I’m thoroughly enjoying writing dialog for the Forever Novel, although much of what I’m writing is just the sort of thing editors love to cut. I’ve yet to convince one of them that there is no such thing in a story as a ”minor character.” When I showed a merciless editor (my daughter) a manuscript of my first novel, she said, “Dad, you have enough here for a good short story.” Probably somewhere around chapter seven in the current one now and deep in conversations which likely won’t survive the final cut. Conversations between a priest and a farmer, between a county sheriff and her former boss, between the quick and the slow, the rich and the poor, the living and the dead. Here’s a glimpse of one encounter-
The priest had sparse exposure to bears in the wild. This was his first experience of one standing in his road. But based on their limited acquaintance, it seemed to the good reverend that something was not right with Halftrack, who moved stiffly with jerks and starts, like a puppet that had gotten its strings tangled. When the Prius pulled into the farmer’s yard and Ellard emerged from his barn carrying an empty pail, looking in his turn surprised by an encounter, but waving his free hand, decidedly friendlier than the bear, Dan emerged from his vehicle and shouted as they closed the distance between them, “I just saw Halftrack as I was coming up your drive, Mister Garren.”
Ellard hung his pail on the gatepost as he came through into the larger world and appeared not quite surprised as he said, “That a fact? He’s been hanging around here a while after a taste of my chickens. He knows I won’t shoot him on account he’s one of the legends we feed the tourists.”
Dan grinned. “The way you’d tell it, the tourists would believe the legend if they never saw the bear.”
Ellard returned the smile, “Like your Bible story about Jesus rising from the dead?”
“But he really did, you know,” the priest protested.
“You see it with your own eyes?” the farmer queried.
“No,” Dan admitted, “but his disciples did.”
“That’s what they said, anyway,” Ellard smugged, nodded toward his house. “If you won’t try to convert me, I’ll invite you in to share a beer.”
“We Episcopalians don’t try to convert people,” Dan laughed. “We just try to be like Jesus and act kindly toward everybody and drink with sinners when we get the chance.”
Ellard led the way up his porch steps and nodded his visitor toward a chair. A small refrigerator stood tucked into a corner next to the kitchen door. The farmer reached inside and pulled out two beers into the warm day.
“It’s still a little early for me,” Jamison said, pulling a sorrowful face.
“Ellard shook the can in his face, “What time do you have your wine on a Sunday morning, Father?” Dan accepted the proffered can and popped the tab as Ellard went on, “I reckon the wife sent you around to see if her old man were still breathing while she’s off yonder with her sick sister.”
“She just told me you were here alone and I thought maybe you might want a bit of companionship in your day,” Jamison said.
“I’m particular about my company,” Ellard murmured dryly, “There’s few I could tolerate past an hour, but if that woman I belong to were gone a thousand years, my bones would still be right here pining for her return.”
If the author is still here to write it, maybe there will be enough here one day to make a good novel. I’ll keep y’all posted.
That's a delightful snippet Henry.