Dash

Patter watched, fascinated, as Dash demonstrated. Two creatures were having a calm, polite talk, each waiting their turn. Then Dash zipped in, and suddenly one was finishing the other's lines, both of them tumbling over each other — "But if we leave now—" "—we'll miss it, I know, that's why—" "—we have to run!" The talk caught fire. It felt urgent and alive and real.

"See the dashes?" Dash said, pointing to where each line got cut off. "Every dash is a place someone couldn't wait. It makes the talk feel fast. Excited. Like the words are racing."

Then he showed the other side. He had two creatures interrupt every single line — over and over, nonstop. And it stopped feeling exciting. It just felt like chaos, like nobody was listening to anybody. "Too much," Dash admitted, slowing himself down with visible effort. "If everybody always interrupts, it's just noise. The dash only works when it's a surprise."

Patter felt the click. The kids never interrupt — every line waits politely for the last one to finish, he thought. So their talks feel slow and stiff. A few well-placed dashes would wake them right up.

"Dash," Patter said, "I run a workshop. The kids write talks where everyone waits their turn, perfectly polite, every time. It feels like a tennis match in slow motion. Would you join us? Show them the interruption — and how to use it just enough?"

"Yes—" Dash started, then grinned and made himself finish the whole sentence on purpose: "—I would love to come." Patter laughed. He'd come.

So Dash joined the workshop, and the talking-scenes there crackle with energy now — at just the right moments.

When Patter teaches interruption, Dash shows the way. "Find the most exciting moment in your talk," he tells the kids, zipping around. "The part where someone's bursting to speak. End their line with a dash — like this —" he draws one in the air "— and let the next character crash right in."

He gives them the rule that matters most. "But only sometimes," Dash says, holding himself still with effort. "An interruption is like a loud noise. One loud noise makes you jump. A hundred loud noises and you stop hearing them. Save the dash for when a character truly can't wait — when they're scared, or thrilled, or desperate to stop the other person." He points. "The rest of the time, let people finish their sentences. The polite turns make the interruptions matter."

A young writer asked, "What does an interruption show about a character?"

"Feeling," Dash said. "Big feeling. Nobody interrupts when they're calm. So when your character cuts someone off, the reader feels it — this one can't hold it in anymore. That's the whole gift of the dash. It's a window into how badly someone wants to speak."