Writing dialogue is a fundamental and essential skill that writers need to develop, but first and foremost we need to consider why dialogue is important to storytelling. There are three primary reasons why dialogue matters.

(1) Grounding in a Scene

Dialogue grounds us in a scene and makes us feel like we are right there with the characters. It gives the scene verisimilitude, making it feel almost as though it’s really happening right in front of us. Dialogue puts us where the action is. Instead of being told what’s happening, we see the scene unfold as the events occur. Dialogue makes a scene feel real.

In addition, when we read dialogue we feel like we are part of the characters’ conversation, especially when we are in a first person or close third person point of view. In that type of point of view, it is as though we are inside a character’s head, so the dialogue feels almost participatory, like we are the character having that conversation. Ultimately, dialogue makes us feel like we’re part of a scene and like that scene is really happening.

Without dialogue, it would be that much harder to craft a compelling scene, and scenes are the fundamental building blocks that make up a story. Scenes are like a microcosm of a full story, and as such, they need to have the three basic elements that a full story must also have. These elements are: character, plot, and world.

If one of these elements are missing, we don’t have an actual story, nor do we have a true scene. If there is character but no plot or world, then what we have is a character sketch, not a story. If there’s a plot, without world or character, then what we really have is a newsreel. And a world without character or plot is a wonderful world building exercise, but again, not an actual story.

Like a story, a scene also requires all three of these elements, and dialogue—when done well—brings character, plot, and world into play. For starters, in order to have dialogue, you need to have characters present. Not only that, but great dialogue also grounds us in time and space, making us feel like we are in a specific place, watching the scene unfold. When written well, dialogue also helps to advance the plot and move the story forward. Unlike real-life dialogue, where people might make inane small talk, story dialogue exists to ratchet up tension and move the plot along.

(2) Showing Character

I’ve often talked about the TADA method and the four main ways of showing character. These are thoughts (T), action (A), dialogue (D), and appearance (A). When you do all four of these things… tada! You have a well-rounded character.

Dialogue is a fundamental way of showing your character and letting them come alive on the page. Without dialogue, we wouldn’t be able to hear the voices of the characters and we would be left with only description and narration at our disposal. This would make it all the more difficult to bring your characters to life and make them feel like real, three-dimensional people. Without dialogue, we are left without an essential tool that would otherwise help us bring our characters to life.

Dialogue also allows you to create subtext, which is when somebody says one thing but they mean another. Subtext is a powerful storytelling tool because it forces the reader to “read between the lines” and that draws the reader further into the story. When the reader has to make inferences and intuitive mental leaps, they become more engaged, which means they are more immersed in the narrative.

(3) Primary Layer of Voice 

In addition to being a primary way of showing character, dialogue is also one of the primary layers of voice. You see, I believe that voice occurs in layers. At its most basic level, we have the voices of the characters in the story, and these voices come across in dialogue.

In addition to the characters’ voices, we also have the narrator’s voice, which operates almost like a frame or container, holding the story together. The narrator’s voice can be a character’s voice (like when you have a first person narration) but it can also be a third person entity, telling the story like an outside observer looking in.

Finally, you have the author’s voice, and this is that essence of voice that is the same from one book to the next. This is how we know when we’re reading a Jane Austen novel versus one by Stephen King. The voice of the author feels unique and specific to that one writer.

With this layered structure in mind, we realize just how important dialogue is. Dialogue allows us to hear the characters’ voices, so we can better understand who they are. Without the voices of the characters coming across in dialogue, the story would be pure narration, and while that can certainly work (think of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart) it can also feel a little hollow, as though the story is being told to us but we don’t really have a sense of the people in it.

Note: The Tell-Tale Heart works as a story made up almost entirely of narration because we are in a deep first person point of view. This point of view allows us to experience the protagonist’s thoughts, and those thoughts almost feel as though the narrator is having a conversation with himself. The story works as pure narration, but it’s a form of narration that allows us access into the character’s mind. In TADA terms, we may not have a whole lot of D, but the story makes up for it with a lot of T instead.

It’s Like Real-World Dialogue, Only Better

There are a lot of things we can do (and mistakes we should avoid) in order to write great dialogue. The most important thing, though, is to remember that story dialogue is not the same as real-world dialogue. The latter often has a rambling nature and goes off on random tangents, sometimes never to return. The truth is that story dialogue is like real-world dialogue, only without the boring parts.

Exercise: Go to a public place like a park or a cafe and sit near some people who are talking. Pull out a notebook (or computer) and start to write down verbatim everything those people say. (I know, I know, eavesdropping might be a little weird… but it’s in service of art! Plus, if their subject is something super-private, it’s their fault for talking about it in a public space.) Sit and take dictation for 5-10 minutes, then go back and reread.

My guess is that while there might be a great one-liner or two in there, the majority of the dialogue you captured will be unreadable. It will probably go off on weird tangents or change subjects randomly. There will likely be a lot of ums and ahs and other filler words that make the dialogue feel clunky. That’s normal. Real dialogue is not supposed to be polished like story dialogue.

The truth is, story dialogue flows smoothly in a way that real-world dialogue never does. It stays on point and doesn’t have a lot of fluff to it. Story dialogue is designed to develop the characters and also move the plot forward, so it has to be focused and purposeful. Real-world dialogue doesn’t need to do any of that so it can ramble on and on or loop around in circles.

As you think about writing dialogue, think about how you can make it smoother and more focused. Sure, in some cases the characters might talk around each other, but this is always done with a purpose—usually with an eye toward creating subtext or developing character in some way. Ultimately, dialogue is an important tool to have in your writer’s toolbox and it can accomplish many different things at the same time. Great dialogue advances the story but also deepens the characters, and sometimes uses subtext to pull the reader further into the story.

Until next time, keep writing and keep being awesome!

P.S. For more info on Gabriela Pereira, the founder and instigator of DIY MFA, check out her profile page.

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Basic Cartography

The above is an example of what I call Traditional 4^th Person Perspective.  So, what exactly constitutes 4^th Person (The We without an I) and how does it function?  The basic premise of 4^th is that we are telling a story/novel/poem from a collective’s perspective.  This could be the voice of a corporate office (We here at BioTech believe we offer the best Robotic Children), a community (When we founded our commune, we hoped it would be a place of peace and brotherly/sisterly love), a niche social group (We were known as the Suburban Avengers and we wrestled every weekend in Don’s garage), or even a group of animals (At night we sniff at garbage cans and test out the lids with our claws). 

The key to the perspective is that the narrative voice encompasses a larger group and uses the narrative voice to speak collectively for them, avoiding ever using a central 1^st person “I.”

The Difference from 1^st Person Collective

A good way to understand how 4^th works is to examine its difference from 1^st Person Collective (wherein the “We” has a clearly defined first person narrator).  Here are a couple examples of what first person collective sounds like:

When our mother took us swimming, she’d sit on the beach drinking martinis from her Thermos while she watched us.  We sisters would swim beyond the crashing waves, and my older sisters would swim so far that I worried we’d never return.                

We’re the Rocket Launchers and our mission is to build rockets to the moon.  Donnie and Larry are twin brothers, and they get to come over as long as they bring gloves and winter coats.  Petey’s mom never seems to care where he is, so he brings the gasoline from her shed.  And I’m the one with access to gunpowder.  

While the use of “we” and “our” can be a prominent feature, beneath the voice of 1^st Person Collective is an “I” narrator that controls the tone/voice/language of the piece. Like all first person perspectives, the story/novel will be determined and limited to the attitude, age, experiences, and knowledge of the narrator. In this way the scope of the known world is limited. For example, in the rocket story, the narrator cannot omnisciently follow any of the children back to their homes or report on the dialogue that happens there unless the narrator literally follows them home or is later told this information (or is psychic!). 

4^th Person is inherently different because there is no limited “I.” Instead, in 4^th, the tone is influenced by the collective voice of the community/group but not hampered by it.  Here are some examples of what 4^th sounds like:

When the neighbors moved in, we wondered if they belonged in our community.  We think of ourselves as a welcoming community.  We bake pies, help one another paint our houses every couple years, and, mostly, have never uttered an unkind word about anyone.  But when we saw the neighbors arriving with their run-down car and their ugly children, we watched from our gardens and decided not to wave.

When the broomsticks appeared outside our bedroom windows, our hearts lifted like hot-air balloons.  The women tapped gently on our windows, and we crept from beneath the sheets, tiptoed carefully across the carpet so as not to wake our parents, and climbed across sills, reaching through the cold air to grasp the wooden handles.

In the first example, the creepiness of the community leaks into the very voice of the telling. In the second example, the awe of the children imbues the narrative voice.  In this way, 4^th has the option of being tonally colored by the collective voice of the group.  Most importantly, it will be this “we” that will tell the story of the community rather than any individualized “I” from within that group.

4^th’s Omniscient Range

And yet, 4^th doesn’t need to be limited by the voice of the community. One of the wonderful benefits to 4^th is that while the voice may be imbued by the community, it is not tied to any individual consciousness.  In the broomstick example above, though the children are young, the narrative voice and language doesn’t need to be limited to the linguistic limitations of the children.  For example:

We sailed above the land, and the houses below became faded postage stamps, obscured by the thin fingers of clouds and the frosts of the North which arrived early that year. Far below, in the chilled suburban dawn, men and women started their cars, clueless to the broomsticks which soared high above.

The language here is clearly beyond that of a child’s vocabulary, and yet this feels completely natural in 4^th person. 

Similarly, the known scope of the world can extend beyond the collective’s knowledge, becoming a more distant omniscient:

At home, our parents were waking up.  “Have you seen the kids?” our fathers asked, yawning in kitchens, their coffee mugs in hand. And they searched beneath beds, in closets, and finally, with panic in their voices, called police and firemen.

Like a mole digging tunnels beneath the ground, the omniscience of 4^th allows your narrative camera to pop up in any of the collective’s presence:

 At night we complained about the neighbors.  Tom, who owned the hardware store, would pour himself a tall glass of bourbon. “I don’t trust them,” he said to his wife.  “I know,” she said, and put down her knitting, then lowered her voice in case anyone was listening. “I think they’re dangerous.” Across town, The Woodstone’s were having their own private conversations.  “Maybe we should pay them a visit?” Mr. Woodstone said.

In fact, the voice is so omniscient, that unlike 1^st Person, it’s possible for the “we” to die in a story:

When we grew old, we closed our eyes, squeezed the hands of our loved ones, and soon we were buried.  And we gathered to say goodbye to those we’d lost, and gathered afterward to watch the young among us, the next generation, who we knew would one day bury us. 

In this way 4^th borrows the best attributes of interiority from 1^st with the best aspects of 3^rd omniscience. The combined range of intimacy and expansive omniscience is part of what makes 4^th such a wonderful perspective.

The Challenges of Dialogue & Movement

There are a few limitations to navigating 4^th smoothly. Movement and speech, for example, can become strangely cartoonish if we aren’t careful.

We decided to walk over and confront the neighbors.  “Open up!” we yelled.

In this scene the entire group is now congregating and yelling outside the house in a near-comic fashion. To solve this problem requires splitting the “We” into smaller groups:

A few of us decided to confront the neighbors.  Tom, his wife Rhonda, and The Woodstone’s were the first to go.  “We baked you cookies,” Rhonda said when the neighbors opened the door. “You mind if we come in,” Mr. Waterstone added quickly.

Another way to avoid the problem of strange collective moments such as: we went to the bathroom; we rode the escalator; or we honked our horn is to create a list of simultaneous actions:

We baked cookies, we offered to paint their house or to babysit their kids, we made small talk when we saw them at the hardware store, and late at night we called one another and told tales of what we’d seen. We plotted, we lamented, and finally, we gave up trying to be nice. 

Additional Variations

There are strange and wonderful variations within the new perspective.  In 4^th Person Address there is a “We” addressing a “You.” This is a particularly fun point of view that allows two of the black sheep of the literary family (4^th and 2^nd) to finally have the long-deserved page space they deserve.

Welcome to BioTech, we know you will enjoy your time here as part of The Future of America!  You will soon become one of our elite Robot Engineers, helping bridge the divide between human and machine.  We couldn’t be happier to have you with us!

There’s the rare and strange variation of 4^th Person Address that I call the Christmas-Card Perspective—wherein a couple is using the “we” voice without ever identifying themselves:

We are doing well, keeping busy here: Sarah is working on her teaching degree, and Bob is finally fixing the garage.

And there’s The Passive-Aggressive-Therapy Perspective:

 Sure, we’re a caring couple.  Though, admittedly, sometimes one of us forgets to clean their hair out of the shower drain and then the other one of us has to do that, even though that someone is already late for work.

How to Begin

If you’re interested in exploring our new perspective, it’s good to check out any of the stories below. Then consider how often we use 4^th Person in our daily lives (that sentence, by the way, was 4^th Person Address).  Think of all the boring company meetings and job trainings you’ve had to sit though, the way we talk about our families, our friend groups, our hometown, our favorite sports teams, our age group, our genders, class, race, or the tiny cliques we may be part of (We’re a post-pop, psychedelic-folk band).  Create an initial list of all the examples where you find “we” used.  Then choose one and explore a story/novel/essay/poem from this new perspective.

Resources from my work and others

 Two stories from my recent collection, Universal Love (Sanctuary & We Only Wanted Their Happiness) use the traditional 4^th Person Perspective.

My recent Tour Guide Series is all in 4^th Person Address

Steven Millhauser is a master of Traditional 4^th Person—check out his wonderful collection The Knife Thrower and Other Stories.

Amber Sparks collections The Unfinished World & And I Do Not Forgive You both have a number of variations on 4^th.

One of the most successful forms of The Passive-Aggressive Therapy Perspective is John Barth’s story “Waves,” by Amien Richard from his collection On With the Story.  

There are hundreds of other examples and new 4^th Person stories are emerging every year.  Feel free to add to the list, and send along your favorites to me at https://www.alexanderweinstein.com/

Alexander Weinstein is the author of the collections Universal Love and Children of the New World, which was chosen as a New York Times Notable Book of the Year, and a best book of the year by NPR, Google, and Electric Literature. His fiction and interviews have appeared in Rolling Stone, World Literature Today, Best American Science Fiction & Fantasy, and Best American Experimental Writing. He is the founder and director of The Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing and a Professor of Creative Writing at Siena Heights University.

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Unnecessary Words

Editing cuts down sentences to get to the point quickly. An essential edit includes keeping an eye out for words such as Just, So, and That. These words can often be removed without changing the meaning of the sentence.

Example: “It was just the same as yesterday”

Edited: “It was the same as yesterday.”

Vague Words

Words can be deceiving. Vague terms such as Slightly, Almost, Average, and A Bit will be interpreted differently by different readers. Essential edits include crafting a sentence so it is more specific (without being wordy).

Example: “We were a bit late.”

Edited: “We were 15 minutes late.”

Adverbs

Adverbs are words that describe verbs, adjectives, and other adverbs. They tend to end in -ly and function to prop up weak words. Essential edits require using strong verbs to show action or emotion will engage readers.

Example: “She ran quickly.”

Edited: “She sprinted.”

Over-Describing

Over-describing actions creates pleonasms or subtle redundancies. You can’t shrug anything except your shoulders, and you wouldn’t blink anything except your eyes. Give the reader a little credit for understanding how the world works. 

Example: “She gripped the doorknob with her hand.”

Edited: “She gripped the doorknob.”

Passive Voice

Passive voice occurs when the object being acted upon becomes the focus of the sentence. Look for Was and Were before a verb and a By after. Unless done purposefully, rework these sentences to be direct with your action. 

Example: “The balloon was popped by Sharon.”

Edited: “Sharon popped the balloon.”

Dialogue Tags

When writers choose dialogue tags, they tend to get creative to avoid being boring or redundant. People don’t growl, yawn, or cry things. Stick mainly to Said and Asked. Use action to add emphasis and description.

Example: “I hate you,” she growled at him.

Edited: “I hate you,” she said, her face scowling.

Clichés

When the same word, phrase, or situation is used again and again, it becomes cliché. Avoid everything from true loves literally bumping into one another to phrases like “in the nick of time.” Create your own original descriptions instead.

Example: “He got away like a thief in the night.”

Edited: “He made an easy escape.”

Punctuation

It’s okay if you don’t get every comma in the right place, but you should at least have the basics (periods, question marks, quotation marks) down. Be consistent and review some general rules before you edit. Make this level your last round of editing.

Example: “How did you do that”.

Edited: “How did you do that?”

Extra Hints & Tips

Most people don’t benefit from editing as they go. Take some time away from your work—a day, a month, however long—then start editing. Try changing the font of your manuscript. Looking at the text in a new way will help you catch typos, repeated words, and more. You can also read aloud. If you trip over a sentence or need to take a breath in the middle of one, you might need to revise it. Finally, don’t be afraid to use editing programs, but don’t accept all changes without reviewing first. You CAN edit your work and these eight aspects are sure to tighten up your wording and make your prose shine.

Jeanette the Writer is a freelance editor and writer based in Dallas, TX. When not at the computer, you can find her crafting, teaching a scuba diving class, or posting pictures of her cats on Instagram. Visit JeanettetheWriter.com for more info and sign up for her newsletter at Jeanettethewriter.ck.page.

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Why?

I love dialogue. When I’m reading a book and I spot dialogue up ahead, I think: Sweet—we’re getting to the good stuff soon. And when I’m writing a book and I get to a part requiring dialogue, I think: Sweet—time to have some real fun.

Here’s the reason the simple act of watching one human talk to another can cause our brains to spark: because of the spike in electrical neural activity.

Let’s feel that sparkiness ourselves, right here, right now! I’ll scribble up some examples.

Example Dialogue: Where’s My Phone? (1st draft)

“Have you seen my phone?” barked Person A.

“No, I haven’t,” replied Person B. “Have you checked the kitchen?”

Person A sighed with frustration. “I checked there! I checked everywhere!”

“How about I try calling it?” offered Person B sheepishly.

“I mean that’s a good idea,” said Person A impatiently, “but what would really help me is if you could get up and help me find it!”

Person B looked perturbed. “I’m busy! Why can’t you do it yourself?”

This dialogue fulfills some basic guidelines for writing that you’re probably already aware of. Person A wants something and is driving toward getting it, and there’s also some clear tension between them and Person B, who wants to be left alone. Desire, intention, conflict—it’s all there.

So why isn’t your brain sparking? I know mine wasn’t.

To find out, let’s draft up a second version of the Where’s My Phone example.

Example Dialogue: Where’s My Phone? (2nd draft)

“Have you seen my phone?” said Person A.

“Hey Siri, call Person A,” said Person B.

“You could get up for once and help me,” said Person A with a sneer.

Person B gestured helplessly at their desk. “Can’t you see I’m busy dealing with my own bullshit right now?”

“I’ve been noticing your bullshit for years,” said Person A, unmoved.

“I want a divorce,” said Person B.

Do a brain check: you should see sparks flying. This exchange has all the basics, just like the first version. But it has a few key features that are my favorites when it comes to really fun dialogue.

The characters talk in parallel. 

In the first draft, both Person A and B answer each other’s questions fairly neatly. People in the real world don’t talk like this—they talk at cross-purposes, they interrupt, they don’t listen very well. Now, if you wrote a transcript of an actual real-life conversation, you’d probably wind up with unintelligible gibberish. The challenge as a writer is to strike a balance between the delightful chaos of real-world-speak and the modicum of logic required to propel a story forward in a way that makes sense.

In the second draft, the conflict and drive are still there—but now we see that each character isn’t really that considerate of what the other wants, and that little bit of psychological noise adds a fun layer of complexity to the scene.

The dialogue shows, not tells. 

Yes, it’s the oldest rule in the writing handbook, but that’s because it’s forever true: show, don’t tell. In the first draft, we relied quite a bit on active verbs (barked, replied, offered) and adverbs (sheepishly, impatiently) to shore up what were essentially neutral (and therefore boring) lines of dialogue.

By contrast, the second draft had dialogue dripping with emotion, attitude, and motivation, so much so that all they needed for attribution was a basic said Person A, supported by the occasional concrete physical gesture. The attributions, in fact, become trivial at this point—all of the artistic focus is on the actual dialogue itself. In fact, you could theoretically remove everything in the second draft except the dialogue and still be left with a funny, unexpected, sparky scene. Not so with the first draft, which relies too heavily on telling by verb and adverb.

The great writer Elmore Leonard once advised against ever using adverbs, and even went so far as to ban exclamation points. He was a little extreme, but only due to his devotion to always showing, showing, showing with his craft.

The characters are not talking about what they are talking about. 

For me, the best dialogue isn’t about the subject at hand—it’s about the subtext underlying the situation. In our first draft, Persons A and B are going through mild conflict (A needs help, but B is busy), but the story remains firmly centered around the quest to find a lost phone. That is not an interesting story. I would even go so far as to say that even if we replaced that lost phone with something bigger, like a Lost Ark of the Covenant, it would still remain a boring scene. That’s because great storytelling isn’t so much about the what, but the how.

The second draft is all about the how. The what of the lost phone is almost immediately discarded to allow the characters to unwittingly reveal a much bigger problem: their crumbling marriage. The fact that the exchange ends with B asking for a divorce shows just how tense things had gotten over the years. Isn’t that so much more interesting? In my mind, the best and most memorable stories are always about people—challenge your dialogue to stay centered rock-solid on your characters, even during seemingly trivial moments like a search for a lost phone.

Great dialogue, in other words, provides compelling keyframes with nice gaps in between, leaving it up to the reader to fill in those gaps with mental leaps. Instead of spelling emotional conflict with exposition, it’s much more interesting—and interactive—to let the reader piece together that, say, Person A and Person B have been on a disaster course for a long time and are right at the brink of marital collapse. Our brains fire up, piecing together bits of evidence found on the page. And that’s when the sparks start flying.

David Yoon is the author of the New York Times bestseller Frankly In Love, a William C. Morris Award finalist and Asian/Pacific American Award for Young Adult Literature Honor book, as well as the upcoming YA novel Super Fake Love Song and adult thriller Version Zero. He also drew the illustrations for his wife Nicola Yoon’s #1 New York Times bestseller Everything, Everything. David grew up in Orange County, California, and now lives in Los Angeles with Nicola and their daughter. You can follow David on Instagram.

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