A Story Without Sense ... and a chance to win a Splintered ARC.

The rest of this week, I'm hanging out over at Krazy Book Lady's place for a fairy tale blog hop, in which I list five frabjous facts about Splintered and offer readers a chance to win an ARC of my book. The contest is international, so hop over if you'd like to read Splintered before everyone else!

Anyway, to keep my blog from getting lonely over here, I'm partaking in a little experiment with my pal A.M. Supinger of the adorable Inner Owlet blog.

The cardinal rule of writing is show, don't tell. And sensory is one of the most effective ways to do that. By saturating the reader in what your MC *sees, smells, touches, tastes, hears, or feels*, you invite the reader into the world you've created. Once deeply seated inside the skin of a character, a reader will hopefully begin to care about what happens in the story.

Most writers do this by incorporating sensory details about setting and emotions through the MCs inner-narrative, utilizing their personalized observations while the reader is hitching a ride inside their head.

So what would happen if there's no inner narrative or POV? If there's nothing but dialogue? Could you still make a reader care enough to read on? Would they still feel the world unfolding around them?

A.M. and I decided to put those questions to the test. We each posted parallel short stories on our blogs, the difference is, mine is nothing but dialogue (eeps!) and hers is a more traditional story, with all the bells and whistles of narrative.

So read both, and then it's up to you, the readers, to decide if a story with nothing but dialogue can still move you, or if too much telling kills the tale.

~Interviewing Edrick~

“All right.  Now that it’s just the two of us, let’s lead with the obvious question.  Why blood?  Wouldn’t ink have been a better medium to write your confession in?”

“Hmm. You know what I’ve noticed, Kurt?  The blue walls in this place … they’re drab.  Not serene.  Do these idiots not know the difference between peaceful and bleak?”

“Well, the marigolds seem to liven it up.  Those in the vase by the windowsill.  Who brought them in?”

“Mother brought them, to torture me.”

“But they’re so colorful, so lively.  How is that torture?  It sounds as if you have a wonderful mother.”

“She’s heartless.  She knows I envy those marigolds.  Flowers are the lucky ones—they don’t die straightaway.  Sliced at their core yet still able to bask for a while in the sunlight. People don’t last long once their stems are cut.  I know this firsthand.” 

“And how is that, Mr. Kemp?”

“I asked you to call me Edrick.  We’re of a brotherhood, you and I.  You the journalist, me the novelist.”

“Ahem.  Yes.  Brotherhood.  About the blood … do you remember where you stored it?”

“At my home, in the soft room.  With the cushioned chairs and velvet drapes.  There’s a grandfather clock that strikes every hour on a harp’s song, as if angels occupy the shadows.”

“So.  The ink vials … are they inside the cushions, or the clock?”

“Sorry.  It must be hard to write on that tablet in such an uncomfortable position.  I’d like to offer you a better chair.  That folded one comes standard.  I’ve seen them in the other rooms as well.  One chair, one bed, and a particle board nightstand.  Oh, and the bars on the window.  Just enough space that you can almost glimpse the fall foliage outside, if not for those stacks of paper blocking the view.”

“You’ve toured the grounds, then?”

“Yes.  Nurse Doe-Eyes’ takes me out sometimes … if I’m good.”

“Her name is Angela.”

“Such glorious auburn hair.  Scented like Amaretto.  It glistens with the sheen of burnished Chinese silk.  If I could free my hands, I’d like to stroke her head.  I imagine her hair would be quite warm.  Kurt, why are you so quiet?  You have questions.  This is your interview, after all.”  

“Right.  About the blood—”

“So preoccupied with ink.  Ask me something your readers can relate to.  Ask of my hobbies.”

“All right then.  What are they?”

“I like to crochet.”

“Really.  And who taught you?”

 “Mother.”

“So, she is kind to you.”

“She’s an albatross.  Never appreciates anything I do for her.  In fact, before I came here, I was working on a sweater for her and she hated it.”

“Maybe it was the yarn you used.  Could be she’s allergic…”

“Allergic! Ha.  It’s not as if it were nylon or acrylic.  No.  Something synthetic would never do for Mother.  I’m a good son.  I found a natural fiber.  The finest there is in all creation.  Hard to come by.  Priceless, actually.  Much like a burnished Chinese silk.  Warm and scented.  Kurt, you’re shivering.  I should make you a scarf.  Do you like the scent of Amaretto?  Surely Nurse Doe-Eyes will be back soon with my meds.”

“The medicines.  Do thy make you feel … weaker?”

“What a strange question for an interview.  I think we’ll talk of you now.  Tell me about yourself, Kurt.  Of your achievements as a journalist.  Or perhaps something of your personal life.  Where is it you live again?”

“Maybe it’s time I leave…”

“No, please.  The nurses will be coming in soon.  I only hope Nurse Doe-Eyes won’t be upset.  I messed up my special jacket again.”

“I can see that. Were you trying to reach your straw for a sip of tea?”

“No. Mother’s marigolds were taunting me—mocking my confinement.  I tried to free my arms so I could strangle them and spilled the nauseating herbal mix with my elbow.  Nurse Doe-Eyes can be quite condescending.  She’ll be miffed I didn’t drink it all.  You watch.”

“You dislike the tea?  But it smells so delectable.”

“It’s a drink for crotchety old ladies!  Please help me free my hands.  I’d like to crush those blasted marigolds between the pages of the book I’ve been forced to read.  It must be good for something.  It certainly has no literary merit.”

“The cover looks nice enough...”

“Only a sixty-year-old woman could endure such saccharin inanity.  The climax teeters on which entry will take the grand prize at the county fair.  Personally, I was rooting for cousin Sue and her banana bread.  But she was disqualified for lying. She bought it at a French bakery on the way to the fair.  Lord, that was infuriating.  Had I written it—”

“So, you didn’t get your writing gift from your mother then.”

“It’s not a gift.  Writing is a magic carpet.  Flying me away.  Away from her nagging.  Away from her cold, critical brown eyes.”

“Your murder mysteries were an escape?”

“Yes.  The stories breathed for me.  Lived for me.”

“And how many have you written?”

“Nine mysteries. Nine mysteries bled from my pen before Mother came into my room and nosed through my desk.”

“And what did she find there, Edrick?”

“Threads.  Sorted by color and length for her sweater.  The meddler ruined her own surprise.”

“And your story endings, did she see those?”

“I walked in as she was reading them.  The snoop tried to burn them.”

“You’re saying she didn’t like your stories?”

“Interesting word, ‘like’.  If her sobs give merit to my stories’ influences, if her terror gives credence to my muse’s genius … then I should say, yes, she loved them.  So much so, she wanted to steal the maps.”

“Maps?  There are maps?  Where are they?  Edrick!  Answer me, you sick freak—”

*  *  *

“Mrs. Kemp … Mrs. Kemp … please come back.  Dear God, Doctor Whentzer! Edrick was interacting with the interviewer again.  But something went wrong.  Kurt appears to be choking him!  Help!”

 “Hold Mrs. Kemp down … we’ll have to slip out her arms from the straight jacket.”

“Doctor, her Edrick persona seems less cooperative this time.  How will Mrs. Kemp ever recover her true identity if Edrick continues to deny any wrong doing?”

“Have faith, Angela.  Deep down Mrs. Kemp knows the truth.  After all, she herself had to take Edrick’s life in order to save her own.  She saw the scalps, the half sewn sweater made of hair, all the atrocities her son had committed.  We just need her to tell us where everything’s hidden.  She wrote his confession on the wall from the blood he had stored in ink vials. And now we know there are maps to the bodies. It proves the facts are buried within her.”

“But, Doctor, the guilt of killing her own son and the burden of sympathy for the victims’ families resulted in Edrick’s ‘rebirth’ … she assumed his traits as a personification of her self-blame.  The longer we wait to integrate, the more dominant Edrick becomes.  Look out, she’s got the syringe!”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Kemp.  Hand it over.  There, that’s a girl.  Angela, we must have patience.  Our primary goal is to convince one of her personas to tell us where the bodies and evidence are. They both know, but only one is strong enough to admit it.  If it’s Edrick, we need him alive long enough to tell us.”

“The interviewer we implanted through hypnosis … he was beginning to gain Edrick’s trust.  I don’t understand what could’ve gone wrong.”

“I pray I’m mistaken, but it is possible that Mrs. Kemp’s repressed anger toward her son has latched onto Kurt, giving him the power of a new persona.  A vigilante, bent on making Edrick pay for his crimes.”

 “You mean … she’s basically killing herself?  And we’re to blame for it by introducing Kurt? Oh, she’s choking on her tongue again!”

 “Hand me that tongue depressor!  There.  Talk to her.  Bring her back to the surface.  We must override Kurt’s dominance, or we’ll lose them all.”

 “Bless the poor tormented soul.  Mrs. Kemp … it’s Nurse Angela.  Did you spill your favorite tea?  We’ll get you some more, all right, dear?  We could finish reading your new book today.  You must be so proud of yourself.  It’s your best one to date.  So many people are inspired by your sweet stories.  Open your eyes and look.  There’s fan mail stacked beside the window.  If you come out, we can answer some together.  And I see your lovely marigolds are wilted.  I’ll take you on the grounds later to pick some more, how’s that sound?  No!  Dr. Whentzer!  She’s turning blue!  Let go, Kurt … I know it’s you!  Let go of Edrick!  Do you hear me!” 

~End~

Now, don't forget to hop over to A.M.'s blog to read her version. Then let us know what you think!

**If you enjoyed the novelty of a story told through nothing but dialogue, you can find more "dialogue tales" here.**