Okay, it’s a monologue, I know, but it’s still the question. Because an article like this is a kind of dialogue too — only the reader’s reaction takes the role of the dialogue partner. And this opening could serve as an example of how difficult it is to establish context without naming it directly. Why is that — and why do I insist on trying anyway? (Besides the obvious answer: sheer mulishness. 😉)
You only realize how much craftsmanship goes into a piece of dialogue when you suddenly find yourself stuck in one that doesn’t flow, one that stumbles every other line because it’s filled with little labels telling you who is speaking and in what tone — the infamous dialogue tags. I have a clear stance on these, one that has grown over time and hardened into something close to stubbornness: I write with as few dialogue tags as possible.
It sounds easier than it is. And it is exactly as radical as it sounds. But before I explain why I chose this approach, it’s worth looking at the two camps between which the debate has been fought with remarkable persistence over the years.
On one side, there are the authors who treat tags like tiny stage cues — moments in which something isn’t simply said, but breathed, whispered, angrily spat, or offered in a voice “like autumn leaves.” The idea is to embed emotion and atmosphere directly into the tag. And yes, it’s the safe route: the reader is told precisely how to imagine the line — although I often catch myself wondering what a “voice like autumn leaves” is supposed to sound like. Rustling? Crinkling? Like a dog jumping into a pile of leaves? At that point I’m already distracted — but that may simply be a quirk of my mind.
The real issue is that many of these constructions are combinations of weak verbs fortified by adverbs or adjectives that shove emotion into the tag instead of letting the scene do the work. The actual action fades beneath the decorative layer. In the hands of masters like Terry Pratchett this can be brilliant; in many other cases it results in unintentional comedy.
On the other side are the purists, who rely exclusively on “said” and “asked.” The theory holds that the brain eventually stops noticing these words, as if they slip through consciousness without leaving a trace. My experience is different. I see every single one, and after a few pages I’m not reading a conversation anymore but a protocol marking each speaker: ah — now him. Ah — now her. Ah — now the child. It feels as though the text keeps explaining something I already understand. And if you know me, you know this kind of thing drives me absolutely up the wall. ;-)
My own approach is beyond these two worlds and quite simple: I leave the tags out almost entirely. Which means the text has to carry everything. Emotion, tension, subtext, orientation. If the embellishers try to squeeze atmosphere into a verb or a metaphor, I need to deliver it through the scene. If the purists rely on “said” to keep readers oriented, then my orientation must come from rhythm, reactions, pauses, and micro movement between the lines.
My goal is to enable the reader to understand who is speaking from what is said; how it is meant from the way it is said, and to comprehend what is happening between the lines from the scene. A text that stands on its own and needs no one to hold up signs.
The challenge is obvious: a dialogue-heavy passage without tags needs a structure that regularly offers orientation without instructing the reader. The more characters involved, the more complex it becomes. Every interruption — a thought, a movement, a glance, a sound — can provide direction. I don’t want to overload readers with signals, but I also don’t want them puzzling over who is speaking for half a page. In the end, it comes down to how much concentration I can reasonably ask of them. (Spoiler: more than average. Sorry.)
And then there is the matter of perspective. Every scene belongs to a single inner viewpoint, a single narrator. Which means: the narrating character wouldn’t think “he said sadly,” but would notice something — a tension in the voice, a hesitation, a misplaced breath, a look that doesn’t quite fit the words. Dialogue and perspective are inseparable at this point.
A small example from Space Time, written in three different ways, shows how much perception shifts.
- Purist tags:
“Mommy is here,” Rena said.
“Yes, I know that’s what it thinks, but …” Steve answered.
“No, that’s the password. Mommy is here,” Rena said. - Embellished tags:
“Mommy is here,” Rena announced with a hint of mischievous satisfaction.
“Yes, I know that’s what it thinks, but …” Steve murmured, as if trying to fit puzzle pieces together that stubbornly refused to align.
“No, that’s the password. Mommy is here,” Rena added with a small, barely concealed grin. - Without tags:
“Mommy is here.”
“Yes, I know that’s what it thinks, but …”
“No. That’s the password. Mommy is here.”
It’s the same scene, yet the effect changes dramatically — not because the information differs, but because the reader is guided differently.
For me, this approach is worth it for two reasons. First, it forces me to pay closer attention to how a character speaks, how tension builds, and where the subtext actually runs. And second, it creates dialogue that carries itself — dialogue that works without explanation. Dialogue in which the reader is fully present, already familiar with the characters, sensing how they sound and what they mean, and catching the joke or the emotional undercurrent without me pointing at it. (You’ll see what I mean when you read the full scene — it really is funny.) And when that works, the moment feels right to me.
That’s my take on those tiny, vexing little things. Now I’m curious about your perspective:
How do you perceive dialogue when you read? Do you notice tags? Do they bother you? Do you miss them when they’re gone? Or have you never really paid attention — until now, when the differences suddenly stand out?
If you like, tell me in the comments.
Kommentar hinzufügen
Kommentare