I’m Speechless

‘You’ll never believe what I’ve just witnessed,’ wheezed an out-of-breath Dan. ‘It was ah-may-zing.’
Joe raised one quizzical brown eyebrow, backcombed so that it gave him the appearance of a startled fawn.
‘I’ve just run all the way to the pub to tell you about it. Aren’t you interested?’ Dan asked, disappointed at his friend’s apparent apathy. Joe couldn’t even be bothered to ask ‘What?’
Joe’s nodded reply seemed enthusiastic, but still he said nothing.
‘Ah,’ Dan said. ‘Sore throat. You’ve lost your voice.’
Joe shook his head.
‘Right,’ Dan dropped into a Windsor chair, polished so many times over the years its mahogany sheen had turned ebony. ‘What’s going on?’
Joe rummaged in the pocket of his khaki bomber jacket, pulled out a scrap of paper and a small blue pen, and scribbled something.
This isn’t just paper, the words said. This is a tatty bookie’s receipt, and don’t forget to mention the vindaloo smudge, it’s important.
‘Eh?’ Dan said, bemused, before adding. ‘I don’t believe that is a bookie’s receipt. Everyone our age uses apps. Why would you have a piece of paper?’
Joe stared at the dingy inverted peaks of the pub’s Artex ceiling before scrawling something else.
Dan read it for a second time. Okay, it said. Say it’s a supermarket receipt showing the purchase of three quattro formaggi pizzas, two garlic breads, and six bottles of Roadkill IPA. These items illustrate I’m a single bloke living on my own. Dan held up the boo… shopping receipt. ‘Have you completely lost the plot, mate? What the hell is this all about?’
Joe yanked the receipt from Joe’s hands, rolled his eyes, wrote something on the paper, handed it back, and put a finger to his lips.
You are talking far too much, Dan read. Stop yapping. It’s bad form.
‘Eh!’ Dan said, more exclamation than question.
Joe pulled another scrap of paper from his jacket; it really doesn’t matter what it was. When he’d finished writing, he handed it to Dan.
Too much dialogue can be condescending to the audience. I read that on a writing website.
‘Bollocks!’ Dan spat.
Joe snatched the paper, scribbled, and returned it.
‘Another writers’ website advised over reliance on dialogue was a mistake, and yet another claimed new writers use too much dialogue because they rely on it to advance the plot or reveal character.’ Dan read this aloud to annoy Joe. He folded his arms, sat back in the scarred chair, and tugged at his chin. ‘Do you mean new writers like Cormac McCarthy?’ Dan said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve just read No Country For Old Men. Pages and pages of dialogue.’
There are exceptions, Joe wrote.
‘The book I read after that was You Are Here by David Nicholls. It also has loads of dialogue. That’s what makes it zip along, fleshes out the characters.’
Like I said, Joe wrote. There are exceptions.
‘Barbara Kingsolver, Nick Hornby, Iain Banks, Roddy Doyle …. I can go on if you’d like.’
No need, wrote Joe, before he scrunched up the paper and tossed it aside. ‘I take your point,’ he finally said.
‘It speaks,’ Dan laughed. ‘Do you know what I think?’
‘Go on,’ Joe urged.
‘It’s one of those writing myths peddled by people like (name redacted). Just think about the bestseller which rocketed them to writing superstardom. It’s a page-turner, no argument from me there, but the dialogue is shocking.’
‘That’s true,’ Joe conceded.
‘I can name plenty of others whose dialogue is as clunky as metal clogs. There is (name redacted), and (name redacted), and also (name redacted).’ Dan was on a roll. ‘If we look at this from another angle, there’s an argument there are authors who rely on reams of descriptive text because they struggle to write engaging, authentic dialogue.’
‘An interesting interpretation,’ Joe said. ‘Would you be willing to write that down?’
Joe and Dan laughed.
‘By the way,’ Joe said. ‘What was the amazing thing you witnessed?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Dan mumbled. ‘The moment’s gone.’