I had to go back to school to learn how to talk. As a writer, I thought I knew dialogue, but my class on dialogue processes taught me I rarely, really ever use dialogue. I can discuss, debate and talk politely with the best of them, but the real work of connecting with others is something I need in my life and my books. I’ve learned a little about Scharmer’s four fields of conversation which I want to share. The first field, talking politely, is all that surface stuff, the “hi, how are you?” that is automatic and never really shares what we are really thinking and feeling. The second field which he calls “talking tough” is progressively better because we actually say what we think, but we often take sides and never really get to the next reflective field which is to ask why we are thinking and saying things and why the other person might respond as he does. This reflective field is connecting with the person behind the words and getting past stereotypes or patterns of reacting negatively to someone. The final field is generative where something creative and collective happen, where the conversation takes a life of its own and it is not about you against me or you with me but a real “us” discovery. It’s the field that gets us to look at ourselves beyond the shared moment to even what we can become.
A lot of scholarly words, but what does this mean? In playwriting or character “dialogue” we writers avoid the first field of polite meaningless talk unless we can’t think of transitions into the “good stuff” or we want to highlight the irony of a character saying she is doing just fine when you’ve just read about the anger she has bottled up against the person asking.
Excerpt from A Sensible Match (p. 48-49) “And how do you like our fair Gloucestershire, sir?” Constance’s comment filled the breach between the silences of the other two.
“It is quite agreeably,” he answered politely, glancing at Abby. “It is even more so upon making both of your acquaintance.” He said nothing more, waiting for Abby to speak.
“Thank you,” she murmured for it was after all, her turn. All other words fled from her. She was aware of his stare and felt a brief surge of panic as Constance went off to join another dance set. What should she say to him? Did he really think she wanted to marry him?”
Okay so you have to admit—if you just heard only the conversation like we do in real life— it would be really boring!
We writers love field two—the debates and discussion and advocacy talk—that’s our bread and butter, the building blocks of conflict and dramatic confrontations.
Excerpt from Courting Constance (p.80-81) He held up his hand as Geoffrey got to his feet. “Oh, you asked so let me finish. You only want her to fall in love with you so you can hurt her back. That is wrong. Yet, you also show her anger and mistrust and expect Miss Alford will say, ‘yes, this is what I want and deserve in a companion for the rest of my life.’ You actually expect that she will love you for this.”
“You think I treat her unfairly?”
“Truthfully? If I were related to Miss Alford, I would call you out.”
I love the sound of a good fight, don’t you?
We might dabble in field three and have our characters ask those deeper questions to really find out what is behind what is said—exemplifying the true definition of dialogue by the way—building up with words instead of tearing others apart or dissecting meaning.
Excerpt from Courting Constance (p. 274) “It’s not enough for you to now reject me; you have to tease me as well? Will you please just leave me alone?”
“No,” he said. “Why should I? You just claimed again to love me and I say I don’t believe you.”
Constance snapped. “Believe this. I will no longer try to do any wild thing to make you love me or attract your attention. I will merely pray and wish for your happiness.”
“You will no longer try to annoy or embarrass me?
Constance sighed. All that creativity and work and this was what he thought?
Geoffrey gently took her arm. “Do you expect every moment of married life to be all creativity and games and excitement? I could never give you that and you could not give me that either—no one can.”
We romance writers usually save the reflecting and reveals for near the end of the story, don’t we?
Our characters every once in a while arise to that challenge of reflection but the final, generative field, that moment when something special happens to connect the participants and transform them, well, we have a hard time getting there in real life let alone our fictional playgrounds.
Excerpt from A Sensible Match (p. 172) “Papa?” Abby was afraid of his answer.
“You know you’re in love, don’t you?” He smiled and plucked her a rosebud that had shriveled on the bush from the frost.
She took it and studied it without answering. How did he know?
“I know you,” he went on. “You love this Edwin and have not said a word to him.”
“It’s not my place,” she protested. She didn’t even deny her feelings. She was relieved that someone else finally knew. “Besides, what love is like this? It is not joyful as Constance claims; it is a feeling of emptiness for me.”
“Love can be like that. A feeling of belonging, of two meant to be one. The emptiness is waiting for your love to be returned.”
Admittedly not the best generative example, but a transforming moment in this story at least.
Being aware of why we chose what our characters say might help us make better choices as we speak in the real world. As my professor stated, “imagine yourself the director of your own life’s play” to step outside our self and the others and really see what is happening and why. As a writer, I should be more intentional to do the same for my characters as well. Our characters have four fields to explore too and the really good field is the higher one for all of us. My characters usually speak just what I know, but maybe they’ll actually have a real dialogue the next time if I take time to listen and think before I write.
