One thing I hate writing is dialogue, and I’m sure I’m not alone. It always sounds false and forced to me, especially when I read it out loud. It’s a brutal pain to do, and I hate it. Absolutely hate it. I could quite happily sit and write something that is absolutely dialogue-free.

And I hate writing variations of “He said”. They always end up forced. The endless repetition of “said” winds me up. The desperate inclusion of as many variations (shouted, shrieked, cried, wept, moaned, complained, whispered, murmured, called, stated, asked, questioned, etc.) just feels like an author got hold of a thesaurus, and takes me right out of a story. Similarly, when dialogue goes on, especially between multiple parties, and there’s no indication of who’s speaking, and as a reader, I just get lost. And, finally, when everyone talks in exactly the same way, or in such a consciously different way, that it destroys the moment.

Hate it. Hate it all.

And I’m just as guilty of it as anyone. The best authors make it seem effortless. The reader can tell who’s speaking almost from the dialogue alone. The words flow naturally. Adjectives are used sparingly, supporting the dialogue. It reads like a real conversation.

So, that’s the next challenge. Dialogue, and dialogue only. Nothing that isn’t pure speech. It can’t be one person just relating a story to another, though. Too easy. No word limit on this one.

“Paw! Lookit! Lookit!”

“Hold on, boy. I’m coming.”

“LOOKIT!”

“I said hold on, Caleb.”

“But, it’s getting away, Paw.”

“Just you keep clear of it, Caleb. Whatever it is.”

“I am, Paw, but hurry.”

“I’m coming, Caleb. Just let me catch my breath a minute. Hill’s steeper’n I recollect.”

“You want me to help you, Paw?”

“Nah, Caleb. You just keep your eyes on that, whatever it is, and I’ll be there in a moment. Yes?”

“Yessir. I’m watching it.”

“What… what’s it doing, Caleb? You want to tell me what you can see?”

“Yes, Paw. It’s trying to crawl away. It’s awful slow, though.”

“Heh. Slower than your Paw?”

“Almost, Paw. Looks like it’s got a busted leg, I think. Seems to be dragging that one behind it.”

“Is it bleeding?”

“I can’t see any blood. Do you want me to go have a closer look, Paw?”

“No, no. You steer clear, boy. I’ll take a look when I get there, don’t you worry none.”

“It doesn’t look happy, Paw.”

“Can’t imagine it would, what with a busted leg. Wasn’t exactly jumping for joy when mine got caught, now was I?”

“No, Paw. You was saying some real bad words, though.”

“Hah! That I was, boy. That I was. And don’t think I ain’t heard you saying the same things when you think I can’t hear you.”

“Sorry, Paw.”

“It’s ok, boy. I said worse’n that when I was your age. You just try to keep it quiet, ‘specially when you’re with others out there.”

“Yes, Paw.”

“Is it still moving?”

“Yes, Paw. Looks like it’s in awful pain, Paw.”

“I can imagine. You hold on there, Caleb. I’m coming now.”

“You need a hand?”

“Maybe just a little, boy. It’s getting harder to get up this last bit.”

“OK, Paw. You want my hand or my shoulder?”

“Hand’ll do just fine, boy, thank you.”

“OK, Paw. I got you. Just a little bit to go, and then you come see it.”

“On three, boy. Give me the strongest pull you can.”

“Yessir.”

“One. Two. Three, and pull!”

“I’m getting strong now, ain’t I, Paw?”

“You… you are indeed, Caleb. You got a good grip on you, too.”

“You gonna come lookit now, Paw?”

“OK, boy. Just… just let me catch my breath again.”

“All right, Paw. I’m gonna go see if it’s gone any further.”

“You do that, boy. I’ll just stay here for a moment.”

“Hey, Paw! It’s still there. I think it’s takin’ a breather, just like you.”

“Well, it is a mighty fine day, Caleb. Maybe it’s just enjoyin’ the sunshine.”

“Could be, Paw. It’s got its eyes closed against the sun.”

“Sun is awful bright up here.”

“Think it might be sleeping, Paw.”

“Getting about that time when a nap looks awful good, Caleb.”

“Looks kinda peaceful, Paw.”

“Maybe give it some peace.”

“OK, Paw.”

“Think I’m just going to take a seat here myself, boy. Don’t suppose you got any water up with you, do you?”

“No, Paw. You want me to run get you some?”

“No. Yes. Maybe. You think you can do that for me?”

“Yes, Paw. You feeling ok?”

“Just feeling a little tired, Caleb. Like your little friend over there.”

“You don’t look too good, Paw.”

“I’m fine, boy. You go get me some water. Think I’m just going to sit here and close my eyes for a spell.”

“OK, Paw.”

“And Caleb?”

“Yes, Paw?”

“Maybe see if you can jog on over to Doc Samson’s. Tell him your Paw’s having himself a little turn. Ask him if he can come on over.”

“OK, Paw.”

“Thank you, Caleb.”

“That’s OK, Paw. You want anything else?”

“No, Caleb. You get going now. I’m just… just going to close my eyes for a spell.”

“All right, Paw. I’ll be back quick as I can.”

“Oh, and Caleb?”

“Yes, Paw?”

“Love you, son.”

“Love you too, Paw.”

First draft only, but surprisingly, I actually enjoyed writing this. I’ve been making a conscious effort to avoid wandering into my default genres (horror, sci-fi, fantasy), and although this took a tentative step in that direction, I deliberately tried to steer it back into something else. I tried to speak the dialogue out loud as I wrote it. Overall – could it tell more? Yes. Would I edit it? Absolutely. There’s a bit too much repetition in there, especially from Caleb. That’s often how dialogue can work in real life, but can make for painful reading. I felt I was able to get events over without having to use descriptive prose, and leave a nice indication of what was happening at the end – particularly as Paw’s final line is the only time he calls Caleb ‘son’. As an exercise for tackling something I often get frustrated with, pretty good. Challenging, but once in the flow, it worked.

As I’m making the effort to actually write, I’m working on some writing challenges to shake off the dust a little. After the first challenge of sentences with 1-10 words, this is the second.

I hadn’t seen anything like this before, but it was a spin on a little Easter Egg I put into one of my earlier works. A very weak Easter Egg, but one I put in because it amused a younger me. Very simply, I wanted to start consecutive paragraphs with the words “Once Upon A Time”. There. Nothing to write home about, is it? It’s not something that anyone would particularly notice. It doesn’t stand out. It just got snuck in there with the text to amuse an audience of precisely one. Me. And a lot of the time, that’s what most writing is about. Sure, authors write for audiences, but there’s also a great piece of advice which runs along the lines of “If the book you want to read doesn’t exist, then write it”. I maintain that every book has an audience that will enjoy it, even if that audience is the author alone.

That idea always stuck in the back of my head. At some point, I wanted to try writing a novella, with the first word of every paragraph ultimately forming another short story. Bloody painful, most likely, so I didn’t do it. Or, at least, I haven’t done it yet. I may well do at some point, but that’s for another time.

This exercise plays a little with that, having taken the idea and changed it around a little.

I wanted to write a short story with each sentence starting with the next letter of the alphabet. Twenty-six sentences. No easy cop-outs (like using ‘I’, or names for difficult letters. Goodbye Xavier! Farewell Queenie!). Otherwise, have at it.

This is the result.

At the end of it all, bloodied and broken, we fell against each other, and slumped to the ground.

Behind us, someone groaned, low and pitiful, and soon the air was filled with the sounds of the dying.

Coughing gave way to retching, moaning gave way to weeping, and prayers gave way to pleas for forgiveness.

Despite everything, the two of us held onto each other.

Every breath hurt, every movement an agony.

Few had made it as far as we had, and even fewer remained conscious, knowing that they weren’t long for this world.

Good.

How we’d survived this far was nigh on miraculous.

Instead of falling at the first, as we’d been expected to do, we’d fought our way through to the end, until it was the two of us left.

Just her, and me.

Killing hadn’t been easy, not for either of us, no matter how much we’d boasted and bragged at the beginning.

Like we’d had a clue.

My first had been an older guy who’d looked like my father.

Neither of us wanted to pull the trigger, but in the end, we’d had no choice, and I’d taken that shot.

Open-mouthed, he’d stared at me, his expression a picture of bemusement, as that scarlet bloom on his chest spread.

Perhaps he was going to kill me first, perhaps not.

Quips were never really my thing, and I’d stared at him as he fell, desperate to make some witty one liner.

Ridiculous.

Shaking, I’d watched him fall to his knees, and then drop face first in the mud.

Thirty minutes later, and I’d added another dozen to my kill list, and she’d added a dozen more.

Until we were alone, the last two standing, as it were.

Victims and killers.

We knew what we’d done, why we’d done it, and what we had left to do.

Xenophobia is a terrible thing.

Yet, there we were, surrounded by the bodies of couples from around the world, dead and dying.

Zeroes and heroes, they called us, going into this, and I felt nothing like a hero.

I will freely admit to being challenged by some of the letters here. (Good morning, Q, X, and Z!) Forcing myself to choose words that weren’t immediately obvious, but didn’t smack of being shoehorned in was another challenge. The story itself changed a little as it went along, but overall, I’m pretty pleased with the result. It speaks to a bigger picture story, and again, something which could be comfortably expanded.

Trying to get back into the swing of things, I want to try the occasional writing exercise. In this instance, a spin on the old “Four word horror story”, or “Two sentence horror story” that pops up every now and then.

I wanted to try consecutive sentences, starting with a single word, then two, then three and so on up to ten, then reverse back down. With each sentence trying to work as a story in its own right, but forming part of a whole story together.

This is my first pass at it, with no edits or revisions.

Endlessly.

She ran.

Her blood fell.

Her eyes stared blindly.

But still she ran on.

She had no idea how far.

She had no idea how long, even.

Perhaps mere moments, perhaps days had passed already.

She dared not stop, not even to draw breath.

The pain in her legs had given way to numbness.

The hammering in her chest had stopped, leaving her empty.

The stitches in her flesh strained against the pressure.

Threatening to burst, and let her innards fly.

Desperate, she held her hands against them.

She tried prayer, and pleas.

Struggling to hold herself together

Eventually, the blood stopped.

Eventually, everything stopped.

Except her.

Repeat.

I’ve been out of the habit of writing for a long time. Despite all my promises, and commitments, I just haven’t been able to get back into the swing of it. There’s been a number of reasons for this: I haven’t made the time; I’ve been distracted; I’ve had other commitments; I lost confidence; I couldn’t concentrate; and so on, and so on, and so on.

So, let’s remedy that.

I’ve taken another tip from that afore-mentioned person, and had a damn good clearout on social media. I always thought I shared too much personal stuff, particularly in this day and age, so I’ve been through and cleared out old photos, posts, etc. I’ll be posting much less of them ongoing. Less distraction.

And speaking of social media – it’s far too accessible. My attention span suffers because of it. Even on the train to work, I can try to read a book, but feel the need to check my phone every couple of minutes for the latest updates. I can try watching a TV show, and a notification will ping up, which I have to check right then and there, and because I’m checking my notifications, I may as well have a look at the other updates, and oh, there’s a link that I should probably check out, and… Balls. What was I doing? Exactly. That distraction is too easy. Not only does it disrupt my immediate activity, but it long-term damages my ability to focus on something for more than a couple of minutes. So, I’ve deleted those pesky social media apps from my phone. Farewell Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. I’ll check in from time to time, but no more obsessive scrolling because I’m so worried I may have missed something (what, exactly?). Off you go, Snapchat and Tumblr. Never understood you, anyway.

That should take care of the vast majority of distraction. But then, where to next?

Lost confidence in my writing. OK. Well, part of that comes from simply not writing. Like any good skill – practice makes perfect. OK, maybe not to the point of perfection, but it’s at least like exercise. The more you do, the easier it is. The more you work that muscle, the stronger it becomes. Not writing means that trying to get started is bloody painful. And, what’s worse, is having those great ideas that you want to start with, but being afraid to start them without the ready skill to do them justice immediately.

(Lot of fear talk on the blog today.)

Well, part of that confidence change is saying “Fuck it” to that. Who’s going to see that first draft apart from me? No one. I know I want it perfect first time, but that ain’t going to happen. I know I want more description in there, fleshing out the bare bones, but that can happen later. Babies don’t appear fully grown. So, to myself, I say “Fuck that. Write. Just fucking write, mate. Write, then correct it later.”

But, I don’t have time to write. “I travel for two hours in the morning to get to work, two hours in the evening to get home. I eat, put the kids to bed, then I’m exhausted, and just want to sit down for a little bit. There’s barely three hours from the time I get home to the time I go to sleep. Sometimes I want to play on the Playstation. Or have a bath. And if I can grab a little time, twenty or thirty minutes isn’t really enough to do anything.”

Yes.

It.

Is.

Stop complaining.

First off, prioritise. What do you want to do? What’s most important to you? Prioritise, then plan. Let’s see what we can do there.

The kids are old enough to start going to sleep on their own. I’ve held off on sleep-training for one reason or another for too long. Time for them to learn to go to sleep by themselves. Nightlight, and some sleep training. That should free up some time.

Write on the train. I hate doing this, by the way. I like to have everything to hand to refer back to. I like to be able to edit as I go. And the seats are small and uncomfortable on my trains, so a laptop isn’t great. Fine. Either use the ipad to write, or a notepad. Learn to remember where I was up to, and start working from there, or take a printout or something with me. Do what I can.

TV, Playstation, bath, family, writing. Well, if I want the TV, I can spend a little time watching on the train. Otherwise, time to knock it off (there ain’t much worth watching these days anyway. Maybe cut the bill from Sky a bit!). Playstation – the days of full immersion in Fallout, Skyrim, etc, are gone for a while. Save them for a treat – maybe once a week have a good shot at something, and get it out of my system for a bit. Sod the bath. Waste of water. Family time is important, no doubt, but maybe a shuffle around. Developing the confidence to say that I’m taking some time for myself.

Maybe once or twice a week, take dinner to work and eat it on the train home. Save that time later. Whatever, the point is to start maximising the time, and stop letting it go to waste. Another tip from that little source of inspiration. Time is finite – stop wasting it.

And whether it’s twenty minutes, two hours, or a whole day, it doesn’t matter. Whatever time is there, is there. Don’t allow the opportunity to go to waste. 500 words in thirty minutes is better than no words at all. Ten minutes of quick revision and editing saves time for later.

Lastly, and most importantly: just ****ing write!

If I’m stuck, absolutely stuck, I’ve got a wealth of notes and ideas. Pick one of them. Or scribble something up to go on the blog here. Either way, write.