7 Ways to Avoid Awkward Exposition

by Gary Fearon, Creative Director, Southern Writers Magazine


We've talked before on the blog about heavy-handed dialogue, the kind that intends to convey meaningful insight but instead winds up as clumsy or ill-timed exposition.  There are few quicker ways to jar an audience out of your fictional magnificence and snap them back to reality.

So how are we supposed to get essential details across without banging readers over the head with blatancy? Here are several ways those who've gone before us have done it:

1. Through the voice of an expert
A detective investigating a crime, a professor teaching a class, or two colleagues having a work discussion all have valid reason to go into details that might not appear in normal conversation. Even then, it's inadvisable to spill everything at once.  We've all seen confessions on TV shows that were too easily evoked and earnestly explained.

2. In the midst of a bigger distraction
In Jaws, when shark hunter Quint describes his horrifying experiences with maneaters to Chief Brody and oceanographer Hooper, it's nighttime in a boat and we're already anticipating toothy Bruce any minute now.  We're grateful for not only the opportunity to delay the terror, but also for the informative details that tell us what we're up against.

3. As a sidenote
At a wedding in The Godfather, Michael Corleone's girlfriend wants to know how it came to be that a famous singer is attending.  The resulting story reveals essential workings of the "family business" as well as the power of Michael's don dad. It comes across as a natural extension of the conversation.

4. In a hurry
"I only have a minute to tell you this," is a good excuse to unload a lot of info in a short amount of time. In Back to the Future, Marty learns about time machines, flux capacitors and plutonium in the time it takes for Libyan terrorists to show up.

5. That old favorite, Show Don't Tell
We could either devote unnecessary pages of dialogue to having a wallflower bemoan to her friends that she doesn't hit it off with guys and has a crummy car, or we can write a dramatic scene showing her striking out at a party and getting in a car that won't start.
     In an adventure tale involving a superhero or a secret agent, we would rather see their futuristic gadgetry in action than hear about it.  If we already knew the Batmobile could turn into a boat, we wouldn't think "how cool is that" when it surprises us.

6. An eye for detail
The scenery itself has its own backstory to tell.  A reception area with perfect furniture and fresh flowers says success.  A city in ruins spells war.  A desk littered with books, papers and Oreos means you've seen my office.  Don't judge me.

7. Do It Like Disney
Disney wastes no time revealing what the heroine wants.  We hear it all in their opening number.  While our novel's protagonist may not be able to burst into song, we can give a glimpse into the longings of his or her heart through the actions they take.  Checking the want ads, joining a gym, or working on a lab experiment after coworkers all go home give some indication of motivation.
     First impressions are among the strongest, which makes the beginning of the story the ideal time to establish traits that can be subtly built upon over the course of the story.

The devil, as they say, may be in the details, but we can ease their arrival by creating non-forced moments in which to position our exposition.

Improv and the Storyteller

By Shelly Frome

Way back then it was called winging it. Meaning you had to be quick on your feet and able to talk your way into or out of any situation on the spur of the moment. Being witty was a virtue. Effective talkers, we were told, were self-possessed and had a distinct advantage over the rest of us.

Keeping this in mind, way back then I found myself on stage with three pros from the famed Second City troupe out of Chicago. Admittedly, I didn’t really know what was going on but when given an offer of, “Hey, your shoes are untied,” I began to babble. I was on, good grief everyone was looking at me, what if I failed? What if I failed miserably?

The interesting thing was, the more I pushed it, the worse it got. I carried on about the dire consequences that could befall me if I tripped and fell. The ambulance, my screaming out in pain, the driver stepping on the throttle, the crash—on and on until it became hopeless. Nothing was happening, just me carrying on. The other two players had nothing to do but stand there and wait until I finally painted myself in a corner and gave up.

I soon learned you simply had to take the other players into account. That in order to create a scenario—any scenario--there had to be a who, where and what that involved everyone. No matter how bland the offer, what came of it could turn into something lively.

For instance, the person tossing out “Hey, your shoes are untied,” is actually starting something. As in, “There you go again.” Instead of babbling and going off on a tangent, an ongoing relationship could have reached a semi-crisis. If I had known what I was doing, I could have ignored her, taken off my jacket, threw it in a corner, kicked off my shoe and plopped down on a chair as if daring her to do anything about it. As she stood over me, at a loss shaking her head, the third player, realizing she must be a key element in a dysfunctional marriage (an in-law perhaps) could’ve jumped in, snatched up the shoe and the jacket, confronted my wife and said, “Blanche, that does it. Are you really going to put up with this ne’er-do-well? Either he goes or you’ve seen the last of me and my money.”

Not that any of this is brilliant. It’s only that the dialogue only comes about because it has to. The story is there because it’s built-in not cobbled-on.

Needless to say, I quickly learned my lesson. I try to make sure everyone who appears in my novels has a stake in the action. I try never to force the issue. If I’m lucky enough to have set up an engaging set of circumstances, more often than not the tale will become almost self-generating. With me as a guide, they’ll be a gap between what any central character wants. His or her drive, in turn, will cause complications, greater effort as a result and even greater complications as the tale rides on its own momentum.

If I’ve creating a good enough dynamic, every character will have a part to play that either helps or hinders and propels the story forward. In that way, I can allow some pretty interesting events to unfold.

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Shelly Frome is a member of Mystery Writers of America, a professor of dramatic arts emeritus at the University  of Connecticut, a former professional actor, a writer of mysteries, books on theater and film, and articles on the performing arts appearing in a number of periodicals in the U.S. and the U.K.. His fiction includes Tinseltown Riff, Lilac Moon, Sun Dance for Andy Horn and the trans-Atlantic cozy The Twinning Murders. Among his works of non-fiction are the acclaimed TheActors Studio and texts on the art and craft of screenwriting and writing for the stage. His latest novel is Twilight of the Drifter. He lives in Black Mountain, North Carolina. His works can be found on Amazon, through his publishers or via independent bookstores. He can be found at www.shellyfrome.com and has a profile on Facebook where he can be reached or on twitter @shellyFrome.

Never Can Say Goodbye

by Gary Fearon, Creative Director

It’s always fascinated me how characters in movies and on TV don’t end their phone calls with any sort of “goodbye”.  They invariably say the last thing they’ve got to say and then just hang up.

In real life, hanging up the phone without a farewell would literally leave your other party hanging.  They’d think you got cut off, or spend the rest of the day wondering whether they’d said something wrong.

But in fiction, the real-world courtesy of a farewell only serves to bog down the dramatic works.  Consider the difference between these two phone conversations:

“How many bodies are there?”

“Three.”

It took Spangler a moment to collect the right words.

“Is one of them a redhead?”

“Yes.”

“I was afraid of that.”

Spangler closed his phone and reached for his coat.

Versus:

“How many bodies are there?”

“Three.”

It took Spangler a moment to collect the right words.

“Is one of them a redhead?”

“Yes.”

“I was afraid of that.  Okay, I’m leaving right now.”

“Okay, bye.”

“Bye.”

Spangler closed his phone and reached for his coat.

The banality of a simple closing exchange is almost comical in comparison, since there are much more important things going on for anyone to engage in niceties.  Of course, if the characters are two lovers having late-night pillow talk via phone, a dreamy “Goodnight” is more than appropriate, and easily reinforces the mood.  Hopefully there are no bodies involved.

Hanging up the phone isn’t the only device writers use to end a conversation on the strongest note.  Scenes or chapters often end on a pivotal piece of dialogue, never miring in the rest of what would be anticlimactic verbiage.

Next time you see a character answer the phone, I think you’ll be amused at how unrealistically he or she ends the call.  But in drama it’s the way things are done, and it works.  We take it at face value because the characters do too. 

And, hey, as a writer, those unnecessary words add up to less writing you have to do, and less reading they have to read!  It’s win-win all around.

Well, that’s it for today.  I hope this has been helpful.  See you next Tuesday!  Bye!