The Writer - The Dash Debate

He read back what he wrote last night. Bloody rubbish. The manuscript was scowling at him, it definitely was. He sighed like a deflating tyre. Took a sip of his brew. Bollocks, the old mug that said “I’m a Writer” on it was empty, time to make a new one.

He stood. Bad move. Should have taken his time. His back creaked and the knees woke up in a mood. He stumbled his way to the landing. Went down, the knees creaking louder than the stairs. 

In the kitchen, there it was outside, more grey gloom. Fucking raining. Again. Shite weather. He flipped the kettle on and prepared his coffee. Then stood looking out at the garden. Bloody lawn needed a cut. Sod that. It’d be too wet now. He did it last week. Like ploughing a field, it was. Fucking mower kept jamming up with wet grass. The bloody lawn was still mocking him, though. The smug bastard, all long and wet. 

The kettle did its thing. He poured, stirred and took his brew back to the office. Man cave. Spare room with his shit in it. Whatever, you could call it all of those things. 

He flexed his fingers. They said fuck off, no more typing. He ignored them. Started writing the next bit. Then his phone rang. It was the bloke who liked to call himself ‘the editor’. 

—Yeah?

—Did yer do it?

—Which bit? 

—Fix the bloody manuscript. All them dashes. 

—No. 

—Why? I thought yer said you would. 

—Nah, it’s a stylistic choice. 

—Yeah, but it’s confusing—

—For who? 

—Readers, yer numpty. 

—No. It ain’t. It means the dialogue flows. Fast. Like yer listening to the conversation. 

—Hmm. I dunno. 

—Another thing, they aren’t normal dashes. They’re quotation dashes. 

—Sod off! You’re just using fancy names now. 

—That’s the proper name for ‘em. You’re an editor, I would have thought—

—Yeah I do know, I’m still saying they are non-standard in British fiction. 

—I know. 

—And you don’t care? 

—No. Dialogue flows much better.

—Right, hmm. 

—Speak later. 

Daft sod. He made that point nearly every day. And Andy always said the same thing. He sipped his brew. Still warm, good. Right, onwards. 

With what? He knew the trick was not to overthink. Start typing, the story would come out. Have a word with one of the characters. They’d tell him what was happening. Yeah, the characters. Fictional. But not while he was writing them. They lived and told the story. He just transcribed it. 

Oi! Crack on, mate. The manuscript wouldn’t add more crap on its own.