Showing posts with label language. Show all posts
Showing posts with label language. Show all posts

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Guest Blogger Julia McDermott: Je ne veux pas break le rule...



Dialogue, and those pesky pronoms relatifs!
Dialogue is my favorite part of fiction.

I love to write it, and I love to read it. I love it when (my) characters talk. It accomplishes the “show, don't tell” rule – which we writers must obey – nicely. It also moves the story along and is a good time for conflict to arise. It can be serious, funny, embarrassing, comforting, sincere, deceptive, despairing, upbeat, or –  pretty much anything. 

My novel MAKE THAT DEUX is written in the “first person” point of view, and the main character, Jenny Miles, even talks to herself (not out loud, normalement) – she often uses “internal dialogue” to reflect about life, the French, men, etc. During her year in France, she talks to her boyfriend back in the States on the telephone only a few times, since it’s very expensive. But he also “speaks” to her regularly through handwritten letters mailed across the Atlantic.

Meanwhile, Jenny talks to her roommates and other friends – usually in English – while doing her best at school and elsewhere to learn to speak fluent French. She's been studying the language for years, and she can understand it most of the time - la plupart du temps. Which is fortunate, since all of her college classes are taught en français, complete with “blue book” written exams and the occasional oral exam thrown in.



Fast forward to the present, and my love of dialogue. Récemment, my French (conversation) class, taught by Madame Marie-Hélène, has been reviewing relative pronouns. You know: those necessary words that we don't think about, but that we use all the time (and that make our dialogue flow more easily): who, that, which, what, whose, whoever, whom, whomever, of which, whichever, where and when. 



Most of which are necessary in dialogue.



Voici des pronoms relatifs en français, which I’ve been trying to use often enough to say

without thinking: qui (who, which, that), que (whom, which, that, what), dont (whose, of whom, of which), and où (where, when). For some reason, dont is my favorite; it seems simple, but it's really not, and it doesn’t sound anything like “don’t.”



Some other relative pronouns are used just with certain verbs, and are somewhat trickier (I’ll let you guess the translations): auquel, auquelle, auxquels, and auxquelles. Yet others are used only in certain cases: avec qui, en qui, chez qui, près de qui, à côté de qui; ce que, ce qui; sur/sans/dans/chez lequel (or laquelle); and, of course, simply à laquelle.


You can imagine how many times Jenny, her boyfriend, her roommates and friends use (English) relative pronouns during dialogue scenes. If they didn't, it wouldn't be naturel. However, they often omit the word “that,” which is okay to do in English; it’s not okay to do en français. But when they talk to each other, we get to know them through their conversations, just like we get to know our friends…friends with whom we speak, using whichever words we prefer, where and when we meet, doing what we want to do, together.   


The point is: An author must know the rules 
before breaking them... no matter what language!




Twitter @MakeThatJulie

MAKE THAT DEUX (click to go to Amazon)






Friday, March 22, 2013

Bulwer-Lytton Bad Writing Awards

Below is a random sampling of winners and (dis)honourable mentions from the Bulwer-Lytton Awards for 2012.  The awards are given for the best (worst) opening lines for a (would-be) novel.  Bulwer-Lytton was the author of the line that has now become the standard-bearer of cheesy opening lines, even Snoopy used it:


“It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.”  -EG Bulwer-Lytton, "Paul Clifford" 1830.


And now, here is the best of the worst:
 
“Chester and Harry, you don't have the stomach for this, but Dick and I do,” the leggy blonde said in a throaty voice as she headed back in to finger – and hopefully nail – the brains and muscle of the strong-arm syndicate, the heel that gutted her niece. — Bill Hartmann, Dallas, TX

 Inspector Murphy stood up when he saw me, then looked down at the lifeless body, crumpled like a forlorn Snicker’s candy wrapper, and after a knowing glance at Detective Wilson pointed to the darkening crimson pool spreading from the stiff’s shattered noggin, and said, “You settle it, Gibson; does that puddle look more like a duck or a cow?” — Carl Stich, Mariemont, Ohio

The blood seeped out of the body like bad peach juice from a peach that had been left on one side so long the bottom became rotten while it still looked fine on the top but had started to attract fruit flies, and this had the same effect, but with regular flies, that is not say there weren’t some fruit flies around because, after all, this was Miami. — Howard Eugene Whitright, Seal Beach, CA

The drugged parrots pelted the village like a hellish rain of feathered fanny packs stuffed with claws and porridge, rendering Claudia’s makeshift rabbit-skin umbrella more symbolic than anything else. — Jeff Coleburn, West Chester, PA

Their love began as a tailor, quickly measuring the nooks and crannies of their personalities, but it soon became the seamstress of subterfuge, each of them aware of the others lingual haberdashery: Mindy trying to create a perfectly suited garment to display in public and Stan only concerned with the inseam. — D. M. Dunn, Bloomington, IN

The two power-hungry, 20-something biographers met with me incognito and settled on penning my memoirs, one on a percentage of future sales and one on upfront remuneration; so there is one yuppie I pay, one yuppie I owe, ghostwriters in disguise. — Peter Bjorkman, Rocklin, CA

Her skin was like flocked wallpaper and her eyes had seen better days, but when her bloodless lips murmured “Hi, Sailor,” my heart melted from the inside out like one of those chocolate-covered ice cream bars on a summer day that runs down your arm and gets all over your new shirt. — James Macdonald, Vancouver, B.C.

The syncopated sound of the single-cylinder steam motor, designed by Mier Vander, reminded Mier of the time his father took him to the Mollen Bros travelling circus to see the “Corpulent Lady” and to sit upon her lap immediately following her lunch of sauerbraten and ale. — Jim Tierney, Murrieta, CA 


Read more at 
http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/2012win.html