didn't tell her. But they want her to come back next week."

Refusing to name the ailment did not seem plausible to Jon. But lately she had also complained of a peculiar weakness in her hands and arms, and with the conjunction of all these difficulties decided to seek serious help. For the last month or two she had resigned herself to near-weekly appointments at the outpatient clinic of Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital, and during that week, while the schools were closed for Easter, her doctor there had wanted her to stay overnight in the clinic for observation. She refused of course, since the stay would have entailed an additional bed fee, but she had consented to an extra visit and come in to Manhattan to spend the weekend with Jon and Liz so she would be handy to the clinic for her appointment Monday morning.

"Well, does she know when she's dying?"

Another garbled exchange.

"She's not sure. But the doctor says she has only two or three years left. Whatever, it's incurable."

"But she doesn't know what it is?"

"No."

"Does the doctor know what it is?"

Another exchange.

"Yes. But she doesn't. And he doesn't know what causes it."

"Christ! And she doesn't even know when except for `two or three years'?"

"That's what she says." Suddenly Liz was away, talking to her mother. Then she was back. "Two or three, or three or four. Maybe even one. She's not sure."

"There has to be a mistake. Doctors just don't tell people they're dying. Even if they think it, they don't say it. That's just television junk!"

"I thought it might be a mistake," said Liz. She stopped, then began again. "Well, we talked about that once." Suddenly she was not making sense.

"What?"

"Yes, that could be. What was that?"

"Are you trying to tell me something without having your mother hear it?" asked Jon, suspiciously.

"Yes."

"Are you talking about the senility?"

"Yes."

Okay, we've read 885 words, 1,500 if I'd included the flashback, and what has happened? And how effective is this opening in hooking this reader? But first, some editorial notes:

Jon sat up and dropped his papers on the desk. It was almost four and he was tired and bored, so he let his phone continue, savoring the legitimate interruption of his routine and suspending his faculties in a little panorama of perspective. On the third ring he plucked the receiver from the cradle and swivelledswiveled his chair about to gaze out over the skyline of Manhattan.

"Hello?"

"Jon?" These first two lines are useless. Get to it. Condense. You could start with the next sentence.

He recognized Liz's voice and his face softened. "Hello." "His face softened" is a point-of-view slip: he can't see his face and what it does. Maybe better to give him an emotional response, something like: He recognized Liz's voice and it warmed the way her smile did. "Hello."

"Jon? Something awful has happened." Why does she repeat his name? She called his number and expected to get him. Overwriting. Also, if she's so upset, shy doesn't she go ahead and tell him?

"What's the matter?" His wife was no stranger to catastrophe. No doubt the ring had come off the bathtub stopper again. Nice use of sarcastic thought to characterize him and their relationship. But the dialogue doesn't contribute anything.

"It's my mother." Her voice began a quaver, then straightened. This is where I'd go as soon as he recognizes her voice and says hello. Cut straight to "It's my mother."

"I thought your mother went home this morning."

"She did. But she came back awhile a while ago saying she's dying. I don't know what to do. I'm frightened." Her voice caught on a sob and disintegrated as she burst out crying.

Jon sat silent a moment, gathering the impact of his wife's words. "Here," he said, drawing out his sentence in a Midwestern drawl. "There's no use crying. Of course she's dying. We all are." The reference to drawling/Midwestern drawl is another pov slip. He can't hear how he says things, and surely wouldn't be consciously thinking about how he was speaking. Suggest delete.

But this philosophic levity did not stop the sobs. "I don't know what to do," she choked. I wouldn't used "she choked" as a dialogue tag. Just use said. You can't really choke words. You can do something such as: She sounded choked. "I don't know what to do." However, she has already told him that she doesn't know what to do, so this is totally repetitions. Suggest delete the first reference to not knowing what to do.

Jon frowned. "Liz, stop." He waited, then spoke more sharply. "Liz! Stop it. I can't talk to you when you're like that!" "then spoke more sharply" is telling, and a pov slip. The exclamation point and repetition tells the reader a lot about his delivery. If you add action and emotion, "sharply" isn't needed. Thought-starter: He waited, but she kept on. Christ, couldn't the woman control her emotions? "Liz! Stop it…"

 Presently the sobs abated.

 "What makes her think she's dying?"

 "She's been to see the doctor."

 "When you phoned this morning you said she was going to see the doctor and then going home." Overwriting and repetitious. We have to read “to see the doctor” again, and we already know that. Her phoning that morning isn’t relevant. This could be handled with something such as: “You said she was going home after that.” (Note: later narrative reveals that she went to the doctor after spending the weekend with Jon and Liz for that express purpose, so Jon should already know all this at the time of the conversation.)

 "I know. She left. But she came back here instead. She walked in and said `I'm dying!' Just like that. `I'm dying!' Can you come home?"

 "Sweetheart! I'm at the office. I'm at my job. I have to work."

 "Jon, I'm frightened." This is the second time she’s told him that she is frightened, using the same words. I don’t see how this repetition is helping, and I believe that readers will find the repetitive nature of this conversation wearing.

 "I'm sure you are. But you've got to pull yourself together. Tell me what happened." Strikes me as a not-very-sharp question—she has already told him what happened.

 "What do you want to know?" asked Liz, with a sniffle.

 "Well, apparently she's not bleeding to death on the living room floor."

 "No. It's not like that."

 "Is she there now?"

 "Yes."

 "Can she hear what you're saying?"

 "Yes, I guess so."

 "All right. Your mother says she's dying?" This is the third time we’ve heard this, why is it being repeated? Perhaps “real” people would wander around and repeat like this in a conversation, but dialogue in a novel has to MOVE.

 "Yes. That's what she says." Repetitious. We know that, so does Jon.

 Jon paused, chagrined, and stymied. He raised his hand to smooth the longish hair at the back of his head. He didn't actually know how to handle this. "She left this morning saying she was going to the doctor, then home, but came back to the apartment?" Now you’re telling us again what we’ve just been told. I found this to be irritating.

 "Yes."

 "What doctor?" As mentioned, he should already know this. And why is it relevant?

 "I don't know." Her voice faded as she queried her mother. "Buchsbaum." Why is it relevant?

 "The one at Columbia-Presbyterian?" He already knows this, so why is he asking?

 "Yes. And then she came in saying, `I'm dying! I'm dying!' Just like that. `I'm dying! I'm...'" Lordy, this is the FOURTH time we’ve been told this.

 "OK, OK. What did the doctor say is the matter with her?" I’d plug this in instead of the earlier “Tell me what happened.” And cut out all the stuff between that point and here. The reader wants to know, so help her out.

 "That's just it. He didn't say exactly. But it's the same as before. And the same that makes her talk that way."

 "You mean that word...from that Sunday? Amyotrophia?" The thought of it annoyed him. <Why does this thought annoy him?

 "Yes."

 "Well, ask her again." He had the feeling he could get worked up and then find it all a misunderstanding. "If she knows she's dying, she must know what she's dying of."

 (removed: 635 words of backstory) There was a chunk of history that stopped the dialogue dead in its tracks. While it did give information on the mother-in-law, it wasn’t necessary to understand what was going on in this scene. I’d cut it all.

 "She says she doesn't know," said  When, coming she came back on the line, she said, "They didn’t tell her. But they want her to come back next week."

 Refusing to name the ailment did not seem plausible to Jon. But lately she had also complained of a peculiar weakness in her hands and arms, and with the conjunction of all these difficulties decided to seek serious help. For the last month or two she had resigned herself to near-weekly appointments at the outpatient clinic of Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital, and during that week, while the schools were closed for Easter, her doctor there had wanted her to stay overnight in the clinic for observation. She refused of course, since the stay would have entailed an additional bed fee, but she had consented to an extra visit and come in to Manhattan to spend the weekend with Jon and Liz so she would be handy to the clinic for her appointment Monday morning. This big chunk of backstory slows things down for me. I’d delete it. This would avoid repetition of stuff that has already been revealed in the dialogue.

"Well, does she know when she's dying?"

 Another garbled exchange.

 "She's not sure. But tThe doctor says she has only two or three years left. Whatever, it's incurable."

 "But she doesn't know what it is?" We already know this. Why repeat it?

 "No." We already know this. Why repeat it?

 "Does the doctor know what it is?"

 Another exchange.

 "Yes. But she doesn't. And he doesn’t know what causes it."  “But she doesn’t” is telling us again something we’ve heard 3 times already.

 "Christ! And she doesn't even know when except for `two or three years'?"

 "That's what she says.” Suddenly Liz was away, talking to her mother. Then she was back. "Two or three, or three or four. Maybe even one. She's not sure." More repetition of what has already been revealed. You tell us three times running that she has two or three years.

 "There has to be a mistake. Doctors just don't tell people they're dying. Even if they think it, they don't say it. That's just television junk!"

 "I thought it might be a mistake," said Liz. She stopped, then began again. "Well, we talked about that once." Suddenly she was not making sense. This is “telling.” You show it with the following dialogue.

 "What?"

 "Yes, that could be. What was that?"

 "Are you trying to tell me something without having your mother hear it?" asked Jon, suspiciously. I like what he says here, deducing what his wife is saying. Don’t need to say “asked”—note the question mark at the end of the sentence. The adverb doesn’t add anything, the dialogue does the work, as it should.

 "Yes."

 "Are you talking about the senility?"

 "Yes." At last, something new.

There were 3600 words in Bill’s 1^st chapter, 16 pages, and it consisted of just this conversation and backstory, and it ended with Jon dialing the doctor to ask what was wrong with the mother-in-law. In answer to what happened in these 16 pages, we learned that Jon’s mother-in-law is dying, his wife is upset, and Jon is sarcastic. Not much of a hook to get a novel started, in my way of looking at things.

I’m guessing that, with his dialogue approach, Bill is going for some verisimilitude regarding the way people might really speak in a tense situation. But, the way I see it, dialogue in fiction should not be real. It needs to move the story forward. Having characters saying the same thing over and over has the opposite effect.

In my view, for any writer to break in the first few pages have to be compelling. Make that COMPELLING. Bill started out with a prologue that, while nicely written, was not a scene, had no conflict or tension to speak of, was mostly backstory, and was about 15 pages long. I would wager the price of an edit that no agent would read all of it. More than one literary agent blogger has said she skips prologues.

And then the phone-call chapter. For me—remember, this is all subjective—the repetition in the dialogue was laborious, and I would have put the manuscript aside after a page or so if I were an agent or an acquisition editor. The reason: it’s a clear clue to the pace that I can expect, and it was wayyyy too slow for me.

What if the opening went like this instead:

 Jon had smiled when he recognized Liz’s voice on the phone, but he sat up and dropped his papers on the desk when his wife said, “It’s my mother. She’s dying.”

 He forgot about the Manhattan skyline outside his office window and said, "The doctor told her that?"

 Her voice caught on a sob and disintegrated as she burst out crying. “I'm frightened."

 Jon sat silent a moment, gathering the impact of his wife's words. "Here," he said. "There's no use crying. Of course she's dying. We all are."

 But philosophic levity did not stop the sobs. "I don't know what to do."

 "OK, OK. What did the doctor say is the matter with her?"

 "That's just it. He didn't say exactly. But it's the same as before. And the same that makes her talk that way."

 "You mean that. . .amyotrophia?" He still didn’t know what that word meant.

 "Yes. The doctor says she has only two or three years left."

 "There has to be a mistake. Doctors just don't tell people they're dying. Even if they think it, they don't say it. That's just television junk!"

 "I thought it might be a mistake," said Liz. She stopped, then began again. "Well, we talked about that once."

 "What?"

 "Yes, that could be it. "

 "Are you trying to tell me something without having your mother hear it?"

 "Yes."

 "The senility?"

 "Yes."

Now this is a quick look at a rewrite, but don't you think this 232 words does much the same job as the previous 885? But with more tension? Bill may have an interesting story, but I felt the pace was so slow and the repetition such a struggle that I don’t think I’d ever get to it. I think he needs to concentrate on creating tension and building movement for his first pages and forget about all the backstory. Use dialogue to characterize and to show the reader what they need to know.

 Bill’s language was clean and the writing often good. But there was, in my view, just too much of it. His manuscript word count is 168,000 words, and I think I know why.

 Many thanks, Bill, for sharing your work with me. Your writing is sound, and I hope you keep at it, and that this post has been helpful.

 For what it’s worth.

 Questions? Comments?

 Ray

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© 2006 Ray Rhamey

Comments

[Kathleen Bolton]

Brown and King said it best in their book, Self-Editing for Fiction Writers: once is enough. Sometimes we writers worry that the reader is going to miss something important that we want them to get, so we re-emphasize. It's a bad habit, but an easy one to fix.