How I Fixed My Dialogue in One Afternoon
I blocked off an afternoon with coffee and a timer. You can do the same. In four passes, I took dialogue that sounded like a robot reading a memo and turned it into people talking under pressure. You don’t need magic—just a few tight levers you can pull.
The 'Robotic' Problem
You know the sound: characters speak in full sentences, say exactly what they think, and never interrupt each other. The scene feels clean and dead. You read it and hear a dial tone.
That happens when lines report information instead of dramatizing it. Characters all share one voice—your voice—and every exchange lands like a scripted customer service call. The result is pace without pulse.
Here’s how it shows up. “Hello, John,” she said. “Hello, Mary,” he replied. “How are you today?” “I am fine.” No friction. No agenda. No reason to turn the page.
When dialogue is robotic, the fix starts with intent. Give each speaker something they want in the moment and let the words fight for it. Less recital, more negotiation.
One measurable next step: Print one scene, grab a highlighter, and mark every line that states a feeling or fact directly; cut or revise at least 30% of those lines.
Subtext Over Explanation
Most people don’t say what they mean. They hint, deflect, joke, or change the subject. Your characters should do the same, because the charge is in what’s unsaid.
Subtext is what a line means under the words. It’s the current under the surface. When you write subtext, you let the reader connect dots and feel clever. When you explain, you do the work for them and flatten the tension.
Compare two versions. On-the-nose: “I am angry you forgot my birthday.” Underneath: “Cake goes bad after two days. Good thing this one won’t go to waste.” You can hear the temperature without being told the weather.
You create subtext by anchoring lines to a goal and a fear. What does each character want right now? What would they hate to reveal? Let those two magnets pull the dialogue.
A simple swap helps: instead of saying an emotion, show a choice under pressure. “I’m not jealous” becomes “Invite him, then. I’ll save you a seat.”
One measurable next step: Open your latest chapter and replace five stated feelings with implied ones—choose five lines, rewrite each to suggest the feeling through a concrete action or pointed remark, and read the scene aloud to check the charge.
Beats, Pauses, and Interruptions
Flat dialogue often comes from flat rhythm. Real conversations wobble, collide, and leave things hanging. You can build that shape with three tools: beats, pauses, and interruptions.
A beat is a small action that frames or shifts a line. It anchors floating talk to bodies in a room. You don’t need props every line; a folded napkin or a glance at the door can steer momentum without clogging the page.
Pauses signal reluctance or impact. You can use white space, short sentences, or a well-placed “He doesn’t answer.” Silence is a line.
Interruptions create stress. A dash cutting a word off or two characters talking over each other will wake a scene. Use interruptions for conflict, not decoration. If it doesn’t push the moment, cut it.
Watch the difference. Flat: “You lied to me.” “No, I did not lie.” “I am upset you did that.” Lifted: “You lied.” She straightens the picture on the wall. “I didn’t—” “You did.” That dash forces friction.
When you add beats, pick concrete moves tied to motive. If she’s hiding something, she doesn’t “move nervously,” she closes the folder and slides it under a cookbook.
One measurable next step: Take one scene and add or trim exactly one beat for every three lines of dialogue—no more, no less—and replace two adverbs that describe delivery with visible actions that suggest the same feeling.
A Before/After Scene
Let’s put it on the page. I took a drab scene and ran four passes: cut dead wood, surface goals, lace in subtext, and tune rhythm. Here’s a distilled version.
Before:
The kitchen was quiet. Anna stood by the counter and Stephen walked in.
“Hello,” Anna said.
“Hello,” Stephen said. “How are you?”
“I am fine. How are you?”
“I am fine as well.”
“I need to talk to you about the money,” Anna said.
“What about the money?” Stephen asked.
“You did not pay the bill like you said you would.”
“I forgot. I will do it later.”
“You always say that but you never do it.”
“That is not fair,” Stephen said.
“It is fair,” Anna said. “I am tired of this.”
Stephen sat down. “Do not be tired. It will be okay.”
Anna sighed. “I do not believe you.”
Nothing is wrong at the sentence level. Everything is wrong at the scene level. They greet each other, exchange status updates, and state their positions. No one is aiming for anything specific. No one is dodging.
I asked: what does each person want right now? I decided Anna wants Stephen to admit he spent the bill money. Stephen wants to avoid admitting he borrowed from that fund to cover a bet. With that in place, I stripped the greetings and pushed toward collision.
After:
The kitchen is too clean. Anna lines up the envelopes on the counter, edge to edge.
Stephen stops in the doorway. “You reorganizing the mail?”
“Just making a list.” She taps the red one. “Electric.”
“Mm.” He reaches for the fridge, then thinks better of it. “I’ll get to it tonight.”
“You’ll get to it before the lights go out?” She doesn’t look up.
He smiles without teeth. “They give a grace period.”
“Like the one you gave yourself last month?” She flips the envelope over. It’s already been opened.
He leans on the table. “What are we doing here, Anna.”
“We?” She slides him the bill. “You said you paid this.”
“I will.”
“Past tense isn’t a suggestion.” She holds his gaze. “Where’d it go.”
He scratches his thumbnail against the wood. “I had to move some money around.”
“From where to where.”
“A stopgap.” He tries the fridge again, opens it, stares at nothing. “You want water?”
“I want a light over my head on Friday.” She closes the fridge door with her hip. “Which book would you like me to open, Stephen.”
He looks at the envelopes, then at her. “Don’t.”
“You must have loved that grace period.”
“It wasn’t—” He stops. “I needed cash for something time-sensitive.”
Her mouth twitches. “Did you win.”
“That’s not how—” He laughs once. “No.”
She lays the bill flat, smoothing the crease with her palm. “Say it.”
“I messed up.” He swallows. “I’ll fix it.”
“By when.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Eight a.m. is morning. Four p.m. is still tomorrow.” She folds the envelope in half. “Pick one.”
“Three.” He meets her eyes. “I’ll bring a receipt.”
She nods, once. “I’m throwing out the mail sorter.”
Notice the changes. You cut hello/hi. You set goals. Anna tests him with facts and deadlines. Stephen stalls, deflects, and finally yields. Subtext carries the anger: fridge door, grace period, the “did you win” probe.
Beats replace adverbs. Instead of “she said angrily,” you get “She closes the fridge door with her hip.” That move shows control and pressure in the same breath. Little actions steer the scene without explaining it.
Interruptions sharpen tension. “It wasn’t—” stops him from building a story. The dash isn’t decoration; it’s Anna closing a door. Short lines give space for the reader to supply tone.
Cadence matters. “We?” as a line throws Stephen’s plural back at him. That single word changes the field. Short lines make room for power shifts to register.
How do you get here in an afternoon? You run disciplined passes with a time box. Each pass has one job, and you skip anything else until that job is done.
- Pass 1 (20 minutes): Cut greetings, small talk, and repeated information; keep the first line that lands pressure.
- Pass 2 (20 minutes): Write each speaker’s immediate want at the top of the page; underline every line that pursues it; delete or change the rest.
- Pass 3 (30 minutes): Replace five stated feelings or facts with implied ones—use a pointed question, a silence, or a choice rather than a declaration.
- Pass 4 (20 minutes): Tune rhythm—add or trim beats (one per three lines), use at most two interruptions, and read aloud to adjust length so no line runs longer than ten words unless long is the point.
Those four moves are enough to make dialogue feel alive fast. You’re not chasing perfection; you’re coaching rough material into a game. One afternoon, clear targets, visible gains.
A few common snags are worth naming. You might over-beat the scene, turning every line into a pantomime. You might stuff subtext with riddles and lose clarity. When that happens, step back to motive: what does each person want, and what are they afraid to say?
You also might lean too hard on ellipses or dashes as punctuation tricks. Use them like seasoning. If you sprinkle them everywhere, they stop meaning anything. The pause is only powerful when motion surrounds it.
If you worry about voice sameness, give each character one verbal tick to deploy sparingly. A favorite word. A habit of answering a question with a question. Let it surface when they press. That one mark can set a tone without turning into a caricature.
Read your dialogue like you’d watch a tennis match. Not for the words, but for the direction of the ball. If you can’t tell who’s on offense, rework the line. Someone should always be pushing.
As you revise, keep your eyes on cuts. Most dialogue tightens when you remove 10–20% of the words. Shorter lines sound more confident and leave room for the reader. If a sentence can break into two punches, break it.
Place your power. The start and end of a line carry the most weight. Put the important word last. “I need the money” lands softer than “The money. I need it.” That last noun rings in the reader’s head.
Situate bodies. People rarely deliver hard truths standing still. Let them move with a purpose tied to their goal. A walk to the sink can be retreat. A chair scrape can be advance. Choose a concrete action that reveals where the character wants to go next.
Don’t forget props. A bill, a photo, a cardboard box—ordinary things can become levers when dialogue pivots around them. Grounding talk in objects gives the reader something to picture and your characters something to avoid or confront.
Finally, remember that silence is dialogue. A character who refuses to answer says more than a paragraph. Give them room to withhold. The reader will fill in the blank, and that is where your story breathes.
One measurable next step: Block one uninterrupted hour this week to run the four-pass process on a single scene, and aim for a 15% reduction in dialogue word count while increasing at least one concrete beat and one implied feeling per page.
Decision for today: Pick one scene and schedule a 90-minute, four-pass dialogue overhaul before the week ends.