Silence Was Punctuation – Dialogue Sketch
Makari | The Notebooks: Process and Drafts — Practicing Out Loud — One Scene, Three Ways
This is Post 2 of a 4-part series. All posts in this practice are tagged “Form Speaks Back.”
To start from the beginning → Read Post 1.
This is how it first arrived—half-stageplay, half-conversation, no narration. Just the rhythm of two people trying to be heard.
Uncle Joe
You know, when I was a boy—long before your generation decided punctuation was optional—every pause had meaning.
We didn’t just speak our minds; we composed ourselves.
A sentence was an act of civility.
And silence?
Silence was punctuation too.
My 16-year-old (Sam)
Uncle Joe, your generation didn’t have much to say.
You needed punctuation. And silence.
Uncle Joe
(chuckles, leans back)
Maybe. But we earned the silence, kid. We sat with it. Let it ferment.
You lot? You fill every space like you're afraid of being alone in your own echo.
Words come cheap now—fast, loud, and half-finished.
It’s not that you don’t have anything to say.
It’s that you haven’t learned how to listen yet.
Sam
First of all, your generation was just as afraid of being alone—if not more.
We do listen. And we speak.
You call it noise.
I call it contribution.
Uncle Joe
(pauses, eyes narrowing slightly—not angry, just weighing it)
"Contribution"—that’s a noble word.
But noise wears the same coat if you never take time to tailor it.
I’m not knocking passion—God knows the world needs more of it.
But passion without aim? That’s fire with no hearth.
Sam
Maybe we’re not looking for your hearth.
Maybe we’re lighting something else.
You all built the room, sure—but now you want to lock the door behind you.
We’re not just speaking—we’re undoing walls with our words.
Uncle Joe
(quiet, voice low)
Walls hold up roofs too, you know.
Take them all down, and the sky doesn’t always feel like freedom.
Sometimes it just rains.
Sam
Then we’ll learn how to dance wet.
You taught us silence.
Now let us teach you sound.
Me
(calling from the kitchen, voice warm but firm)
Come on, kids—it’s time for dinner.
Sam, grab the wine Uncle Joe brought us, will you?
I’ve been looking forward to sharing it.
(A beat. Uncle Joe and Sam glance at each other—neither victorious, both a little altered.)
Uncle Joe
Just don’t open it like you open conversations—fast, loud, and half-finished.
Sam
(grabs the bottle with a wink)
Don’t worry. I’m composing myself.
(Footsteps approach the kitchen. Sam appears first, bottle in hand. Uncle Joe follows—slower, but not grudging. The rest of the family begins to gather. Plates clink. Laughter rolls in from the hallway. The cork pops.)
(I glance over my shoulder, just in time to see the look they trade—somewhere between a truce and a grin.)
Me
(quiet, to myself)
They’ve got each other.
Keeps the edges sharp... and the hearts soft.
The Notebooks unfold in the archive. This one wandered out to greet you. If you’d like more, come find us inside. ✍️
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