Attributions are little whispers designed to help readers "see" conversations. They reveal who's talking, where he is and what else he may be doing while he's talking. They're meant to be short and sweet and practically invisible.  

One per paragraph is plenty.

EXAMPLE:
“She's down there," he said, waving toward the creek bank. "Saw her gold bracelet sparkling in the sun. Don't know more than that," he continued. 

CLEANED UP:
“She's down there," he said, waving toward the creek bank. "Saw her gold bracelet sparkling in the sun. Don't know more than that."

EXAMPLE:
"That's a laugh," Mrs. Wilson said with a glare. "You too young to be giving me orders, mister," she snapped.

CLEANED UP:
"That's a laugh," Mrs. Wilson said with a glare. "You too young to be giving me orders, mister."

EXAMPLE:
"Marcus is a twit," she announced, pouring tea. "I wish I could've seen him suffer," she added without looking up. 

CLEANED UP:
"Marcus is a twit," she announced, pouring tea. "I wish I could've seen him suffer." 

   The words that flow from real people are not the same as those that flow from fictitious ones. We may engage in idle chit-chat from sunrise to sunset, with no goal in sight, but they who emerge from the imagination may not enjoy such leisure. From the moment they open their mouths, they have a job to do: reveal character, advance the story.

And there is nothing more dynamic than a well-crafted conversation. 

Share your characters' gift of gab. Write a complete story—not a scene—that consists of pure dialogue. No narrative whatsoever, not even a he said or she replied. If it isn't spoken, and within quotation marks, it can't be on the page.

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  Story published in The VERB

Story Opinion, also published in The VERB
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   Nat's bedroom faced east. He woke just after two and heard the wind in the chimney. Not the storm and bluster of a sou'westerly gale, bringing the rain, but east wind, cold and dry. It sounded hollow in the chimney, and a loose slate rattled on the roof.

   Nat listened, and he could hear the sea roaring in the bay. Even the air in the small bedroom had turned chill: a draught came under the skirting of the door, blowing upon the bed. Nat drew the blanket around him, leant closer to the back of his sleeping wife and stayed wakeful, watchful, aware of misgiving without cause.

   Then he heard tapping on the window. There was no creeper on the cottage walls to break loose and scratch upon the pane. He listened, and the tapping continued until, irritated by the sound, Nat got out of bed and went to the window. He opened it, and as he did so something brushed his hand, jabbing at his knuckles, grazing the skin. Then he saw the flutter of the wings and it was gone, over the roof, behind the cottage.

   It was a bird. What kind of bird he could not tell.