Nick Bryan

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Friday short story time: "Contact"

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In this week’s story, it’s another all-dialogue effort, only days after I wrote a blog post about how much I love dialogue. Wow, it’s almost like I actually plan this stuff.

Also inspired by my friend Alastair using contactless card payments at the branch of Pret where I was trying to think of a story. I’m simple and easily influenced sometimes.

Anyway, let’s go!

Contact

By Nick Bryan

‘Sir, I see from your card that you can now use contactless payments!’

‘Come again?’

‘Contactless, sir. You touch your card here, the payment goes through and you don’t have to type in your PIN number.’

‘But what if I want to?’

‘Type in a number?’

‘Put my card in the machine. Like I have done for years. It took years to adjust to even that.’

‘Sir, you’re buying a newspaper, three bread rolls and a can of Diet Irn-Bru. Surely for such a small purchase, you may as well…’

‘Maybe I enjoy the interaction, young lady. What do you think of that?’

‘Sir, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, the PIN pad’s right here if you want to…’

‘Perhaps I get a small twinge of pleasaure from coming to your shop and speaking to you ladies for a few minutes about the affairs of the day whilst waiting for that huge calculator to take my money.’

‘Well, I certainly didn’t mean to belittle…’

‘And another thing, whatever happened to the customer is always right, eh? I come in here, wanting nothing more than to go through the day as I normally do, and you can’t leave me be can you?’

‘I’d be happy to call my supervisor over so you can talk to him inst… I mean make a formal complaint.’

‘What’s next exactly? Are you going to force an iPhone down my throat?’

‘Sir, I really can only apologise if I have upset you, but the queue behind you is getting rather long now. I’ve got the total value of your shopping at £1.70, I will pay for it in cash out of my own pocket now if you promise to leave quickly and quietly.’

‘In cash?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not card?’

‘I promise, sir.’

‘Okay. I’ll allow it.’

‘That’s very generous of you, sir.’

And so Frederick Fox left the corner shop, having used that method to get a free newspaper from different shops every day for a week. Tomorrow, he would finally be caught out after he tried to get a bagutte instead of the bread rolls.

Copyright me 2012, no swiping, email me if you want, etc. Frederick Fox is such an obvious name that I am sure it must be from somewhere, but can’t remember where right now. Is he a superhero? Is he… Fox-Man?

Dialogue – The Writer’s Crack?

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Close followers of my work here, specifically the Friday stories, might note I’ve done a few in an all-dialogue format. Like this one, also one of my only “science-fiction” stories. Or kinda this one too. And the new one I’ve just written for Friday. So clearly I’m a big fan.

It’s just easy to write, isn’t it? Flows off the tongue like, well, speech. Maybe it’s the hours I spent reading those Aaron Sorkin script books, but I kinda love it. Unfortunately, I also worry I enjoy it too much sometimes. (Hence the title – apologies if anyone was expect an ode to the creative arse.)

“Ah, Rupert, I see you are removing the badger from the toaster.”

This is the biggest issue I have when writing largely in dialogue, and I’ve been knocked around for it by tutors: the danger of getting over-theatrical.

This results in characters saying things like the above, basically filling in for the absence of prose or stage directions. After all, the reader won’t know what’s going on if the characters don’t state it, but they also end up talking in a way no-one does in real life.

On the other hand, this is a very specific problem. If you have any prose (or stage directions if you’re writing script) then, hey, problem solved.

“The angry badger has embedded itself in the wall whilst trying to extinguish the fire in its tail.”

Dialogue often has the fun bits, doesn’t it? This problem is particularly common in speed-writing projects like NaNoWriMo, but for me, it’s a never-ending battle: dialogue rolls off easily, prose requires hard work.

So, when editing, I end up chopping out a lot of the dialogue. Yes, even if that joke was awesome, sadly, it often isn’t necessary, so you have to kill your babies. (NOT LITERALLY FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.) I’ve also been writing more in the first person, which circumvents the problem by making narration more chatty. Clever, eh?

“Um, I don’t wanna, y’know, moan, but would someone reeeally put a badger in a toaster?”

It’s been established by smarter minds than me that fictional dialogue is rarely “realistic”. I may love the stylised dialogue of Aaron Sorkin, but people don’t really talk like that.

So we stumble across the distinction between “realistic” and “believable”. Strictly realistic dialogue would feature a lot of “um” and “kinda”, and reading it would be a nightmare. Awful BBC improv drama True Love featured actors improvising the banal conversations real people would have, and watching it was like dying and discovering hell is a never-ending bus queue.

So, in summation, dialogue is amazing, as long as it isn’t over-theatrical, over-used or too believable. Did I cover everything? What are your dialogue issues? Feel free to comment below, I need fodder for the follow-up post.

Friday short story time: "Scarlet Letters"

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Hello!

Tiring schedule at the moment, but the MA portfolio is slowly getting cranked out, as is a bunch of internet material. Most recently, I did a slightly mocking TV news summary for The Digital Fix, which I think came out okay and may even do again in the future if I have time.

Oh, and on Tuesday on this very website, I reviewed the sci-fi novel Genus. And I’m about to post a short story I wrote about not-really-politics. Now, if someone could just edit my novel for me…?

Scarlet Letters

By Nick Bryan

My name is Richard Redmond, and every year on the fourth of June, I send a postcard in a red envelope to my local MP, with a smear of blood across the middle of the writing space.

It’s not my whole life, just part of it. After all, doesn’t take long. But after the first two or three years, started to panic a little. Forensic technology was advancing, so I wore gloves whenever I touched the postcards, which meant buying them in winter so I didn’t look weird in the shop.

The postcards were a range of themes, didn’t particularly matter, and the envelopes bought in multipacks, which was nice. It meant I could buy them and touch the packaging, as long as I was careful not to graze the contents. So I could buy the envelopes any time of year.

And then I had to find a different kind of blood, in case they took DNA from my blood samples. I started using cow blood, squeezed out of fresh butcher’s meat, and then I cooked the joint up for my wife and kids.

My constituency is in Norfolk, but I didn’t want him to pin me down, so I sent it from a different town every time. During a spell of unemployment, had to save for a while to get train fare to Edinburgh together. Could’ve just used somewhere closer, but I’d had a plan. Numbered a few locations and then randomised the numbers using an online generator.

Of course, a couple years back, my MP was voted out by the Tories. He’d been in power for a while, Labour were being swept aside, and it left me with a decision to make. Did the new guy inherit the letters or did the routine demand I stick with one man?

I thought about that for a long time. So much so that I narrowly missed a kid whilst driving home from work. But eventually, at eight in the evening on the fourth of June, I decided it had to be him. Found his office address online and got on with it.

I thought this might be the turning point for him, the postcards continuing when he left the job. I kept waiting for them to come and find me, catch me, give me my moment. Why did you do it? I knew they’d ask me that. Why the blood? Why the red? Why nearly a decade?

Of course, the clue was the postcards. I’ve never forgiven the fucking politicians since one of their massive conferences ruined my holiday in Brighton in 1988. But I never got to tell them this, because they never came. They probably thought it was politically motivated, just because the blood makes it look impassioned.

Well, fuck them. I’ve never voted in my life.

Copyright me 2012, hello, email me if you like, but please don’t enclose a blood sample.

Genus by Jonathan Trigell – Untimely Book Review

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My book reviews will rarely be prompt, as I read painfully slowly and pick most novels up in the Kindle sale. Nonetheless, I did recently finish one: Genus by Jonathan Trigell. After taking a month to read it, I should get some thoughts down before I forget them, so let’s go!

So, we’re looking at a future London, where society has turned dystopic after genetic modification becomes widespread and physical perfection becomes purchasable. Which, of course, leads to those who can’t afford it becoming a clearly advertised underclass. Crime, corruption and general shouting ensue.

Most of the story takes place among said underclass, specifically the rundown “Kross” region (formerly known as King’s Cross, London), because I suppose it would be dull to watch the pretty people be obnoxiously content. Although if you do want that, you can always watch Made In Chelsea.

This is one of those science-fiction books where the allegory doesn’t exactly hide itself– Trigell is upfront about his fears concerning gene improvement, and the real possibility of that technology helps draw you in. And yet, despite it being a grounded premise, he has a lot of cool (or worrying) ideas about where this would lead.

He’s also using a lot of stark descriptions to convey urban squalor, which I’m on board with, and despite rapid flicks between POV characters, they all have their clear vocabulary and backdrop marked out. Some of the catchphrases to identify certain characters (especially Detective Gunther) get samey, but it does fit his crude, hammering self. I also enjoyed the tangential vignettes.

I wasn’t as taken by the actual story as I was by Trigell’s vision, which is an issue for me (perhaps more than it should be) because I admit to being a very plot-orientated reader and writer. The broad nature of the climax seemed slightly predictable, although the execution meant it never stopped being readable.

So, yes, this is an interesting contemporary sci-fi book if you’re looking for one, and is available on Amazon in the usual formats if the mood strikes you. Let me know below if you’ve read it and have strong opinions. Or any opinions. Everyone is welcome. Why not tell the group how you feel about paying to improve your babies?

Friday short story time: "Balloon Debate"

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This is a story I managed to write a plan for at 00:30 last Friday, but sadly time pressure (well, mostly the need to go to work that day) prevented me from actually getting it posted on the day.

So here it is at last, although I did post a blog post on Tuesday about the use of technology in stories, although that doesn’t apply to this at all.

Balloon Debate

By Nick Bryan

One day, shortly after noon, they came together in the corner of the playground.

Casual negotiations had failed to settle their differences, so the three had no choice but to begin the formal process. Which was just how The Arbitrator (or Anthony, but he liked it when younger kids called him “The Arbitrator”) wanted it.

Two years older than them, eons more life experience at the ripe old age of nine, he was ready to settle any difference, get the problems out of the way rather than allow a messy fight to take place, risking the adults getting involved.

He couldn’t believe the other kids let him get away with it, to be honest.

‘So, boys,’ he began, ‘I understand you’re having a disagreement over who gets this helium balloon?’

And with his other hand, he lifted the red balloon a few inches up to indicate which one he meant, and it bobbed next to his shoulder. There was a real temptation to release it and watch most of them scream, but that would be an abuse of power.

Finally, the first kid piped up. ‘Yes. It was the last one left after our class. We all want it.’

Thoughtfully, The Arbitrator nodded. ‘And what do you want it for?’

The tiny boy looked a little bashful. ‘Um, I want to let it fly away.’

And the others sniggered at him, but he continued. ‘I just think it’d be cool. And surely the balloon will be happier?’

‘That’s just a waste!’ The third one, tall and twitchy, was openly laughing at the idea. ‘Don’t give it to him!’

‘Hey,’ Anthony gave him a firm point, ‘you brought me into this, you listen to me. You,’ he continued, ‘middle kid, what do you want the balloon for?’

The second, a little girl sucking her thumb as if she’d die without it, cleared her mouth long enough to say: ‘I want to take it home.’

‘Why?’

She shrugged. ‘Because it’s pretty?’

With that, the thumb went back and she fell quiet again. Not even more sniggering from the tall one on the end could rouse a response.

So, with little else to go on, The Arbitrator gave the final kid his say, even though he was tempted to exclude him from the event for being lanky and rude.

‘And why do you want it?’

‘Well,’ he began, obviously louder, ‘I wanna breath in the helium and make my voice go squeaky!’

‘Of course you do.’

‘It’ll be amazing!’

‘Yeah.’

Not wanting to give that one more chance to speak than necessary, he turned away to begin deliberating. The little girl was giving him the wide, pleading eyes, and the two boys were hopping on the spot. The big one was obnoxious and the little boy reminded him of a tiny devil-child.

Still, he had it. ‘Okay, kids,’ he started off, ‘I think I’ve found a way of keeping everyone happy.’

He lifted up the balloon. ‘Ready?’

Huddled together, they nodded excitedly.

‘The winner is…’ He began to pass the balloon forward. ‘You, small girl.’

He passed it to her, and she cracked a big grin, then took the balloon. Even removed the thumb from her mouth long enough to thank him, before skipping away, leaving him with the two boys glaring.

‘That’s rubbish,’ the obnoxious one started up, ‘how is this keeping everyone happy?’

‘One moment please.’

He pointed across the playground at the little girl, dancing along, lolloping along the concrete with increasing glee. Until, finally, she hit a dent in the surface and tripped slightly. She didn’t hurt herself, but her grip on the balloon string was the first thing to go, and before she could do anything, it was flying away.

Thankfully, she didn’t cry or Tony might have felt guilty.

Instead, he merely turned to the tiny staring boy and said: ‘There we go. It’s flying away, just like you wanted.’

He didn’t exactly smile, but seemed satiated for now. He turned and began to meander off, leaving only one annoying loud boy. ‘And what about me? They all got what they wanted, how about…’

And, with a flourish, The Arbitrator took a firm step forward, gripped the kid’s shoulder and kneed him in the testicles, sending his voice squealing out over the playground, a good few octaves higher than usual.

If this wasn’t justice, Anthony thought, he didn’t know what was.

Copyright me, hello, please don’t steal, email me if you want to steal it in an authorised fashion or just, you know, say hello. Someone actually did email me about the last Friday story, that was weird. But in a good way.

Computers In Literature – Balls, Ones and Zeroes

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The real world isn’t as conducive to beautiful literary representation as it was back in the day. Real-life dialogue too often takes place via text, email or instant messenger, which means ur book might have 2 feature awful abbrvtns and smiley faces. 🙁

Many authors would rather be kicked in the crotch by a centaur (or a binary camel – see illustration to right) than incorporate any of that modern nonsense, but it’s increasingly hard to avoid. Everyone is obtainable all the time, so what’s your excuse for any character being out of the loop when they could call, email, text or tweet someone? Isn’t it funny how they keep losing their mobile phones?

And that’s not even getting into the woe of the crime/mystery writers, who have to explain why the puzzle wasn’t unravelled in seconds thanks to modern forensic technology. Small wonder that many detective stories are now set in the past, where authors can wallow in old fashioned sleuthing without having to worry about whether the murderer left a DNA sample when he shoved his thumb into the victim’s eye socket.

Personally, I’m weirdly fascinated by the possibilities, but I have worked in IT for five years, own a smartphone and use Twitter to an unsettling (or just annoying – follow me now on @NickMB!) degree. So I’ve written a range of stories, not to mention a novel, exploring the exciting new worlds of internet communication.

But even I hit problems occasionally. Primary among them: people using a computer is not the most dramatic activity. It becomes harder to really get body language among the dialogue when, often, you’ve only got one half of the conversation visible, and all they’re doing is typing. Are you going to sully your novel with internet messages containing actions between asterisks? *cries*

Of course, you can always send them off on merry internal monologue and that’s your one scene or short story sorted, but it’s hardly the long-term solution. What happens next time?

As I say, I like this stuff, but still work hard to find new ways of expressing the use of computers. So, how do you get around this? Is there an easy answer, beyond “stop writing about geeks, you geek”?

All suggestions welcomed. As hinted earlier, this is somewhat of a pet topic, so I imagine it’ll come up again.