How To Start A Story With Dialogue Novels & Stories

It was a lot to take in. I check my phone to see if Chris has answered any of my messages. I pray that there was at least one, but Chris still hasn’t answered. There’s no running from this, I need to have this conversation. Finally giving in to my fate, I face Ethan and begin to tell him my story. “Well, I’d have to start from the very beginning.”

How do I even start this story? Where do I even begin? Should I start right before she died? Should I start right at the good part? Oh I know, I should’ve thought of this in the first place. I’ll start the day I met her (literally where every story should start.) Be warned before I begin telling the story, if you want a happy story this isn’t it, sure there’s romance and fun, but I can tell you she dies at the end so don’t get attached. Anyways, it begins in the middle of winter, the start of second semester when she first started school.

Nothing says bonding like a one-sided writing lesson. “So,” I began, opening my laptop and glancing at her, “what exactly do you want to work on? Characters? Plot? Dialogue?” “Dialogue!” she said with excitement. “I always feel like my characters don’t sound realistic.” I smirked, leaning back slightly. “Well, you’re in luck. I’m pretty good at making people say all the wrong things.” She laughed

"Shall we start now?" "Sure", I hesitantly smile again. "Okay. So, tell me from the very beginning. How did it all start?" I take a deep breath and gather the whole story that I neatly webbed last night. No room for mistakes. I look up at him. Confidently into his eyes.

“Bread delivery. Routine. Safe. Predictable. That’s how it gets you.” Her fingers traced the edge of the diary. “And then boom, desire slips in through something as small as eye contact and a hand brush. No contracts. No dramatic rescues. No blindfolds.” She tilted her head slightly. “Just tension. Slow, building, inevitable tension.” A pause. “And honestly? That makes it more believable than most.” Chloe’s expression softened just a little. “Because this is how a lot of real stories start. Not with fireworks… but with repetition. Seeing the same person over and over until curiosity turns into anticipation… and anticipation turns into hunger.”

I moved away from the window abruptly, my heels clicking loudly against the floor as I walked back to the desk with a newly found purpose. I picked my phone off the desk before I even sat down, going through my contact list and dialing a number I never thought I would. The line rang twice before ot was answered. “Good afternoon, this is the media house of….” “I have a story.” I cut the speaker off, wanting nothing but to get things out of the way. There was silence for a few seconds, before the tone at the other end changed. Now it was filled with interest rather than the initial professionalism.

"You started with four pages." She looked at him. "How do you know that?" "You always start with more than you bring. You edit yourself before difficult conversations." He turned his copy over. "It's a tell." She set her page down on the table. "We should start with the biographical questions. The lawyer will want to establish baseline facts before anything else." "Alright." He picked up his tea. "Go ahead." She looked at her page. "Where did we have our first meal together as a married couple."

He said. I finally sat. “I’m not here to steal those things.”I said looking concerned. “I know,” he said. “But I don’t know what to I looked at him. “What if we just... start small? One question a day, one answer and one story. Nothing deep,”I said. He thought about it. “Like an icebreaker?”He asked. I smiled. “Exactly.” I said. He nodded slowly. “Okay.” I tilted my head. “Can I go first?”I asked.

“I’m not, okay? I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to deal with this... we have to.” The man hums, agreeing solemnly. “Yes... we do.” He braces his knees as if bracing himself for the conversation to come, not sure where to start but knowing that he had to. He needed to find somewhere to begin, but he struggled to find the words, eyes darting to the side as if he would find them in the world beyond the glass. His eyes trail over the scenery, mind wandering with the movement as he wonders, “how?” Her eyes, which previously followed his, latching onto the flowers beyond their window and tracing their colorful petals with her sights as she waited, until she’s pulled from the action and forced

My eyes scanned her face, taking in every flicker of emotion, every tremble, every silent question. I leaned forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees, my gaze locking onto hers with deliberate intensity. “So,” I began, my tone light, almost conversational, as though we were discussing something trivial, “you and Richard Crawford.” I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head slowly, the mockery in it impossible to miss. “Now that,” I continued, “is a story I never saw coming, although I must say, it explains quite a lot, doesn’t it?”