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Explore seven effective types of thriller opening lines, and how published novelists are using them to convince their audiences to keep on reading.
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The recognizable patterns in thriller opening lines
The opening line of a thriller has a difficult job. In a single sentence it must capture attention and convince readers that the story is worth their time.
While great first lines vary in style, there are some recognizable patterns. Understanding these can help writers craft first sentences that hook readers immediately. Below we’ll look at seven types of thriller opening lines – each illustrated with examples from published novels – and examine why they work and what writers can learn from them. What these opening lines have in common
Despite their differences, superb thriller first lines usually share several notable qualities:
1. First-line focus on a pursuit
Some thrillers begin with motion already underway: someone is chasing, escaping or searching.
Example: The Gunslinger, Stephen King (Hodder Paperback edition, 2003)
Why it works
Readers are thrust straight into the middle of a high-stakes chase. In a single line, we sense the tension: one character fleeing, another in pursuit. The sentence immediately conveys motion, suspense and intrigue, and prompts questions like: Who are these figures and what is at stake? NOTABLE QUALITIES: Curiosity | Tension or conflict | Momentum Lesson for writers Movement signals urgency. Starting with that signals that the story is already underway and that the reader has arrived in the middle of something important. 2. First-line focus on psychological mindset
These first lines hook readers by revealing a shocking fact, personal truth or secret. They often feel rather confessional create powerful psychological intrigue because they invite readers into a character’s headspace.
Example 1: Dark Places, Gillian Flynn (Phoenix edition, 2010)
Why it works
The opening plunges readers into the narrator’s psyche, exposing an unsettling inner darkness before any plot events occur. This early insight builds psychological tension, making us question the narrator’s reliability and wonder how their mindset will shape the story. NOTABLE QUALITIES: Curiosity | Tension or conflict | Voice Example 2: The Martian, Andy Weir (Del Rey edition, 2014)
Why it works
In those first four words, the narrator signals that disaster has struck. The candid, no-nonsense tone generates immediate suspense, encouraging readers to ask: What has happened? How will the character cope? NOTABLE QUALITIES: Stakes | Curiosity | Tension or conflict | Voice Lesson for writers Confessional first lines can draw readers directly into a character’s predicament or provide striking psychological insight in just a few words. These two examples are also good reminders that a strong narrative voice can be just as compelling as action or a crime. 3. First-line focus on a shocking statement
A bold or disturbing statement can grab readers immediately, forcing them to confront moral tension or danger.
Example: I Will Find You, Harlan Coben (Penguin edition, 2023)
Why it works
A single, startling sentence conveys both shock and intrigue. It instantly raises questions and emotional stakes. Readers want to understand the circumstances that led the narrator, speaking directly to us, to this moment. NOTABLE QUALITIES: Stakes | Curiosity | Tension or conflict | Voice | Momentum Lesson for writers A single unexpected statement can create a powerful hook if it suggests a deeper story. 5. First-line focus on a crime or transgression
Some thrillers’ opening lines reveal a crime or transgression that has already occurred or is in progress.
Example: Paradise, Toni Morrison (Vintage edition, 1999)
Why it works
The sentence is shocking, violent and blunt, though we’re not given any context. That ambiguity forces readers to ask questions: Who are ‘they’? Who are the other girls that it’s implied are also going to be shot? Why have these girls been targeted? NOTABLE QUALITIES: Curiosity | Tension or conflict | Momentum Lesson for writers Introducing the crime early tells readers exactly what kind of story they’re entering. 6. First-line focus on the environment
Some thrillers begin by establishing an unsettling atmosphere.
Example 1: Neuromancer, William Gibson (Gateway edition, 2016)
Why it works
This line uses a striking image to establish a bleak, dystopian environment. It signals that the world of the story may feel strange or unsettling. NOTABLE QUALITIES: Tension or conflict | Voice Example 2: The Day of the Jackal, Frederick Forsyth (Arrow edition, 2011)
Why it works
This opening sentence starts with information about the weather and the time. It could have been dull, but the author uses it as an artful anchor for the life‑or‑death clause that follows. The stark, cold setting mirrors the flat, cold voice, as if the narrator has accepted the inevitability of the execution. NOTABLE QUALITIES: Stakes | Tension or conflict | Voice Lesson for writers A vivid or unusual image can establish tone while creating curiosity about the setting. And environmental information can be highly effective as long as it’s used to amplify a character’s mood. 7. First-line focus on foreboding
This type of opening signals that something terrible has already happened, or is about to happen.
Example 1: Everybody Knows, Jordan Harper (Faber & Faber edition, 2023)
Why it works
In just three stark words, this first line establishes a vivid, ominous setting that suggests chaos and danger. Something catastrophic is happening in a familiar city, and readers want to know what caused it and what the consequences will be. NOTABLE QUALITIES: Stakes | Curiosity | Tension or conflict | Momentum Example 2: Gone Before Goodbye, Harlan Coben and Reese Witherspoon (Penguin, 2026)
Why it works
In just five words, this line creates immediate tension. By emphasizing what the narrator doesn’t hear, it heightens the sense of unseen danger. The absence of sound signals that something is amiss, prompting readers to ask: What’s happening, and what threat lurks nearby? NOTABLE QUALITIES: Curiosity | Tension or conflict | Momentum Lesson for writers Opening lines that imply catastrophe, danger or abnormality can be incredibly effective. By hinting that something is wrong, rather than explaining it immediately, activate the reader’s curiosity and tension, and compel them to keep going. Summing up
A thriller’s first line doesn’t have to feature explosions or violence. What matters is that it avoids the mundane.
That means encouraging questions and making the reader feel something – for example shock, surprise, disgust, fear, confusion – so that they want to continue beyond the opening sentence and into the rest of the story. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
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Explore 10 weak thriller opening lines and learn how to turn them into compelling hooks that grab the reader, set the tone and hint at something that piques their curiosity.
The weight carried by the opening line
The opening line of a mystery or thriller carries an enormous amount of weight. In just a few words, it has to hook the reader, set the tone and indicate a problem or predicament that will pique the reader’s interest.
Manuscripts with first lines that feature routine description, backstory or everyday dialogue can feel flat rather than gripping. In this article, we’ll look at 10 examples of weak first lines, explain why they don’t work, and show how small revisions can turn them into compelling hooks. If you’re writing a mystery, crime novel or psychological thriller, these examples will help you craft a first sentence that immediately grabs readers … and keeps them wanting to read. Example 1: Generic description
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
The description is generic and objective. There’s no character, no tension and no intrigue. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
The objectivity remains, but now the reader is immediately introduced to a crime – one that makes us ask questions: Whose body? How did they die? And by whose hand? Example 2: Routine activity
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
While there’s a human being involved in this line, Harris’s actions are mundane. The sentence is front loaded with activity related to where he sits. Even though a murder weapon is mentioned, that’s not particularly interesting given the detective’s job. There’s no reason for us to do anything with this line than skim over it. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
Now there’s a conundrum for us to consider – the familiarity of the weapon. This creates a pressure point for Harris, and a mystery that readers want an explanation for. Example 3: Focus on backstory
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
The focus here is on the past rather than the present, and that backstory is generalised and mundane. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
Now there’s momentum. The word ‘first’ introduces foreshadowing – readers will assume that there’s more than one dead body. The mention of proximity to a named character forces us to wonder about her role: Is Martha a potential victim, too, or is she a transgressor? Example 4: No intrigue
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
So what? the reader might think. Waking up early in the morning is not intriguing. It’s commonplace. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
Now there’s immediate tension. The word ‘someone’ implies that another person entering the house is unexpected. And yet ‘unlocking’ suggests they have a key. That leads to readers asking questions: Who’s in his space? Should they be there? Is John in danger? Example 5: Vague observation
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
This line tells us readers nothing about why they should care about this peaceful place, nor why they should carry on reading about it. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
The revised line is still told from an objective perspective, and the peacefulness has been left intact. However, that information is now sharply juxtaposed with a shocking discovery. Using contrast helps to create surprise and intrigue. Example 6: Dull dialogue
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
This is mundane speech – the kind of thing millions of people say to each other at times and spaces across the entire planet. It won’t compel a reader to continue. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
Now we have an instant mystery. Readers will wonder what the ‘it’ is that Tom didn’t do, and they’ll want to know why he’s doubting himself. Example 7: Tensionless thoughts
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
There’s no pressure point in this character thought. It’s skimmable information. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
Now we understand the possible emotional stakes in play. Maybe this information comes as a horrific shock to Emily. Or maybe it will be revealed that she killed him. It actually doesn’t matter. All that’s important is that this is personal, and the reader will be invested in understanding why. Example 8: Boring environment
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
The description feels flat and doesn’t convey any personality or tension. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
Now we have an anonymous narrator with a clear agenda. While the motive is as yet unclear, which creates suspense, the tone is distinctly menacing. Readers will be wondering who this character is and what Flint’s done to evoke such anger. Example 9: Flat impact
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
This at least introduces an interesting premise – that of the return of a missing person. However, it feels a little flat and lacks impact. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
In the revised version, the missing person has a name. And by leading with punchy description of how long Flowers has been missing for, the follow-up clause about her unexpected return creates shock and intrigue. Example 10: No threat
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
While the use of a second-person narrative hints at voyeurism, there’s nothing in that line that indicates anything’s out of whack. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
The expository information about the mailbox, envelope and photograph are still there, as is the voyeuristic narration. However, by giving readers a small nudge about what’s in that image, there’s an imminent sense of threat. Summing up
A great opening line to any thriller or mystery usually does at least one of these things:
If these aren't evident in your first line, it’s worth revisiting. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Learn what every thriller must accomplish in its first five pages, including compelling opening lines, early pressure points, clear viewpoint characters and narrative momentum. Discover how to hook readers, build tension and set the stage for a gripping, page-turning story from the very first sentence.
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Why the first 5 pages are a pitch to the reader
Thrillers live or die by their opening pages. We can think of them as a hook or a pitch – the thing that convinces readers to invest in the rest of the novel. This is the space that sets the tone, whets the appetite and sells the idea of what’s to come.
Readers pick up a thriller expecting immediate tension, momentum and intrigue. An editor will be looking for those same qualities too. Here’s what you should look out for when reviewing your first five pages. 1. Is the opening line compelling?
The very first line in a novel sets expectations for the entire story. When it comes to thrillers, readers love hearing a distinctive voice, a sense of movement or tension, and a hint of the predicament or situation a character’s dealing with.
Weak opening lines These often begin with neutral description or background information. For example:
These opening lines struggle because nothing specific or interesting is happening. The information is generic. There are no stakes and no reason for the reader to be curious. Strong opening lines Strong opening lines feature a character in motion or a problem. Harlan Coben is brilliant at writing knock-out opening lines. Take a look at these examples and compare them with the yawn fest above:
Notice how he zooms right in on a problem – rejection, harm, murder. It’s not just that Coben gets to the point. It’s that he injects so much emotion into each of those sentences. He does this by making sure that the psychic distance between the reader and the narrator feels close, like the character is talking to us intimately … There’s oodles of suspense too. Absolutely no way are we putting down any of those books after we’ve read their opening lines because, in just a few words, the author has made us a promise – that having set the scene he will answer the questions we’re already asking:
Tip for writers and editors If the opening line doesn’t pique the reader’s curiosity, or create tension or intrigue, consider a recast. 2. Have you introduced a pressure point?
A thriller's first five pages don’t need to be infused with violence or high-octane action, but they should show the reader where the pressure is.
Weak pressure Review your first few pages and make sure they’re not dominated by the routine and mundane. Waking up, commuting and casual conversations risk making your reader skim. Readers of the genre expect to be thrilled, and if you don’t satisfy that appetite early on, they may disengage and start wondering when the story’s going to pick up. Strong pressure Here’s how authors might could inject pressure points into the early pages of their stories:
Tip for writers and editors Scan the first pages for early conflict or unusual events. Ask yourself this: Is there an indication that something’s already wrong or off? If not, and exposition or a calm setup are dominating, consider how curiosity, danger or high stakes could be introduced. 3. Is a clear point-of-view character present?
When readers can step into a character’s perspective early on, they become engaged faster and more deeply invested in the story.
It doesn’t have to be the protagonist. It could be an anonymous antagonist or transgressor. It could be a victim. The point is that we want to know whose story we’re following in those first few pages. Weak perspectives A thriller whose early pages focus on vague, objective information with no emotional resonance can distance readers. We end up not understanding who we’re supposed to be rooting for or who we want to see stopped. Strong perspectives Readers are people. They know what it is to be human – to love, to fear, to hate, to despair. Compelling opening pages feed that innate knowledge. They provide information that helps us invest in a particular character, even if that emotional investment is negative. We should get an early sense of the following:
Tip for writers and editors Consider whether the first five pages tell readers what the viewpoint character stands to lose, why this situation matters to them and what is motivating them to act? If those personal stakes aren’t shown early on, the prose will feel flat and readers might switch off. 4. Have you created momentum?
Thrillers rely heavily on forward movement throughout, but the opening pages are particularly critical because that’s where writers get their first chance to earn readers’ trust and prove that momentum will be attended to.
Weak momentum The first five pages are not the place for information dumps that provide:
There is definitely a place for all of that stuff, but it’s better to introduce it appropriately after the story has got moving, particularly if it’s detailed. Not doing so means things could end up feeling rather static. Strong momentum Early pages that focus tightly on a problem, a mystery, a decision or an unusual situation will hold readers’ attention. We don’t need to be given all the answers or supporting information at this point – there’s a whole novel to do that. And in fact, not having all the background helps build intrigue and drive curiosity. The opening five pages of TM Logan’s 29 Seconds (Zaffre, 2018) give a superb example of narrative momentum. Readers are offered the following:
Throughout these few pages we’re presented with, first, a mystery, then tension as she tries to manage her shock and fear during the harassment. There are more questions than answers, but Logan makes us wait, concentrating on momentum rather than filling in all the detail. Tip for writers and editors Focus on motion rather than explanations in the first five pages. That energy will ensure that readers are prepared to wait for the detail that fills in all the gaps. Summing up
The first five pages of a thriller should do four things:
When those elements are in place, readers will want to turn pages 6, 7 and beyond. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
This post explores how to use embedded dialogue snippets and what effect they have on tone, character and flow.
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Capturing speech memory
Dialogue doesn’t only happen in real time. Sometimes a character recalls what was said or what they half-heard, or they mentally echo something that was stated in the past. This is speech memory.
Done well, capturing those moments on the page enhances the reader’s experience. It can affect the mood and flow, and subtly shine a narrative light on one particular character, while still revealing how others interacted verbally with them. What is embedded dialogue?
Embedded dialogue is reported speech or remembered lines that are woven into the narrative. The quotation marks and dialogue tags that we’d expect to see in active, real-time dialogue are omitted. Here's an example that compares the two approaches:
Active dialogue plus narrative:
Dialogue embedded in the narrative:
While the reader gets the same information, the mood is different. The active-dialogue version feels punchier, more immediate. The embedded-dialogue version feels more contemplative.
When to use embedded dialogue
1. To reflect a character’s processing of a memory of speech
A remembered line can reveal emotion or motive without cutting to a flashback or breaking the scene. Here are a couple of embedded-dialogue examples:
Active-dialogue versions might look like this:
Again, neither of these versions – the embedded or active dialogue – are right or wrong. But they do convey a different mood, and the prose flows differently. The active dialogue versions are blunter, terser and highlight different voices. The embedded dialogue is smoother and less tense, and highlights one voice.
2. To keep the focus on the viewpoint character and their present tension Recalling memories of the spoken words can add weight to prose without shifting the spotlight away from the viewpoint character's perspective in the now. Here are two embedded-dialogue examples:
Active-dialogue versions might look like this:
I think the embedded dialogue feels much more grounded in the characters’ immediate conundrums. It's their voice that shines through. The active dialogue, however, even with the pluperfect (past-perfect) speech tags, pulls the reader out of the present and shines a light on other characters' speech.
3. To avoid disruption Long dialogue flashbacks can derail pacing. Embedded snippets allow you to fold the past into present seamlessly. Again, here are two embedded-dialogue examples:
Now let’s turn that into active dialogue:
I think the active-dialogue versions are disruptive because the recalled speech is so lengthy and flips the focus onto the past speakers.
However, in the embedded-dialogue versions, the flow of the narrative captures the past speech but maintains the smooth flow of the prose and keeps the reader’s gaze firmly on the current viewpoint characters. 4. To add variety to how 'remembered' dialogue is displayed Using a mixture of embedded and active dialogue can add variety to how remembered speech is displayed, making it more interesting for the reader. Here's an example that includes both:
Here, the two styles work with each other to capture multiple speaker voices, but in a way that still ensures the first-person narrator's immediate experience remains dominant.
When active dialogue works
Active dialogue is brilliant in the following circumstances:
The difference between embedded dialogue and free indirect speech
Both free indirect speech and embedded dialogue are narrative techniques used to represent characters’ thoughts or speech, but they differ in structure and how much the narrator mediates the character's voice.
Here are two examples:
Example 1. Free indirect speech:
Notice how this feels more subjective. The psychic distance between the reader and the character is very close.
Free indirect speech is all about the viewpoint character and focuses on conveying what’s going on in their head now.
Example 2. Embedded dialogue:
Notice how this feels a little more objective and told because of the expository filter word ‘wondering’ and ‘speech-memory indicator ‘said he’d’. The psychic distance is a little wider in this case, as if the prose is being told by the narrator.
Embedded dialogue is all about the viewpoint character’s recollection; it holds the essence of memory … that something specific was actually said in the past. Neither is right or wrong. Instead, free indirect speech and embedded dialogue serve different purposes, and so one might work better than the other depending on what the author’s trying to achieve. Summing up
Embedded dialogue snippets let you carry the weight of past speech without quoting every line. Use them to deepen character, maintain narrative flow and give your prose a more intimate texture.
When done well, embedded dialogue allows the past to echo through to the present, shaping motive and mood without slowing the action. It’s not just about what was said, but how your viewpoint character remembers it. Other resources you might like
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
This post explores how oversimplifications of human motivation as ‘good’ versus ‘evil’ can damage crime fiction, mysteries and thrillers.
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The trouble with clear-cut morality
In real life, morality is murky. Few people do harm ‘just because’. People do bad things for complex reasons, and those in investigative roles – and apparently on the side of justice – don’t always behave impeccably.
Compelling contemporary crime fiction tends to avoid rigid binaries that present ‘good’ and ‘bad’ characters, where the villain is evil because they commit a crime, and the sleuth is good because they solve it. Going down that route can weaken character development, limit emotional relatability and misrepresent how justice manifests in a way that’s plausible. How to turn flat caricatures into relatable characters
In a binary model, the villain is ‘monsterized’ as inherently bad – the evil psychopath or lowlife. The focus is more on the nastiness they’ve done.
Meanwhile, the investigator is ‘heroized’ as inherently good – the wonderful restorer of order. The focus is on how they’ve saved the day. However, when you provide a deeper understanding of the reasons why a criminal acted as they did, and when you make space for a sleuth’s flaws, doubts and moral ambiguity, readers are able to access more plausible and fully rounded characters with human backstories and worldviews, however flawed. An example from the bookshelf One of my favourite examples of a flawed law-enforcement officer is Mick Herron’s Jackson Lamb, the unkempt, chain-smoking, foul-mouthed and flatulent head of Slough House, home to MI5 agents who’ve made career-ending mistakes. He’s vicious but protective, revolting but brilliant, both burned out and razor-sharp, more anti-hero than saviour. It’s Lamb’s complexity that keeps readers turning the page.
Prompt for writers and editors
Check your villain and sleuth. Where are the cracks that could move them away from binary stereotypes and towards human beings that your readers feel compelled to get under the skin of? Does the sleuth wonder if they're doing the right thing? Does the criminal regret, justify or second-guess themself? Making space for this adds tension. Exploring justice that reflects reality
Ditching binary models of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ allows you to explore crime and justice in a way that engages readers who’ve experienced systemic injustice in real life, as well as those whose privilege means they haven’t.
For example, a criminal’s actions might stem from something far more alarming than pure greed. It could be grounded in, or driven by, their experience of poverty, fear, abuse, racial- or class-based oppression. Taking this approach asks readers to consider where biases in the system are, who the establishment serves, and whether equal opportunity really stands up under the microscope. Examples from the bookshelf When I first read The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood over thirty years ago, Aunt Lydia, one of Gilead’s enforcers, didn’t get a voice, so I had no access to her motivations as a perpetrator. In The Testaments, she finally gets to narrate. It’s a glorious study of how abuse, fear and oppression can drive the most appalling behaviours, and what deeper motivation might lie beyond. On the surface, SA Cosby’s Razorblade Tears is a revenge thriller focusing on two former conmen – one Black, one white – bent on dishing out justice after their sons are murdered. But embedded within the criminality is a powerful story about grief and the prejudice each man must confront within himself. Prompt for writers and editors Check your assumptions. What lived experiences do your villain and sleuth bring to the table, and how do those affect their perception of the crime, evading detection and the approach to the investigation? Avoid telling readers who’s ‘right’ and who’s ‘wrong'. Instead, show them conflicting perspectives and allow them to decide for themselves. Ask questions about your perpetrators and your investigators: What does this person want and fear? What trauma or injustice shaped their choices? Who might see them as a hero, and who might see them as a villain? Building tension through real-world themes
Avoiding traditional ‘good’ and ‘bad’ binaries encourages space for exploring themes that cement tension throughout the novel, and speak to readers living in the world as it is now … or the one it might be in the not-too-distant future.
Through those themes, you might explore societies’ values, and what constitutes criminal behaviour in terms of your own and your readers’ values. Are there are circumstances where bad deeds might be justified for the greater good? For example, could the perpetrator and the investigator both be grappling with thorny concepts that make who’s ‘right’ and who’s ‘wrong’ ambiguous?
An example from the bookshelf Tom R Weaver’s debut thriller Artificial Wisdom mixes cli-fi, techno-political intrigue and ethical tension. It asks readers to consider whether truth matters more than survival, and whether we should trust our fate to humanity alone or something beyond it. Prompt for writers and editors Check your underlying themes. Which big-picture questions might you draw the reader's attention to and that don’t have clearcut answers? What happens when the system itself is unjust? What if both the criminal and sleuth are victims of the same failing structure? Summing up
Crime fiction and thrillers can reveal uncomfortable truths about people and systems. By embracing ambiguity, you can craft more emotionally resonant and morally engaging stories.
To keep your characters interesting and out of binary waters, ask yourself whether the most compelling villain might be one who almost persuades us, and whether the most unforgettable hero might be one who almost breaks our trust. Other resources you might like
About Louise
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Backstory helps readers understand why characters act the way they do and what their motivations are. This post offers five tips on how to introduce it so that it enriches, rather than distracts from, the main story.
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What is character backstory?
Backstory is the fictional history of a character before the main plot begins. It could include past events, relationships, traumas or achievements that shape their present behaviour and decisions. Backstory should be:
To ensure you hit the mark, think about which of the following mechanisms might work best for your novel. 1. Drip feed the information
Think of backstory as the seasoning rather than the main dish. It can be tempting to give readers everything you want them to know about the past in a dedicated and detailed chapter. However, this comes with risk. Your reader, who’s itching to move forward and find out what’s going to happen next, is forced backwards.
The focus is no longer on the now of the novel, but on a different time and space. That in itself can be distracting. Plus, by giving readers all this backstory in one fell swoop, you could lose the opportunity to introduce suspense, mystery or intrigue. Instead of an information dump, try instead a brief but telling reference that’s related to the current action. For example, if your character’s past involves an event that’s made them mistrustful of small spaces, you could hint at this in the narrative, but explain it more fully in a piece of dialogue later on. Here’s how that might look at first mention. The backstory nudge is in bold.
This way, you’re revealing backstory in smaller chunks – ones that invite the reader to think: What happened last time he went into a dark alley?
This builds suspense and leaves readers with questions that you can answer later. And for now, the reader stays in the moment with Baz, running towards the square and finding safety in the crowd. 2. Use natural dialogue
Dialogue can be a superb way of unveiling backstory. Depending on when it comes up, you can drip feed or go into more detail.
The key is to ensure that it sounds natural rather than being a convenient tool. For example, if Marcus already knows about Baz’s fears, the following will feel overworked. The dialogue is for the reader’s benefit only, not what these two people might actually say to each other. What to avoid
This kind of dialogue-for-convenience is sometimes referred to as maid-and-butler dialogue. To avoid it, try something like the following instead.
What to do instead
Again, this version hints at a traumatic event in the past, but leaves an intriguing space for more to be revealed later.
3. Interject with narrative reflection
If the time has come to reveal more, you could use the space between the dialogue to offer a little more insight.
Take care to restrain it. Give the reader just enough, then pull them back to the present action. Here’s how that might look.
4. Use other characters to reveal backstory
You could decide to hint at a character’s backstory through how others see them. Again, readers should be given only what they need to know, and the reveal should be relevant to the scene.
Notice how we’re given a nudge about something in Baz’s past that means alternative arrangements have to be made. These add a little complexity to the plan Fi and Marcus are working on, but there’s space to explore in more detail at a later point.
If it’s time to introduce that extra detail, an alternative could see Marcus reflecting internally on a plan he’s put together. Here, the backstory is more detailed but it’s still relevant to the present issue that he’s focusing on – planning an escape.
5. Use sounds, objects or settings as triggers
The external environment can be effective tools with which to introduce backstory. Your protagonist might see, hear or touch something that triggers a memory or an emotion.
Here are two examples. Once more, they’re mere nudges that make the reader ask questions, rather than lengthy explanations that risk flattening the prose.
Summing up
Backstory is as a tool that gives your crime fiction and its characters emotional depth at any point it’s introduced. If it doesn’t affect how the reader engages with the story in the moment, remove it.
Keep it taut so that the reader remains engrossed in the novel’s present – what the characters are doing/feeling now. Nudges and hints at first mention are often far more suspenseful and intriguing. If backstory is dragging on for multiple paragraphs or even chapters – a within-novel biography – rethink its structure and how you might break it up so that you reveal it gradually. Other resources you might like
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Does your novel’s narrative have several consecutive snippets of dialogue that reflect a non-viewpoint character’s state of mind? If so, how do you punctuate them? And is there an alternative to using speech marks?
What’s in this post?
The difference between dialogue and narrative
Dialogue is the conversation between two or more characters. It’s what people say out loud and is often indicated by opening and closing quotation marks (or speech marks). Depending on your style of choice, these marks can be either singles ‘blah blah’ or doubles “blah blah”.
Narrative is the telling of the story – how an external narrator or viewpoint character reports on the events taking place in the novel. In the example below, the dialogue between the characters is in quotation marks. The surrounding text is narrative, and through it we learn what the viewpoint character – Milo – is thinking and what he can see and hear as the journey progresses.
Note the following:
Here’s how it might look using US English style:
Note the following:
Using speech snippets as a narrative device
Sometimes the narrative can include snippets of speech to inform readers about a character’s state of mind or a types of behaviours.
Although full sentences are used in the speech snippets, it’s not conventional dialogue. Rather, it’s narrating character’s recollection of utterances that give the reader a flavour of another character’s perspective. Here’s an example punctuated using British English style. Note the following:
And here’s an example punctuated using US English style, which some people might find a little trickier because of the question mark and the punctuation convention. In the three examples below:
Option 1: Allow the question mark to do the separating
Option 2: Recast so that the snippet with a question mark is at the end of the sentence
Option 3: Add a separating comma after the closing quotation mark to emphasize the separation
If you’re an editor who doesn’t have the scope to suggest a recast, I think Option 1 is fine. The question mark acts in place of a separating comma and avoids cluttering punctuation.
Option 3 indicates a clear separation but it’s a break from US-English style and clutters the paragraph with a comma that isn’t strictly needed. Using free indirect speech as an alternative
Free indirect speech (also called free indirect discourse) is an alternative that could work for writers worried about getting tangled up in how to punctuate snippets of direct speech in narrative.
Free indirect speech reads like direct first person dialogue but retains a third-person viewpoint. Here’s how it might work in our example.
Note how I’ve experimented with just a little italic for emphasis – old chap and our lot.
That’s so that although Milo is reporting the kinds of things he heard his boss say, the reader pays attention to the some of the tone of his boss’s voice and some of the language that Milo finds particularly grating. Keeping the text lean and engaging
It’s worth paying attention to how many dialogue snippets you’re using. If they’re in a single sentence of the narrative, there’s a risk the prose won’t flow well and the reader will get lost. In the example I provided above, there were four, and that’s probably about the limit.
So what should you do if you’re passing an editorial eye over a sentence with lots of snippets? Option 1: Can you create the same impact with fewer snippets? Check whether all those snippets need to be there. Are some of them conveying similar information? If that’s the case, could you retain only those necessary to convey the essence of the character’s thought processes to the reader? The example below has eight snippets.
Yes, Adamson might have uttered all of those statements, but capturing the essence of his mindset can be still achieved my omitting at least three of them.
I recommend you pick the utterances that are most powerful. That way, you'll ensure your reader remains engaged. Option 2: Create two sentences from one If editing out some dialogue snippets isn’t an option, try breaking the sentence into two.
Option 3: Mix up dialogue snippets and free indirect speech Another option is to combine two different literary tools – direct speech snippets and free indirect speech. Here’s how it might work.
Again, I experimented with just a little italic to draw attention to Adamson's tone and its grating effect on Milo, and added an action beat in parentheses to highlight Adamson's readiness to break the law.
This option ensures the use of direct speech isn’t overworked, and instead gives the reader a different way to access the information in the narrative about how Adamson’s mind works. Should the snippets be capitalized?
Whether or not you should capitalize the snippets is a style choice. I've chosen to capitalize them in the examples I provided because I wanted to indicate that this is how these full sentences would have been rendered if we'd been shown the actual conversation as it happened.
If I was dealing with partial dialogue, I'd approach the text as in the next example.
Summing up
Using snippets of direct dialogue as a narrative tool can be a superb way of conveying a non-viewpoint character’s mindset and behaviour.
However, writers and their editors need to ensure that readers won’t be tempted to skim. For that reason, pay attention to:
Related resources
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Find out how to balance the scenes in a crime novel or thriller by using different types of beats that help readers understand the fictional world they’re immersed in. There's a free sample scene analysis too!
What’s in this post?
5 types of beats in the fiction writer’s and editor’s toolbox
Fiction writers, and the editors who support them, can use different types of beats to make a scene interesting: emotion, action, inaction, description and dialogue beats.
All have their place. Here’s how each works to create a more fully rounded scene. I’ve focused on examples from crime fiction and thrillers, but the advice below could equally be applied to other genres. Emotion beats
Emotion beats tell readers how the viewpoint character is feeling. They bring sensibility to a scene.
A viewpoint character is the character from whose perspective we experience the story. In first-person-limited and third-person-limited narratives, readers have access to what’s going on inside their heads – for example, their emotions, thoughts and decision-making processes. Access to this internal space helps us empathize with them and make sense of their motivations. That doesn’t mean we have to like them, but we do understand them. And that brings them to life and makes them more interesting.
Example from published fiction
Adrian McKinty, The Chain, Orion, 2020 (Kindle version, Chapter 1)
Action beats
Action beats help readers imagine how a character is physically behaving and can give us insights into the environment and the person’s traits. They bring movement to a scene.
Perhaps a viewpoint character stands up because the overly soft chair is making their sciatica play up; maybe an object’s being discussed, and they push it away in disgust; or perhaps they rub their bare feet across the rough pile of a rug in order to soothe themselves in an unformattable situation. These beats are particularly useful when an author wants to convey emotions being experienced by a non-viewpoint character whose internal head-space isn’t accessible in limited narrative styles. Perhaps wiping sweat off their forehead indicates they’re feeling nervous, or their fidgeting with a beer mat indicates boredom.
Example from published fiction
Harlan Coben, Win, Arrow, 2021 (Kindle edition, Chapter 1)
Inaction beats
Inaction beats are pauses, hesitations and moments of silence or stillness. Even when these are short, they help the reader understand pace. They bring breathing space to a scene.
They’re powerful because they can show rather than tell more than one character’s contemplation, consideration, indecision, or shock. The prose might state the stillness or silence directly, or it can be nuanced and come in the form of a character’s taking stock of a situation or bracing themselves for a potential upset.
Example from published fiction
Kate Hamer, The Girl in the Red Coat, Faber & Faber, 2015 (Kindle edition, Chapter 6)
Description beats
Description beats give readers objective information about the character or environment. They bring stability to a scene.
They help readers understand what characters are wearing, what they look like, what’s surrounding them, what they can hear, see, smell, touch or taste. That brings the scene alive.
Example from published fiction
Harlan Coben, Win, Arrow, 2021 (Kindle edition, Chapter 1)
Dialogue beats
Dialogue beats tell readers what characters are saying and let readers hear those distinct voices in action. Vocal speech can be heard, and so dialogue beats bring expression to a scene.
Like action beats, dialogue is an opportunity to bring depth to non-viewpoint characters in limited narrative styles. Their internal opinions and feelings – which we don’t have access to because we’re not in their heads – are revealed to us.
Example from published fiction
Adrian McKinty, The Chain, Orion, 2020 (Kindle version, Chapter 1)
Why mixing up beats makes scenes more interesting
Too much of anything is rarely a good thing, and the same applies to a novel’s beats. When a scene’s constructed primarily around a particular type of beat, there’s a risk the reader will become frustrated and lose interest.
Writers and their publishing teams can use the drafting and editing stages to analyse the prose and evaluate whether there’s sufficient balance. How to analyse a scene for beat balance
Must all 5 beats be introduced? No, certainly not. There’s no formula to writing compelling fiction. Good line craft means making a judgement about what’s missing and what might be added.
APPROACH 1 One way of approaching this is to think not in terms of the different types of beats but instead in terms of what they contribute, and whether there’s too much or too little. And so writers and their editors can ask: Which of the following should the reader experience in this scene, and are they present? Here’s a summary of those elements:
Example: Is too much expression dampening the scene? An over-reliance on dialogue – even if it’s extremely well written – leaves a reader with no nudges about the emotions characters are experiencing or the environment they’re operating in. It’s two or more talking heads on a page. If there should be expression in the scene, but the characters are chattering too much, think how you might turn the volume down, or at least disrupt it. Consider introducing a few action, description and emotion beats. Or even turn some of the information contained within the speech into narrative. Example: Is too much stability flattening the scene? An over-reliance on objective description – even if it gives the reader a rich sense of the environment – leaves readers with no way of accessing mood. It’s a menu of what’s where. Description should stabilise the scene, not crush it so that it’s as flat as a pancake. Help readers get under the skin of the characters and their environment by adding emotion or dialogue, or a little action that gives the scene some movement.
APPROACH 2
Another option is to colour-code the text in a scene according to what type of beats are in play. This can help authors and editors evaluate whether one type of beat is overbearing, and where they might add in additional types of beat to disrupt that dominance. It's a powerful way of communicating the problem visually and quickly. Summing up
Using different types of beats in a scene helps readers to understand where the character is, what’s around them, how they feel and what’s important to them. Over-reliance on one type can lead to boredom and frustration; mix things up to keep them interested and turning the page.
Download a free beats booklet
Other resources you might like
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Writers can place dialogue tags before, between and after speech – there’s no right or wrong way to do it. Tag-first speech does have a different feel to it though, particularly when the construction is used frequently. This post explores the impact on your novel.
In this post ...
Read on to find out more about the following:
What a dialogue tag is
A dialogue tag is the short piece of text that tells a reader that a character is speaking, and which character is speaking. For example:
In the above examples, the tags are shown in bold and comprise the subject (someone’s name or their pronoun) doing the speaking, and the verb from which the reader can infer that the action of speech is taking place. Commonly used effective verbs include ‘said’, ‘asked’, ‘replied’, ‘whispered’, ‘muttered’, ‘yelled’, ‘continued’ and ‘added’. Ineffective dialogue tags use verbs that bring to mind action that’s not related precisely to speech but to some other behaviour. Examples include ‘sneered’, ‘grimaced’, ‘laughed’, ‘harrumphed’, ‘huffed’, ‘sighed’, ‘snarled’ and ‘urged’. Positioning tags in fiction:
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‘I won’t be long,’ Bond said, opening the door.
(Boyd: Solo) |
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“Me and Jaymie will call it. You want your boy to go too?” he said.
(Crosby: Blacktop Wasteland) |
Mid-loaded dialogue tags
Mid-loaded tags come between the speech. They, too, are a popular choice for writers. Consider this option in the following circumstances:
- Length: The dialogue stream is longer and you want to ensure your readers don’t wait too long to discover who’s speaking.
- Rhythm and context: You want to introduce a natural pause so that the speech doesn’t turn into a monologue. You can also supplement the tag with descriptive action that grounds the dialogue in the environment and helps the reader picture the scene.
- Impact level: You’ve written a witty, suspenseful or impactful punchline into the dialogue and don’t want it interrupted or flattened by a tag.
- Interrupted speech: You’ve written speech that’s interrupted abruptly and don’t want the tag interfering with the interrupter’s speech.
EXAMPLE 1
This first example is from David Rosenfeld's Collared.
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“Andy,” Laurie says, draping her arm around me. "We love you deeply. As far as Ricky and I are concerned, the sun rises and sets on you. And it is from that place of love and that place of the rising and setting sun that we say this to you: 'Sign the damn form and send it in.'"
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Notice how in the above example of single-character dialogue, which comprises a total of 51 words, the impact point is with the closing sentence: ‘Sign the damn form and send it in’. Because the tag’s located earlier, that dialogue gets to shine.
Compare the original with this version, which I’ve given a back-loaded tag:
Compare the original with this version, which I’ve given a back-loaded tag:
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“Andy, we love you deeply. As far as Ricky and I are concerned, the sun rises and sets on you. And it is from that place of love and that place of the rising and setting sun that we say this to you: 'Sign the damn form and send it in,'" Laurie says, draping her arm around me.
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Back-loading the tag strips ‘Sign the damn form and send it in’ of its oomph.
EXAMPLE 2
Here’s an example from Linwood Barclay’s Parting Shot that shows how mid-loaded tags can protect the flow of interrupted dialogue.
EXAMPLE 2
Here’s an example from Linwood Barclay’s Parting Shot that shows how mid-loaded tags can protect the flow of interrupted dialogue.
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“Ms. Plimpton,” Duckworth said. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Detective Barry—”
“I know exactly who you are,” she said, and reached out and took his hand in hers. |
Notice how by mid-loading the dialogue tag, Ms. Plimpton’s interruption – indicated by the closed-up em dash at the end of Duckworth’s speech – feels more authentic because it’s given the space to flow.
Front-loaded dialogue tags
Front-loaded tags come before the dialogue. This position is the one least used in most commercial fiction, and there’s a good reason for that: reader focus.
Those familiar with advice on writing for the web will know that web copy needs to be front-loaded with relevant keywords. This means that the important stuff comes first. That’s because visitors to websites are busy and scanning for solutions to their problems. When they don’t get them fast, they become frustrated and are more likely to jump to another site.
If the novelist’s done their job well, readers will invest way more time in soaking up their prose than if they were shopping for a new duvet cover. Even so, every word in a piece of fiction needs to count, and readers should still be focusing on the most important stuff.
And so if you’ve written great dialogue, most of the time you’ll want to ensure your readers are focusing on it as soon as possible. Front-loading the speech, rather than the tag, helps achieve that.
That’s not to say that front-loaded dialogue tags don’t have their place. They do, and they can be extremely effective when used purposefully.
Front-loaded dialogue tags
Front-loaded tags come before the dialogue. This position is the one least used in most commercial fiction, and there’s a good reason for that: reader focus.
Those familiar with advice on writing for the web will know that web copy needs to be front-loaded with relevant keywords. This means that the important stuff comes first. That’s because visitors to websites are busy and scanning for solutions to their problems. When they don’t get them fast, they become frustrated and are more likely to jump to another site.
If the novelist’s done their job well, readers will invest way more time in soaking up their prose than if they were shopping for a new duvet cover. Even so, every word in a piece of fiction needs to count, and readers should still be focusing on the most important stuff.
And so if you’ve written great dialogue, most of the time you’ll want to ensure your readers are focusing on it as soon as possible. Front-loading the speech, rather than the tag, helps achieve that.
That’s not to say that front-loaded dialogue tags don’t have their place. They do, and they can be extremely effective when used purposefully.
When front-loaded tags work:
Impact level, psychic distancing and lyricism
Let’s have a look at how a front-loaded dialogue tag can be used to superb effect when used purposefully.
Impact level
A front-loaded dialogue tag can function in the same way as a mid-loaded one when it comes to speech containing impact points. Again, we’re talking about dialogue that’s witty, suspenseful, or closes with an impactful line that you don’t want to flatten with a tag.
EXAMPLE
Let’s return to the excerpt from Collared. Although Rosenfelt uses a mid-loaded tag, he could have opted for a front-loaded one and preserved the oomph in his closing sentence. Here’s how it might look:
Impact level
A front-loaded dialogue tag can function in the same way as a mid-loaded one when it comes to speech containing impact points. Again, we’re talking about dialogue that’s witty, suspenseful, or closes with an impactful line that you don’t want to flatten with a tag.
EXAMPLE
Let’s return to the excerpt from Collared. Although Rosenfelt uses a mid-loaded tag, he could have opted for a front-loaded one and preserved the oomph in his closing sentence. Here’s how it might look:
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Laurie drapes her arm around me and says, “Andy, we love you deeply. As far as Ricky and I are concerned, the sun rises and sets on you. And it is from that place of love and that place of the rising and setting sun that we say this to you: 'Sign the damn form and send it in.'"
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Psychic distancing
If you want the prose to feel more expository so that the reader is less closely connected to the character, front-loading the tag might be just the ticket. Doing this widens the psychic (or narrative) distance.
A tag tells of speaking whereas dialogue shows what’s being said. By placing the tag first, you draw the reader away from the character’s voice and give the prose a more objective feel.
EXAMPLE
This excerpt is from Jens Lapidus’s Life Deluxe.
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They veered onto a side street off Storgatan.
Jorge's phone rang. Paola: "It's me. Que haces, hermano?" Jorge thought: Should I tell her the truth? "I'm in Södertälje." "At a bakery?" Paola: J-boy loved her. Still, he couldn't take it. He said, "Yeah, yeah, ‘course I'm at a bakery. But we gotta talk later—I got my hands full of muffins here." They hung up. |
Lapidus has front-loaded dialogue tags and thoughts in this excerpt, and it’s an excellent example of psychic distancing in action. The centring of the characters rather than the speech gives the prose a detached, clinical feel that shows rather than tells mood.
Jorge is a drug-dealer operating in Stockholm’s shady underworld. He’s only just out of jail but already he’s frustrated with a life of honesty. In fact, he’s got only one thing on his mind: easy money.
The wider psychic distance means we get to see the world through Jorge’s eyes but without getting too close to him. Perhaps Lapidus doesn’t want us to empathize with him too much. Instead, he widens the psychic distance just enough that we can make up our own minds about whether Jorge deserves the trouble coming his way.
Lyricism
Repeated use of front-loaded tags with short bursts of dialogue can introduce a lyricism into prose whereby the tags function as more than just indications of who’s speaking. They become part of the poetry.
This approach can work particularly well with parody, satire and comedic prose.
EXAMPLE
Jorge is a drug-dealer operating in Stockholm’s shady underworld. He’s only just out of jail but already he’s frustrated with a life of honesty. In fact, he’s got only one thing on his mind: easy money.
The wider psychic distance means we get to see the world through Jorge’s eyes but without getting too close to him. Perhaps Lapidus doesn’t want us to empathize with him too much. Instead, he widens the psychic distance just enough that we can make up our own minds about whether Jorge deserves the trouble coming his way.
Lyricism
Repeated use of front-loaded tags with short bursts of dialogue can introduce a lyricism into prose whereby the tags function as more than just indications of who’s speaking. They become part of the poetry.
This approach can work particularly well with parody, satire and comedic prose.
EXAMPLE
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I posed my conundrum to the class and waited for their insights on what I considered to be my finest theoretical work to date.
Mari said, ‘No.’ Ahmed said, ‘Yes.’ Sol said, ‘Maybe.’ Dave said, ‘I couldn’t give a shit. Is that the best you’ve got?’ Arthur said nothing, just yawned. The bell rang. Suitably insulted, I raised the SIG, shot each student in the head, and retired to the staff room. |
Notice how the multiple front-loaded dialogue tags are performing anaphorically. Anaphora is the purposeful repetition of words or phrases at the beginning of successive clauses.
It’s often used in poetry and speeches. When it’s used in novels, that repetition draws the reader's eye and can show rather than tell mood – boredom, monotony or, as in this case, disinterest. The tags are therefore key to the lyricism, and as important as the speech.
It’s often used in poetry and speeches. When it’s used in novels, that repetition draws the reader's eye and can show rather than tell mood – boredom, monotony or, as in this case, disinterest. The tags are therefore key to the lyricism, and as important as the speech.
Summing up
Front-loading dialogue tags is something most authors tend to avoid. However, as is usually the case when it comes to line craft in fiction, there are no rules.
The key is to consider what purpose your tag is serving and how it can best amplify the speech, evoke mood, and improve rhythm.
The key is to consider what purpose your tag is serving and how it can best amplify the speech, evoke mood, and improve rhythm.
Cited sources
- Barclay, l., Parting Shot, Orion; 2017 (p. 380)
- Boyd, W., Solo: A James Bond Novel, Vintage, 2014 (p. 260)
- Crosby, SA, Blacktop Wasteland, Headline, 2021 (Chapter 1, Kindle edition)
- Lapidus, J, Life Deluxe, Pan, 2015 (Chapter 1, Kindle edition)
- Rosenfelt, D, Collared, Minotaur Books, 2017 (Kindle edition)
Fiction editing training: Books and courses
- Editing Fiction at Sentence Level (book)
- Fiction editing and writing resources (online library)
- How to Line Edit for Suspense (multimedia course)
- How to Write the Perfect Fiction Editorial Report (multimedia course)
- Narrative Distance: A Toolbox for Writers and Editors (multimedia course)
- Preparing Your Book for Submission (multimedia course)
- Switching to Fiction (multimedia course)
- What is anaphora and how can you use it in fiction writing? (blog post)
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
- Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
- Learn: Books and courses
- Discover: Resources for authors and editors
Does ‘said’ come before or after the subject in a dialogue tag? Does it matter? This post explores the options and offers practical recommendations that serve writers seeking to build their author platform.
In this post ...
Read on to find out more about the following:
- What a dialogue tag is
- Why tags should support, not supplant dialogue
- Tagging: Positioning the verb in relation to pronouns
- Tagging: Positioning the verb in relation to nouns
- Standing out in ways that serve reader expectations
What a dialogue tag is
A dialogue tag, or speech tag, is the short piece of text that tells a reader that a character is speaking, and which character is speaking. For example:
Effective dialogue tags use verbs from which the reader can infer that the action of speech is taking place. Examples include ‘said’, ‘asked’, ‘replied’, ‘whispered’, ‘muttered’, ‘yelled’, ‘continued’ and ‘added’.
Ineffective dialogue tags use verbs that bring to mind action that’s not related precisely to speech but to some other behaviour. Examples include ‘sneered’, ‘grimaced’, ‘laughed’, ‘harrumphed’, ‘huffed’, ‘sighed’, ‘snarled’ and ‘urged’.
In this post, I’m going to focus on a question that beginner fiction authors and editors often ask about: where to locate ‘said’ and other effective tagging verbs.
First, though, here’s a quick recap about why ‘said’ is such a popular dialogue tag.
- ‘Are you enjoying reading that blog post,’ Louise said.
- ‘I’m interested in learning about dialogue,’ ze replied.
- ‘Can I stick to non-fiction editing?’ he asked.
Effective dialogue tags use verbs from which the reader can infer that the action of speech is taking place. Examples include ‘said’, ‘asked’, ‘replied’, ‘whispered’, ‘muttered’, ‘yelled’, ‘continued’ and ‘added’.
Ineffective dialogue tags use verbs that bring to mind action that’s not related precisely to speech but to some other behaviour. Examples include ‘sneered’, ‘grimaced’, ‘laughed’, ‘harrumphed’, ‘huffed’, ‘sighed’, ‘snarled’ and ‘urged’.
In this post, I’m going to focus on a question that beginner fiction authors and editors often ask about: where to locate ‘said’ and other effective tagging verbs.
First, though, here’s a quick recap about why ‘said’ is such a popular dialogue tag.
Why tags should support, not supplant dialogue
‘Said’ is the most popular speech tag in English-language writing because it’s virtually invisible. Readers are so used to seeing it that they ignore it and instead focus on its mechanical function – to verify who’s doing the speaking.
It’s become so conventional that when authors go out of their way to replace every instance of ‘said’ with alternatives, they risk creating prose that feels laboured.
Showy speech tags in particular stand out, and that means they pull the reader’s attention away from the dialogue and push it towards the speech tag.
That’s not a good reader experience because when characters communicate through speech, that’s where the action is in that moment. The tag should support that action, not supplant it.
You can find out more about how to tag dialogue in Editing Fiction at Sentence Level, including:
Now let’s look at where to place ‘said’ and other tagging verbs.
It’s become so conventional that when authors go out of their way to replace every instance of ‘said’ with alternatives, they risk creating prose that feels laboured.
Showy speech tags in particular stand out, and that means they pull the reader’s attention away from the dialogue and push it towards the speech tag.
That’s not a good reader experience because when characters communicate through speech, that’s where the action is in that moment. The tag should support that action, not supplant it.
You can find out more about how to tag dialogue in Editing Fiction at Sentence Level, including:
- Showy speech tags and underdeveloped dialogue
- Showy speech tags and double-telling
- Non-speech-based dialogue tags and the reality flop
- Alternatives to showy speech tags – more on action beats
- Using proper nouns and pronouns in dialogue tags
- Omitting dialogue tags
Now let’s look at where to place ‘said’ and other tagging verbs.
Tagging: Positioning the verb in relation to pronouns
Regardless of which pronouns are in play, it’s conventional in contemporary commercial fiction to place ‘said’ or any other tagging verb after the pronoun. Take a look at what’s on your bookshelf. Examples are easy to find. Here are some from my collection.
- “I know,” she says. “I’m violating the cardinal rule of family night.” (Crouch: Dark Matter)
- ‘I could do your job myself, if that’s what you mean,’ he’d said at last. (Herron: Slough House)
- “I don’t have no fucking mask,” he said. (Connelly: The Dark Hours)
- “Me and Jaymie will call it. You want your boy to go too?” he said. (Crosby: Blacktop Wasteland)
Let’s have a look at those examples when the verb is placed before the pronouns.
- “I know,” says she. “I’m violating the cardinal rule of family night.”
- ‘I could do your job myself, if that’s what you mean,’ said he at last.
- “I don’t have no fucking mask,” said he.
- “Me and Jaymie will call it. You want your boy to go too?” said he.
There’s actually nothing grammatically wrong with any of the edited examples, though I wasn't able to retain the past perfect in the second. What has gone awry is the narrative setting.
The dialogue is written in contemporary English but the verb placement evokes a distinctly historical feel that’s inappropriate.
So how about when nouns rather than pronouns are in play?
The dialogue is written in contemporary English but the verb placement evokes a distinctly historical feel that’s inappropriate.
So how about when nouns rather than pronouns are in play?
Tagging: Positioning the verb in relation to nouns
Authors published by mainstream presses tend to follow the same convention: the verb follows the noun. Once more, a visit to your bookshelf will confirm the frequency in contemporary commercial fiction. Here are some more examples from my collection.
- “There was nothing you could have done,” Judith said. (Coben: Fool Me Once)
- ‘Are you feeling the cold?’ Danny asked. (McDermid: 1979)
- “Sir, I can’t help you until you get a mask,” Moore said. (Connelly: The Dark Hours)
- “The question is, do you have the balls to back it up?” Kelvin said. (Crosby: Blacktop Wasteland)
Now let’s move the verb so that it sits before the noun.
- “There was nothing you could have done,” said Judith.
- ‘Are you feeling the cold?’ asked Danny.
- “Sir, I can’t help you until you get a mask,” said Moore.
- “The question is, do you have the balls to back it up?” said Kelvin.
Again, there’s nothing grammatically problematic about this structure. Furthermore, the switch doesn’t jar in the same way as when the subjects are pronouns.
So how should independent authors (and the editors who support them) approach the structure of a tag?
So how should independent authors (and the editors who support them) approach the structure of a tag?
Standing out in ways that serve reader expectations
I recommend my authors follow the noun-first convention, not because it’s right, or best, or grammatically correct, or the only one true way, but because when it comes to contemporary commercial fiction:
When readers are presented with stories that break with convention, there’s a risk that the story’s no longer the standout feature. Instead, those with strong preferences focus on minutiae that challenge their expectations.
That focus isn’t serving a writer who’s trying to build their author platform.
Mick Herron has built enough trust with his readership with his brilliant Jackson Lamb series that no one will bat an eyelid when they read the following in Slough House:
Nevertheless, I scoured the first chapter of that book and found that in the main he still favours placing the verb after the subject.
- lots of potential buyers of their books have come to expect this construction
- and it's the approach that mainstream presses tend to take.
When readers are presented with stories that break with convention, there’s a risk that the story’s no longer the standout feature. Instead, those with strong preferences focus on minutiae that challenge their expectations.
That focus isn’t serving a writer who’s trying to build their author platform.
Mick Herron has built enough trust with his readership with his brilliant Jackson Lamb series that no one will bat an eyelid when they read the following in Slough House:
- ‘Ian Fleming,’ said Diana Taverner. ‘Means “Death to spies”.’
Nevertheless, I scoured the first chapter of that book and found that in the main he still favours placing the verb after the subject.
Summing up
Placing ‘said’ and other speech-related verbs after the subject isn’t a ‘rule’ that must be applied in order to ensure a dialogue tag is grammatically correct.
However, it’s such a common convention that I recommend indie authors of contemporary commercial fiction follow it.
When the subjects in a tag are pronouns, this structure is essential for retaining a contemporary feel. When the subjects are nouns, placing them first gives the pedants one less thing to gripe about.
However, it’s such a common convention that I recommend indie authors of contemporary commercial fiction follow it.
When the subjects in a tag are pronouns, this structure is essential for retaining a contemporary feel. When the subjects are nouns, placing them first gives the pedants one less thing to gripe about.
Related reading and training
- Coben, H., Fool Me Once, Arrow, 2016 (Chapter 1, Kindle edition)
- Connelly, M, The Dark Hours, Orion, 2021 (Chapter 1, Kindle edition)
- Crosby, SA, Blacktop Wasteland, Headline, 2021 (Chapter 1, Kindle edition)
- Crouch, B, Dark Matter, Pan, 2017 (Chapter 1, Kindle edition)
- Harnby, L, Editing Fiction at Sentence Level, Panx Press, 2020
- Herron, M, Slough House, John Murray, 2021 (Chapter 1, Kindle edition)
- McDermid, V, 1979, Little, Brown, 2021 (Chapter 1, Kindle edition)
Fiction editing training courses
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
- Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
- Learn: Books and courses
- Discover: Resources for authors and editors
Find out what narrative distance is and why fiction editors and authors need to pay attention to it.
What’s in this post ...
- What is narrative distance?
- Are narrative distance and psychic distance the same thing?
- How is narrative distance related to narrative style?
- Why writers and editors need to learn about narrative distance
- Using a visual framework to understand narrative distance
- Related resources for you to dig into
What is narrative distance?
Narrative means story. It’s the part of a novel that isn’t dialogue.
A narrator is the person who tells the story. They can be a character in the book or an entity that stands outside it.
There can be multiple narrators in a book, too. That allows the author to present events from multiple perspectives.
‘Narrative distance’ describes the space between a novel’s narrator and the reader.
A narrator is the person who tells the story. They can be a character in the book or an entity that stands outside it.
There can be multiple narrators in a book, too. That allows the author to present events from multiple perspectives.
‘Narrative distance’ describes the space between a novel’s narrator and the reader.
- If we, as readers, feel deeply connected to the narrator and their experience of the fictional world they inhabit, narrative distance is tiny.
- If we feel dislocated from them, more like we’re looking out on the story’s landscape objectively, the narrative distance is wide.
Are narrative distance and psychic distance the same thing?
Yes, narrative distance and psychic distance are the same thing. Some writers and editors use one term, some the other. They’re interchangeable. Use whichever you feel comfortable with.
You might find one or other useful depending on what issues you’re dealing with when you’re writing or editing. I like the word ‘narrative’ because it reminds me what part of the prose I’m dealing with.
Then again, I sometimes use the word ‘psychic’ because it reminds me that although I’m dealing with fiction, and therefore something that’s not real, the narrator within that creative realm still has their own lived experience and a raft of emotions that come with that.
You might find one or other useful depending on what issues you’re dealing with when you’re writing or editing. I like the word ‘narrative’ because it reminds me what part of the prose I’m dealing with.
Then again, I sometimes use the word ‘psychic’ because it reminds me that although I’m dealing with fiction, and therefore something that’s not real, the narrator within that creative realm still has their own lived experience and a raft of emotions that come with that.
How is narrative distance related to narrative style?
Narrative style refers to the way in which the narrator offers their perspective. Common narrative styles include:
Each of those narrative styles come with a certain degree of distance between the narrator and the reader.
For example, first-person narrations always feel a little more intimate because the pronoun ‘I’ is used. Second-person narrations can feel equally intimate, but in a voyeuristic way.
Third-person narrations – and the pronouns that come with them – are what we’re used to using for those not being directly addressed, so in prose they naturally put space between readers and narrators using the third person.
When we move beyond a framework of narrative style and start to think specifically in terms of narrative distance, we’re able to analyse the effectiveness of prose in a more nuanced and flexible way.
- First-person limited
- Third-person limited
- Third-person objective
- Third-person omniscient
Each of those narrative styles come with a certain degree of distance between the narrator and the reader.
For example, first-person narrations always feel a little more intimate because the pronoun ‘I’ is used. Second-person narrations can feel equally intimate, but in a voyeuristic way.
Third-person narrations – and the pronouns that come with them – are what we’re used to using for those not being directly addressed, so in prose they naturally put space between readers and narrators using the third person.
When we move beyond a framework of narrative style and start to think specifically in terms of narrative distance, we’re able to analyse the effectiveness of prose in a more nuanced and flexible way.
Why writers and editors need to learn about narrative distance
Take a book off your shelf and read a couple of pages. Even though the entire section might be written in a single narrative style – for example, third-person limited, it’s likely that the narrative distance still changes.
Perhaps you’ve never noticed before, and if that’s the case, the author and their editor have done a great job because the movement is seamless.
If that movement is jarring and too obvious, it could be an indication that narrative distance isn’t being controlled sufficiently. Editors and writers who can recognize narrative distance and evaluate its effectiveness are better equipped to solve the problem, and justify their solutions.
Perhaps you’ve never noticed before, and if that’s the case, the author and their editor have done a great job because the movement is seamless.
If that movement is jarring and too obvious, it could be an indication that narrative distance isn’t being controlled sufficiently. Editors and writers who can recognize narrative distance and evaluate its effectiveness are better equipped to solve the problem, and justify their solutions.
Using a visual framework to understand narrative distance
Are you confused by narrative distance? Don’t worry – you’re not alone! It’s a complex topic. Even experienced line editors and authors can struggle to get their heads around it.
My solution was to structure my own learning as a visual framework. I presented that framework at the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading’s annual conference in September 2021 and then for the Society of Authors in October 2021.
The framework I shared at those two events garnered fabulous reviews and convinced me to record a webinar that everyone could access.
Narrative Distance: A Toolbox for Writers and Editors is available now to anyone who wants to lift the curtain on narrative distance and use it to craft prose that offers a better reader experience.
Use the button below to find out what’s included in the course.
My solution was to structure my own learning as a visual framework. I presented that framework at the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading’s annual conference in September 2021 and then for the Society of Authors in October 2021.
The framework I shared at those two events garnered fabulous reviews and convinced me to record a webinar that everyone could access.
Narrative Distance: A Toolbox for Writers and Editors is available now to anyone who wants to lift the curtain on narrative distance and use it to craft prose that offers a better reader experience.
Use the button below to find out what’s included in the course.
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If you’re a CIEP member, don’t forget that you can save 20% on all my courses. Log in to Promoted courses · Louise Harnby’s online courses. Then enter the coupon code at my checkout.
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Related resources for you to dig into
- Blog post: 7 reasons why I’m not the right editor for you
- Blog post: How to avoid repeating ‘I’ in first-person writing
- Blog post: How to show the emotions of non-viewpoint characters
- Blog post: What’s the difference between a viewpoint character and a protagonist?
- Book: Editing Fiction at Sentence Level
- Book: Making Sense of Point of View
- Course: How to Write the Perfect Fiction Editorial Report
- Course: Switching to Fiction
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
- Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
- Learn: Books and courses
- Discover: Resources for authors and editors
Learn about problematic language, the messages it might unintentionally convey, and how we can talk about the editorial conundrums we come across without judgement.
Embedding the language of preference in editorial discussion
Words are the professional editor’s business, yet the ones we use in the course of discussing how we apply our craft are all too often prescriptive.
Most editors, however experienced, encounter conundrums in their work that lead to their seeking advice from colleagues. Too often, the language of prescription is used to frame questions:
The problem with notions such as ‘right’, ‘correct’ and ‘rule’ is that they’re loaded. The implication is that there’s one way – a best way – to write and to edit.
In reality, there are multiple ways to punctuate a sentence, each of which could alter its flow and rhythm in nuanced ways.
There are multiple Englishes, too, each with grammatical and syntactical structures that vary from region to region within nations as well as from country to country.
And there are multiple style guides that express particular preferences.
All of which means there is no ‘correct’ way to punctuate a sentence, no ‘right’ grammar, and no ‘rule’ on hyphenation. What there are instead are conventions and choices that that can be implemented or ignored.
Instead, we could ask:
The artistry of editing lies in helping the client craft prose in which the meaning is clear and interpreted as intended by readers. Embedding that principle – rather than the language of rights and rules – in the way we talk about our work means we’re more likely to think descriptively rather than prescriptively.
Most editors, however experienced, encounter conundrums in their work that lead to their seeking advice from colleagues. Too often, the language of prescription is used to frame questions:
- ‘What’s the correct way to punctuate this sentence?’
- ‘Is the grammar in this sentence right?’
- ‘What’s APA’s rule for hyphenating [...]?’
The problem with notions such as ‘right’, ‘correct’ and ‘rule’ is that they’re loaded. The implication is that there’s one way – a best way – to write and to edit.
In reality, there are multiple ways to punctuate a sentence, each of which could alter its flow and rhythm in nuanced ways.
There are multiple Englishes, too, each with grammatical and syntactical structures that vary from region to region within nations as well as from country to country.
And there are multiple style guides that express particular preferences.
All of which means there is no ‘correct’ way to punctuate a sentence, no ‘right’ grammar, and no ‘rule’ on hyphenation. What there are instead are conventions and choices that that can be implemented or ignored.
Instead, we could ask:
- ‘How can I punctuate this sentence to convey urgency? The author’s used commas but I’m wondering if spaced en dashes would be effective.’
- ‘Is the grammar in this sentence distracting or is the sense clear? The narrator is from [...] but I’m not.’
- ‘What’s APA’s preference for hyphenating [...]?’
The artistry of editing lies in helping the client craft prose in which the meaning is clear and interpreted as intended by readers. Embedding that principle – rather than the language of rights and rules – in the way we talk about our work means we’re more likely to think descriptively rather than prescriptively.
Whose standards and conventions are in play?
There are myriad standards and conventions in language, ones that determine the following for example:
When we come across writing that doesn’t conform to these standards and conventions, some of us choose to refer instead to ‘non-standard’ language and ‘breaking from convention’ so as to avoid the judgement embodied in terms such as ‘right’, ‘best’, ‘correct’ and ‘rule’.
It’s been my preference because I felt it was more neutral and framed the issue around reader expectation rather than my own lived experience of language.
And that’s something I’ve been thinking about.
Why? Because these terms, too, need to be used with caution. We need to be aware that while standards and conventions help readers make sense of the written and spoken word, they are created and enforced by those with advantage, those who have the power to deem them as standard and conventional in the first place, and to assert their primacy.
That doesn’t make those standards and conventions better; it just means those who define them are in a position to do so. It also means that prose can be just as rich when those standards and conventions are ignored or flexed.
- How words are spelled in various Englishes
- How dialogue is punctuated
- Whether a term is hyphenated
- How apostrophes convey possession or omission
- Whether to place full points after contracted forms
- Whether the first paragraph in a section is indented or not
- The grammatical structure of a sentence
- How verbs are conjugated
When we come across writing that doesn’t conform to these standards and conventions, some of us choose to refer instead to ‘non-standard’ language and ‘breaking from convention’ so as to avoid the judgement embodied in terms such as ‘right’, ‘best’, ‘correct’ and ‘rule’.
It’s been my preference because I felt it was more neutral and framed the issue around reader expectation rather than my own lived experience of language.
And that’s something I’ve been thinking about.
Why? Because these terms, too, need to be used with caution. We need to be aware that while standards and conventions help readers make sense of the written and spoken word, they are created and enforced by those with advantage, those who have the power to deem them as standard and conventional in the first place, and to assert their primacy.
That doesn’t make those standards and conventions better; it just means those who define them are in a position to do so. It also means that prose can be just as rich when those standards and conventions are ignored or flexed.
What about style guides?
Individuals and organizations have preferences. For example, the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP), the University of Chicago Press and the American Psychological Association each have style guides that record their preferences for myriad stylistic decisions.
Mindful editing means remembering that these preferences aren’t ‘right’ or ‘better’. They’re certainly not rules. Even Oxford’s New Hart’s Rules isn’t a rulebook! Rather, these are useful guides that help editors and authors bring clarity and consistency to writing.
However, editors – particularly those working on creative texts – need to be ready to bend when character and narrative voice would be damaged by prescriptive application of a style guide.
As for those of us working on texts that deal with identity and representation, we need to be ready to question the advice in a published style guide; it might be behind the curve.
Mindful editing means remembering that these preferences aren’t ‘right’ or ‘better’. They’re certainly not rules. Even Oxford’s New Hart’s Rules isn’t a rulebook! Rather, these are useful guides that help editors and authors bring clarity and consistency to writing.
However, editors – particularly those working on creative texts – need to be ready to bend when character and narrative voice would be damaged by prescriptive application of a style guide.
As for those of us working on texts that deal with identity and representation, we need to be ready to question the advice in a published style guide; it might be behind the curve.
Transferring judgement to the client
If we use the language of ‘right/’wrong’, ‘correct’/’incorrect’ and even ‘standard’/’non-standard’ when we talk to other editors about our work, there’s a risk that this will leak into the way we convey solutions to our clients, even into the way we edit their work.
An author might not write in sentences that follow grammar, spelling and punctuation conventions, but that in no way means they’re a poor crafter of prose. Perhaps the way they lay down words is because they haven’t learned our conventions. Or perhaps they’ve actively chosen to ignore those conventions because that style of language doesn’t suit their character and narrative voices.
The mindful editor needs to recognize and respect both scenarios. Understanding which one is in play is critical because it will determine whether and which amendments are suggested, and why.
An author might not write in sentences that follow grammar, spelling and punctuation conventions, but that in no way means they’re a poor crafter of prose. Perhaps the way they lay down words is because they haven’t learned our conventions. Or perhaps they’ve actively chosen to ignore those conventions because that style of language doesn’t suit their character and narrative voices.
The mindful editor needs to recognize and respect both scenarios. Understanding which one is in play is critical because it will determine whether and which amendments are suggested, and why.
‘Wrong’, ‘non-standard’ or authentic voice?
Here’s an example that demonstrates how an author has chosen to craft a narrative that favours voice over ‘standard’ English now and then in order to reduce the distance between the narrator-protagonist and the reader.
These excerpts are from the opening chapter of Imran Mahmood’s You Don’t Know Me (pp 4–5; Penguin, 2017).
These excerpts are from the opening chapter of Imran Mahmood’s You Don’t Know Me (pp 4–5; Penguin, 2017).
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'I don’t mean it as joke ting, but like as a thing to shake you up. You never knew that I could speak like a professor is it? But I just wanted you to know that there’s more than just that one side to me that you lot saw when I was giving evidence.'
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Are the words I placed in bold ‘incorrect’ or ‘wrong’? That’s a judgemental approach that implies there’s a single perfect, right way to write and speak English. There isn’t.
Are the terms ‘non-standard’? To my ear, yes, some of them are, but that’s because I’m a 50-something middle-class white woman raised in Buckinghamshire, England, who was taught how to write and speak according to a standard dreamt up by … actually, I’m not sure who dreamt up the standard but it was probably someone who looked, spoke and was educated quite a lot like me and had the advantages I have.
Rather than thinking about these excerpts in terms of whether some of the words are non-standard or standard, instead we can evaluate them in terms of voice. Rich, evocative voice.
Our first-person narrator has been accused of murder and has elected to defend himself. As the blurb on the back cover says: ‘He now stands in the dock and wants to tell you the truth. He needs you to believe him. Will you?’
Actually, it’s his authentic voice that draws me – a 54-year-old middle-class white woman raised in Buckinghamshire, England – deep into his psyche so that I can see and hear him as if we are one. And that means I can root for him, invest in him, care about him, believe him.
Thinking about that narrative in terms of whether it’s ‘correct’ or ‘right’ would be butchery. To apply a digital red pen to it would be a crime.
And even those of us who might apply the term ‘non-standard’ to the emboldened words must acknowledge that such prescription is based purely on our own lived experience of English – how we write, how we speak, and what we were taught. That doesn’t make our way of speaking and writing better or worthier.
When story and characters drive language, readers will come along for the ride, regardless of their lived experience. When prescriptivism is behind the wheel, readers will disengage and find a different journey to take.
Are the terms ‘non-standard’? To my ear, yes, some of them are, but that’s because I’m a 50-something middle-class white woman raised in Buckinghamshire, England, who was taught how to write and speak according to a standard dreamt up by … actually, I’m not sure who dreamt up the standard but it was probably someone who looked, spoke and was educated quite a lot like me and had the advantages I have.
Rather than thinking about these excerpts in terms of whether some of the words are non-standard or standard, instead we can evaluate them in terms of voice. Rich, evocative voice.
Our first-person narrator has been accused of murder and has elected to defend himself. As the blurb on the back cover says: ‘He now stands in the dock and wants to tell you the truth. He needs you to believe him. Will you?’
Actually, it’s his authentic voice that draws me – a 54-year-old middle-class white woman raised in Buckinghamshire, England – deep into his psyche so that I can see and hear him as if we are one. And that means I can root for him, invest in him, care about him, believe him.
Thinking about that narrative in terms of whether it’s ‘correct’ or ‘right’ would be butchery. To apply a digital red pen to it would be a crime.
And even those of us who might apply the term ‘non-standard’ to the emboldened words must acknowledge that such prescription is based purely on our own lived experience of English – how we write, how we speak, and what we were taught. That doesn’t make our way of speaking and writing better or worthier.
When story and characters drive language, readers will come along for the ride, regardless of their lived experience. When prescriptivism is behind the wheel, readers will disengage and find a different journey to take.
Framing errors in terms of author intention and reader expectation
An error is a mistake. We all make them when we’re writing – because we don’t know what the conventions are, because we’re focusing on meaning rather than mechanics, or because our fingers are typing so fast.
Regardless, the focus here is on intention, and for that reason there are times when it’s appropriate for the editor to use the term ‘error’.
When editors are tasked with finding errors, they’re looking for what wasn’t intended in that particular project. Take a look at these four examples:
We can say without judgement that there are four ‘errors’ in the above examples because in each case the author likely made a mistake – they meant to use a consistent style of speech marks in the first example, meant the pronouns to be consistent in the second, meant to use ‘they’re' in the third, and meant to use an alternative style for the nested quotation marks in the fourth.
When we’re querying potential errors, however, we can still use the language of intention and reader expectation in our comments, thereby avoiding a more critical tone:
Regardless, the focus here is on intention, and for that reason there are times when it’s appropriate for the editor to use the term ‘error’.
When editors are tasked with finding errors, they’re looking for what wasn’t intended in that particular project. Take a look at these four examples:
- “Are the autopsy results in yet?’ Milburn asked.
- Xe put xyr pen on the table and frowned. No way was he letting that one pass.
- She hears him clearly – banging on again about how their from out of town and don’t know their way around.
- ‘I wanted to call the police but Johnny ‘One Sock’ Swainston wasn’t having any of it.’
We can say without judgement that there are four ‘errors’ in the above examples because in each case the author likely made a mistake – they meant to use a consistent style of speech marks in the first example, meant the pronouns to be consistent in the second, meant to use ‘they’re' in the third, and meant to use an alternative style for the nested quotation marks in the fourth.
When we’re querying potential errors, however, we can still use the language of intention and reader expectation in our comments, thereby avoiding a more critical tone:
- Did you mean to write […] here or is this a typo?
- How about [...] instead? This would be less likely to distract the reader, who might be more used to seeing [...] and therefore misinterpret what you've written.
- The grammar in this section doesn’t align with your usual narrative voice, and reads more like something Character Y would say. Is this intentional? If not, how about trying [...]?
Summing up
As professional editors, we need to think about the language we use about language!
Instead, we can frame our discussions and queries around meaning, author intention and reader experience. That way, we’re putting the prose where it belongs – front and centre.
- Saying something’s ‘right’ might imply that all alternatives are wrong when they aren’t.
- Defining something as a ‘rule’ might imply that breaking it is non-conformist, eccentric, non-compliant, even disobedient.
- Referring to something as ‘standard’ normalizes the preferences of those who have the power to make that decision in the first place.
Instead, we can frame our discussions and queries around meaning, author intention and reader experience. That way, we’re putting the prose where it belongs – front and centre.
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
- Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
- Learn: Books and courses
- Discover: Resources for authors and editors
Novel dialogue is not like reality, where much of what we say is of little consequence to the bigger picture of our lives. Here’s how to check that all your dialogue needs to be there. Then remove the mundane!
Why speech in a novel is different
Artful dialogue requires balancing realism with engagement and ensuring that every word spoken by a character pushes the novel forward rather than making the reader feel like they’re eavesdropping on a mundane conversation at the bus stop
Every line of dialogue should have a purpose. If it doesn’t, it probably shouldn’t be in your book.
It can take courage to remove words you've spent an age crafting but as I hope to show in the example below, readers don't need every little detail. Less is so often more!
Every line of dialogue should have a purpose. If it doesn’t, it probably shouldn’t be in your book.
It can take courage to remove words you've spent an age crafting but as I hope to show in the example below, readers don't need every little detail. Less is so often more!
A three-pronged approach to dialogue
My favourite way of assessing whether dialogue is working is to think in terms of voice, mood and intention.
When we focus on those three things, we avoid dull dialogue – conversations about the weather, how someone takes their tea or coffee, and courtesy statements such as ‘Hi, how are you?’
When we focus on those three things, we avoid dull dialogue – conversations about the weather, how someone takes their tea or coffee, and courtesy statements such as ‘Hi, how are you?’
Voice
Voice tells us who characters are, what makes them tick – their fears, frustrations, hopes and dreams, identity, preferences.
Perhaps their speech is abrupt, rude, measured, polite, sweary or seductive.
When we change the way a character speaks, we change their voice. And that means we change them.
Voice tells us who characters are, what makes them tick – their fears, frustrations, hopes and dreams, identity, preferences.
Perhaps their speech is abrupt, rude, measured, polite, sweary or seductive.
When we change the way a character speaks, we change their voice. And that means we change them.
Mood
Characters can show us how they’re feeling via their dialogue.
Emotionally evocative speech allows readers to access the internal experience of a non-viewpoint character. And that makes it a powerful tool.
Perhaps their speech is abrupt, assertive, hesitant, forceful, pleading. Using the right words means the speech tags and narrative won’t need to be cluttered with further explanation.
Characters can show us how they’re feeling via their dialogue.
Emotionally evocative speech allows readers to access the internal experience of a non-viewpoint character. And that makes it a powerful tool.
Perhaps their speech is abrupt, assertive, hesitant, forceful, pleading. Using the right words means the speech tags and narrative won’t need to be cluttered with further explanation.
Intention
Intention is another way of framing subtext. How characters speak tells us what they want.
Perhaps they’re asking questions for the purpose of discovery and understanding whodunit (doctors, lawyers, PIs and police officers regularly use dialogue in novels to this end). Dialogue can express a multitude of motivations.
Ask yourself what your character wants every time they open their mouth.
Intention is another way of framing subtext. How characters speak tells us what they want.
Perhaps they’re asking questions for the purpose of discovery and understanding whodunit (doctors, lawyers, PIs and police officers regularly use dialogue in novels to this end). Dialogue can express a multitude of motivations.
Ask yourself what your character wants every time they open their mouth.
Example: Real but mundane dialogue
Let’s look at an example of dialogue that represents the kind of conversation one would expect to hear in real life. It includes the polite chitchat that people indulge in before they get down to business.
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Laurie comes back to the office with me for a meeting with Kevin. These meetings are basically of dubious value, since all we seem to do is list the things we don’t understand in our preparation for a trial we don’t know will even take place.
“Hi, Kevin,” I say. “Hey, Andy. How you doin’?” “Not too bad, thanks. Christ, it’s cold out though. I need something to warm me up. Gonna grab a coffee. Want one? Laurie, you?” Kevin nods. Laurie says, “Please. Milk and sugar.” “So Kevin,” I say as I hand around the drinks, “we need to talk about Petrone.” It’s the first chance I’ve had to tell Kevin about my meeting with the guy. I fill him in. When I get to the part where Petrone denied trying to have me killed, Kevin asks, “And you believed him?” “I did.” “Just because that’s what he said?” I nod. “As stupid as it might sound, yes. I’ve had dealings with him before, and he’s always told me the truth, or nothing at all. And he had nothing to gain by lying.” “Andy, the guy has had a lot of people murdered. How many confessions has he made?” |
Were you enthralled by the welcome and refreshments section, or did you just wish we could get to the point? I think I know the answer!
The slimmed-down version
Now let’s look at how author David Rosenfelt actually wrote this excerpt from Play Dead (Grand Central, 2009, p. 175), and beautifully too:
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Laurie comes back to the office with me for a meeting with Kevin.
These meetings are basically of dubious value, since all we seem to do is list the things we don’t understand in our preparation for a trial we don’t know will even take place. It’s the first chance I’ve had to tell Kevin about my meeting with Petrone. I fill him in. When I get to the part where Petrone denied trying to have me killed, Kevin asks, “And you believed him?” “I did.” “Just because that’s what he said?” I nod. “As stupid as it might sound, yes. I’ve had dealings with him before, and he’s always told me the truth, or nothing at all. And he had nothing to gain by lying.” “Andy, the guy has had a lot of people murdered. How many confessions has he made?” |
What readers don’t care about
Rosenfelt knows that none of his readers care about the weather, the coffee, or whether people say hello to each other or not.
And so he leaves all of that out and lets the reader imagine that this stuff took place. And it’s enough. In the published novel, as opposed to the version I butchered, the first line of speech is “And you believed him.”
With that, we’re straight into Kevin’s incredulity and concern, and his desire to understand what the team is dealing with in regard to Petrone.
Meanwhile, Andy has his lawyer hat on. His initial reply is succinct, so that we are left in no doubt about his belief that Petrone was telling the truth, and that he is determined to reassure Kevin.
This is no-messing dialogue that focuses on story, not whether the speech is what we might actually hear – in its entirety – in real life.
It’s an excellent example of an author ensuring that every word counts and that there’s no bus-stop-talk filler.
And so he leaves all of that out and lets the reader imagine that this stuff took place. And it’s enough. In the published novel, as opposed to the version I butchered, the first line of speech is “And you believed him.”
With that, we’re straight into Kevin’s incredulity and concern, and his desire to understand what the team is dealing with in regard to Petrone.
Meanwhile, Andy has his lawyer hat on. His initial reply is succinct, so that we are left in no doubt about his belief that Petrone was telling the truth, and that he is determined to reassure Kevin.
This is no-messing dialogue that focuses on story, not whether the speech is what we might actually hear – in its entirety – in real life.
It’s an excellent example of an author ensuring that every word counts and that there’s no bus-stop-talk filler.
Summing up
To declutter dialogue and make every word count, ask yourself the following:
Want the booklet version of this post? It's available on my Dialogue resources library. Click on the cover below to hop over to the page. Once you're there, choose the Booklets icon.
- Is every line relevant to the story?
- Is the character speaking with purpose or taking up ink/pixels on the page?
- Can mundane chitchat be removed without damaging sense and flow?
- Could the dull stuff be replaced with speech that deepens character?
Want the booklet version of this post? It's available on my Dialogue resources library. Click on the cover below to hop over to the page. Once you're there, choose the Booklets icon.
More fiction editing resources for authors and editors
- Editing Fiction at Sentence Level
- Making Sense of ‘Show, Don’t Tell’
- Making Sense of Point of View
- Making Sense of Punctuation
- How to Write the Perfect Fiction Editorial Report
- Switching to Fiction
- The Differences Between Developmental Editing, Line Editing, Copyediting and Proofreading (free webinar)
- How to Punctuate Dialogue (course)
- Resource library: Dialogue and thoughts
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
- Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
- Learn: Books and courses
- Discover: Resources for authors and editors
It's perfectly okay to start a sentence with ‘And’ or ‘But’ in crime fiction writing ... in any fiction writing, in fact. Doing so can enrich the narrative and dialogue, and inflect the prose with voice, mood and intention. The key is to make sure those conjunctions are being used purposefully and logically. This post shows you how.
What the style guides say
Here's what two industry-recognized style guides have to say on the matter.
New Hart’s Rules (Oxford University Press):
New Hart’s Rules (Oxford University Press):
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There is a widespread belief—one with no historical or grammatical foundation—that it is an error to begin a sentence with a conjunction such as and, but, or so. In fact, a substantial percentage (often as many as 10 percent) of the sentences in first-rate writing begin with conjunctions. It has been so for centuries, and even the most conservative grammarians have followed this practice.
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Chicago Manual of Style Online, 5.203 (Chicago University Press):
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You might have been taught that it’s not good English to start a sentence with a conjunction such as and or but. It’s not grammatically incorrect to do so, however, and many respected writers use conjunctions at the start of a sentence to create a dramatic or forceful effect.
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6 good reasons to start a sentence with ‘And’ or ‘But’
Great! We have the go-ahead from a couple of big hitters to use our two conjunctions at the beginning of a sentence. Now let’s dig a little deeper into why doing so can make fiction more effective. Here are my top six reasons:
- To serve natural speech
- To shorten narrative distance
- To introduce tension and suspense
- To add drama
- To emphasize the unexpected
- To make contrast explicit
Serving natural speech
When we speak in real life, conjunctions are often the first things out of our mouths. So it should be in novels that want to render speech authentically.
Fictional dialogue doesn’t replicate real-life speech completely – that would mean including a lot of boring stuff that one might hear at the bus stop. Rather, it’s a sort of hybrid that has the essence of reality but with the mundanity judiciously removed. It might sound like a cheat but readers thank authors who don’t bore them!
Small nudges towards reality help with the authenticity goal, which is where our conjunctions come in handy. Here are a few examples for you:
Fictional dialogue doesn’t replicate real-life speech completely – that would mean including a lot of boring stuff that one might hear at the bus stop. Rather, it’s a sort of hybrid that has the essence of reality but with the mundanity judiciously removed. It might sound like a cheat but readers thank authors who don’t bore them!
Small nudges towards reality help with the authenticity goal, which is where our conjunctions come in handy. Here are a few examples for you:
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‘And you will have no hesitation in doing what has to be done? You have no doubts?’ (At Risk, Stella Rimington, p. 187)
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‘And where’s he getting the money from? You know the situation as well as I do. He isn’t on leave of absence from a university.’ (The Dream Archipelago, Christopher Priest, p. 227)
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“But your way makes more sense. So you think Maura was working with Rex?”
“I do.” “Doesn’t mean she didn’t set Rex up.” “Right.” “But if she wasn’t involved in the murder, where is she now?” (Don’t Let Go, Harlan Coben, p. 76) |
Shortening narrative distance
Dialogue gives us the character’s speech; narrative gives us the character’s experience. When that’s a first-person narrative, it’s easy to feel close to the narrator. With a third-person narration, the reader can feel separated from the character, as if they’re on the outside looking in.
Authors who want to reduce that space between the reader and the character – called narrative distance or psychic distance – can experiment with a narration style that sounds like natural speech even though it’s not dialogue.
Here’s a lovely example from Blake Crouch’s Recursion (p. 182).
Authors who want to reduce that space between the reader and the character – called narrative distance or psychic distance – can experiment with a narration style that sounds like natural speech even though it’s not dialogue.
Here’s a lovely example from Blake Crouch’s Recursion (p. 182).
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There's a part of him that wants to run down there, charge through, and shoot every fucking person he sees inside that hotel, ending with the man who put him in the chair. Meghan’s brain broke because of him. She is dead because of him. Hotel Memory needs to end.
But that would most likely only get him killed. No, he'll call Gwen instead, propose an off-the-books, under-the-radar op with a handful of SWAT colleagues. If she insists, he'll take an affidavit to a judge. |
Notice how the narration style is third person, though it doesn’t feel like it. Instead, we’re right inside the viewpoint character’s head.
The position of the conjunction in this example isn’t the sole reason why the narrative distance feels short – the free indirect speech above and beneath plays a huge part – but it certainly helps to give us a sense of the character’s mentally working out a problem.
The position of the conjunction in this example isn’t the sole reason why the narrative distance feels short – the free indirect speech above and beneath plays a huge part – but it certainly helps to give us a sense of the character’s mentally working out a problem.
Introducing tension and suspense
Take a look at this excerpt from p. 21 of The Matlock Paper by Robert Ludlum.
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Matlock walked to the small, rectangular window with the wire-enclosed glass. The police station was at the south end of the town of Carlyle, about a half a mile from the campus, the section of town considered industrialized. Still, there were trees along the streets. Carlyle was a very clean town, a neat town. The trees by the station house were pruned and shaped.
And Carlyle was also something else. |
With that one word – the conjunction – Ludlum stops us in our tracks. Yes, we’re thinking, the town’s neat, it’s clean. All well and good. But then we realize that there’s more to it, for beneath the pruned trees lies a dark underbelly.
The ‘And’, positioned right up front, forces us to pay attention to it. It’s not any old conjunction. Rather, it’s loaded with suspense that drives the reader to ask a question that isn’t explicitly answered: What else is that ‘something’?
The ‘And’, positioned right up front, forces us to pay attention to it. It’s not any old conjunction. Rather, it’s loaded with suspense that drives the reader to ask a question that isn’t explicitly answered: What else is that ‘something’?
Adding drama and modifying rhythm
In this excerpt from Parting Shot (p. 433), the author uses the conjunction at the beginning of the sentence to inject drama into a scene.
The new line makes the rhythm of the prose more staccato, but the ‘And’ at the beginning of the final line is what really packs a punch.
The viewpoint character, Cory, is a killer. He ponders almost matter-of-factly who the threats are, and reaches his conclusion as he closes in on the cabin.
The new line makes the rhythm of the prose more staccato, but the ‘And’ at the beginning of the final line is what really packs a punch.
The viewpoint character, Cory, is a killer. He ponders almost matter-of-factly who the threats are, and reaches his conclusion as he closes in on the cabin.
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Dolly Guntner certainly wasn't in a position to say anything bad about him.
Which left Carol Beakman. Carol had seen him. And while she didn't actually see him kill Dolly, if the police ever spoke with her, she'd be able to tell them it couldn't have been anyone else but him. As far as Cory could figure, the only living witness to his crimes was Carol Beakman. He was nearly back to the cabin. It seemed clear what he had to do. And he'd have to do it fast. |
If Linwood Barclay had omitted the conjunction, he’d have introduced a separation between two ideas: realizing what needs to be done, and when the killer is going to do it. Yet these two ideas are very much connected. The ‘And’ therefore fulfils its purpose as a conjunction – a joining word.
But there’s more. If he’d run the two ideas together with a conjunction between (‘It seemed clear what he had to do, and he'd have to do it fast.’), the line would have lost its wallop. The staccato rhythm (one that mirrors the cold calculation taking place in Cory’s head) is gone. Instead, the prose has flatlined; it seems almost mundane, like a stroll in the park rather than the planning of a murder.
However, the ‘And’ reinforces this extra information – the deed must be done fast. The emphasis adds drama to the line. The final line is still connected to the clause it’s related to, but the mood-rich rhythm, and the drama that comes with it, is intact.
But there’s more. If he’d run the two ideas together with a conjunction between (‘It seemed clear what he had to do, and he'd have to do it fast.’), the line would have lost its wallop. The staccato rhythm (one that mirrors the cold calculation taking place in Cory’s head) is gone. Instead, the prose has flatlined; it seems almost mundane, like a stroll in the park rather than the planning of a murder.
However, the ‘And’ reinforces this extra information – the deed must be done fast. The emphasis adds drama to the line. The final line is still connected to the clause it’s related to, but the mood-rich rhythm, and the drama that comes with it, is intact.
Emphasizing the unexpected
An up-front ‘But’ is perfect for the author who want to emphasize the unexpected, surprise or absurdity. Take a look at this excerpt from Terry Pratchett’s Dodger (p. 170).
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The boy said, 'I don't quite know exactly where Mister Charlie will be right now, but you could always ask the peelers.' He smiled. 'You can be sure that there will be a lot of them about.'
Ask a peeler! Dodger? But surely that was the old Dodger saying that, he thought. |
It’s true that omitting the ‘But’ would leave the meaning intact. However, adding the conjunction reinforces the Dodger’s emotional response to the boy’s suggestion – he’s taken by surprise because in times past, asking a peeler was exactly what he’d have done, without question, without fear.
And so that ‘But’ does more than act as a conjunction. With just three letters, we’re shown character mood.
And so that ‘But’ does more than act as a conjunction. With just three letters, we’re shown character mood.
Making contrast explicit and suspenseful
David Rosenfelt’s New Tricks (p. 92) includes a smashing example how the conjunction at the beginning of the sentence reinforces a contrast with what’s gone before.
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I won't be able to place this in any kind of context until I go through everything Sam has brought, though he says he didn't see a reply to Jacoby's questions. Certainly the fact that a man who was soon to be a murder victim experimenting in any way with his own DNA is at least curious, and something for me to look into carefully if I stay on the case.
But a nurse comes in and asks me to quickly come to Laurie's room, so right now everything else is going to have to wait. |
That contrast is explicit because the ‘But’ acts as an interrupter. We’re deep in the POV character’s head regarding the murder victim, ruminating with our protagonist. The conjunction then shoves us out of that rumination. It’s not gentle; the ‘But’ is a big one – something’s up with Laurie.
Not that we know what. Rosenfelt doesn’t tell us yet. Instead, he makes us ask the question: Why? And with that question, just as with the Ludlum example above, we have suspense.
Not that we know what. Rosenfelt doesn’t tell us yet. Instead, he makes us ask the question: Why? And with that question, just as with the Ludlum example above, we have suspense.
Summing up
Feel free to pepper your prose with sentences that begin with ‘And’ and ‘But’. Anyone who tells you you’re on shaky ground grammatically knows less about grammar than you do!
It’s likely that the myth around positioning these conjunctions came about in a bid to nudge people away from stringing together clauses and sentences with no thought to creativity. And while such an intention makes sense, we have to recognize that imposing this zombie rule on writing can actually destroy the magic of prose.
And on that note, I will sign off! (See what I did there?)
It’s likely that the myth around positioning these conjunctions came about in a bid to nudge people away from stringing together clauses and sentences with no thought to creativity. And while such an intention makes sense, we have to recognize that imposing this zombie rule on writing can actually destroy the magic of prose.
And on that note, I will sign off! (See what I did there?)
More fiction editing guidance
- 3 reasons to use free indirect speech
- Author resources library: Booklets, videos, podcasts and articles for authors
- Commas, conjunctions and rhythm
- Coordinating conjunctions
- Editing Fiction at Sentence Level: My flagship line-editing book
- How to write suspenseful chapter endings
- Rules versus preferences
- Sentence length, pace and tension
- Switching to Fiction: Course for new fiction editors
- Transform Your Fiction guides: My fiction editing series for editors and authors
Cited works
- At Risk, Stella Rimington, Arrow Books, 2004
- Don’t Let Go, Harlan Coben, Arrow Books, 2017
- Dodger, Terry Pratchett, Corgi, 2012
- Recursion, Blake Crouch, Pan Macmillan, 2019
- The Matlock Paper, Robert Ludlum, Orion, 2010
- The Dream Archipelago, Christopher Priest, Gollancz, 2009
- Parting Shot, Linwood Barclay, Orion, 2017
- New Tricks, David Rosenfelt, Grand Central Publishing, 2009
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
- Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
- Learn: Books and courses
- Discover: Resources for authors and editors
Want to use grammatical expletives in your crime, mystery and thriller fiction? These words serve as place holders or fillers in a sentence. They shift emphasis and can affect rhythm. Used injudiciously, however, they can be cluttering tension-wreckers. Here's how to strike a balance.
What are expletives?
Because expletives shift emphasis, they have a syntactic function. However, they don’t in themselves contribute anything to our understanding of the sentence. In other words, they don't have a semantic role. You might also see them called syntactic expletives.
Common examples are:
Take a look at the following pair. The first sentence is introduced by an expletive.
When used well, expletives are enrichment tools that allow an author to play with a narrative voice’s register and the rhythm of sentences.
When prose is overloaded with them, it can feel cluttered with filler words that add nothing but ink on the page. At best, they widen the narrative distance between the reader and the POV character; at worst, they flatten a sentence and destroy suspense and tension.
Common examples are:
- there are/is/was/were
- it is/was
Take a look at the following pair. The first sentence is introduced by an expletive.
- There was a car parked outside the house.
- A car was parked outside the house.
When used well, expletives are enrichment tools that allow an author to play with a narrative voice’s register and the rhythm of sentences.
When prose is overloaded with them, it can feel cluttered with filler words that add nothing but ink on the page. At best, they widen the narrative distance between the reader and the POV character; at worst, they flatten a sentence and destroy suspense and tension.
Flat expletives that merit fixing
Too much telling of what there is or was can rip the immediacy from a scene and encourage skimming. That’s a problem – it means the reader isn’t engaged and risks missing something.
Furthermore, if they’re not performing their rhythmic or emphasis role, expletives make sentence navigation more difficult because all they're doing is cluttering the prose.
Here's an example. Think I've overworked it? There are published books from mainstream presses with passages just like this made-up one.
FLAT EXPLETIVE
Furthermore, if they’re not performing their rhythmic or emphasis role, expletives make sentence navigation more difficult because all they're doing is cluttering the prose.
Here's an example. Think I've overworked it? There are published books from mainstream presses with passages just like this made-up one.
FLAT EXPLETIVE
| | It was a tiny room. There was a light switch with rust-coloured smudged fingermarks on the melamine surface. Was that blood? There was a noise coming from beyond on the back wall. It was a high-pitched whimper. Then there was silence. She held her breath and tiptoed forward. Suddenly there was a scream. |
The problem with the expletives in the passage above is that readers are bogged down in what there was rather than the viewpoint character's experience of discovery. Let's revise it to fix the problem.
THE FIX
THE FIX
| | The room was tiny. Rust-coloured fingermarks smudged the melamine surface of the light switch. Blood maybe. A noise came from beyond a door on the back wall. A high-pitched whimper. Then nothing. She held her breath and tiptoed forward. A scream shattered the silence. |
Notice how the narrative distance has been reduced in the revised passage. Now it's as if we're in the viewpoint character's head, moving with her second by second. We can focus on the room, the dried-blood fingermarks, the whimper, and the scream rather than the being of those things – their was-ness.
Removing the expletives and swapping in stronger verbs (smudged, shattered) enables us to tighten up the prose and introduce immediacy. And now there's no need for the told 'suddenly' – we experience the suddenness through the in-the-moment shattering.
Removing the expletives and swapping in stronger verbs (smudged, shattered) enables us to tighten up the prose and introduce immediacy. And now there's no need for the told 'suddenly' – we experience the suddenness through the in-the-moment shattering.
Expletives that pack a punch
As is always the case, obliterating expletives from a novel would be inappropriate because sometimes they're the perfect tool to help out with rhythm and emphasis.
The opening paragraph of Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities (p. 1) uses expletives galore, and masterfully at that. The repetition (anaphora) brings a steady rhythm to the passage that ensures the reader gives equal weight to the contrasting extremes – from best and worst to hope and despair.
The expletives introduce a detached sense of reportage that forces us forward rather than allowing us to dwell on any of the heavens or hells on offer. It’s simultaneously mundane and monstrous, and that's why it's magical.
The opening paragraph of Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities (p. 1) uses expletives galore, and masterfully at that. The repetition (anaphora) brings a steady rhythm to the passage that ensures the reader gives equal weight to the contrasting extremes – from best and worst to hope and despair.
The expletives introduce a detached sense of reportage that forces us forward rather than allowing us to dwell on any of the heavens or hells on offer. It’s simultaneously mundane and monstrous, and that's why it's magical.
| | It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair [...] |
And here’s an example from Dog Tags (p. 1) where omission of the expletive would rip the energy from the opening first line of the chapter and interfere with our understanding of which words we’re supposed to emphasize.
| | “Andy Carpenter, Lawyer to the Dogs.” That was the USA Today headline on a piece that ran about me a couple of months ago. |
Summing up
Grammatical expletives are a normal part of language and have every right to be in a novel.
Overloading can destroy tension and make for a laboured narrative, but a purposeful peppering can amplify character emotion, moderate rhythm, and make space for the introduction of big themes in small spaces without sensory clutter.
Overloading can destroy tension and make for a laboured narrative, but a purposeful peppering can amplify character emotion, moderate rhythm, and make space for the introduction of big themes in small spaces without sensory clutter.
Cited works and further reading
- Author resource library (includes links to free webinars)
- A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens, W. W. Norton & Company; Critical edition, 2020
- Dog Tags, David Rosenfelt, Grand Central Publishing, Reprint edition, 2011
- Editing Fiction at Sentence Level: A Guide for Beginner and Developing Writers
- Making Sense of Punctuation: Transform Your Fiction 2
- ‘Playing with sentence length in crime fiction. Is it time to trim the fat?’
- ‘Playing with the rhythm of fiction: commas and conjunctions’
- 'Should I use a comma before coordinating conjunctions and independent clauses in fiction?'
- ‘What is anaphora and how can you use it in fiction writing?’
- 'Why "suddenly" can spoil your crime fiction'
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
- Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
- Learn: Books and courses
- Discover: Resources for authors and editors
This post helps less experienced fiction writers and editors make sense of omniscient point of view, and work with this narrative style effectively.
What is narrative point of view?
Point of view (POV) describes whose head we’re in when we read a book ... from whose perspective we discover what’s going on – and the smells, sounds, sights and emotions involved.
What is an omniscient point of view?
This viewpoint is probably the trickiest to master. Omniscient means all-knowing. It’s the most flexible because it gives the reader potential access to every character’s external and internal experiences. It also has the potential to be the least intimate if not handled well.
Imagine a futuristic news helicopter. Inside, our roving reporter shifts her camera from one person to another, and one setting to another. She’s also got some serious kit, stuff that enables her to tap everyone’s phones, TVs and computers. But that’s not all; the characters’ brains are bugged too; our reporter knows what they’re thinking. She can see, hear and smell it all! Says Sophie Playle:
Imagine a futuristic news helicopter. Inside, our roving reporter shifts her camera from one person to another, and one setting to another. She’s also got some serious kit, stuff that enables her to tap everyone’s phones, TVs and computers. But that’s not all; the characters’ brains are bugged too; our reporter knows what they’re thinking. She can see, hear and smell it all! Says Sophie Playle:
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The narrator knows everything, and isn’t limited to the viewpoint of any single character. An omniscient narrator could be a character in the story (like a god or an enlightened person), or they could be an observing nonentity.
Completely omniscient viewpoints are difficult to pull off well because the narrator needs to have reasons for imparting the knowledge they choose to impart in the order they choose to do so, otherwise the story will feel contrived [...] Omniscient narration and third person objective narration have similarities, but the key is looking for when the narrator knows more than it could objectively observe. |
Examples: Deeper knowledge than third-person narration
If you’ve read anything by Neil Gaiman, you’ll see a blatant external narrator in evidence with a depth of knowledge that defies the rules of a third-person viewpoint. Here’s an example from Neverwhere (p. 10).
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He continued, slowly, by a process of osmosis and white knowledge (which is like white noise, only more informative), to comprehend the city, a process which accelerated when he realized that the actual City of London itself was no bigger than a square mile [...]
Two thousand years before, London had been a little Celtic village on the north shore of the Thames which the Romans had encountered and settled in. London had grown, slowly, until, roughly a thousand years later, it met the tiny Royal City of Westminster [...] London grew into something huge and contradictory. It was a good place, and a fine city, but there is a price to be paid for all good places, and a price that all good places have to pay. After a while, Richard found himself taking London for granted. |
The first ten words might appear to be a third-person viewpoint (‘He’ refers to Richard, the protagonist), but that’s not the case. What follows is a distinct narrative other, a voice that explains ‘white knowledge’.
In the second and third paragraphs, the all-knowing narrator offers historical information. Then in the final paragraph, we’re told more about Richard. The viewpoint was never third-person objective. It was omniscient all along.
In Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, ‘the man’ takes centre stage in most of the sections such that we see what he sees and feel what he feels. It’s almost as if he’s the narrator, and once more we could be forgiven for thinking the viewpoint third person. But there’s more going on here.
In the following extracts, notice the shift beyond what it’s possible for the man to see, think or know.
In the second and third paragraphs, the all-knowing narrator offers historical information. Then in the final paragraph, we’re told more about Richard. The viewpoint was never third-person objective. It was omniscient all along.
In Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, ‘the man’ takes centre stage in most of the sections such that we see what he sees and feel what he feels. It’s almost as if he’s the narrator, and once more we could be forgiven for thinking the viewpoint third person. But there’s more going on here.
In the following extracts, notice the shift beyond what it’s possible for the man to see, think or know.
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He woke in the morning and turned over in the blanket and looked down the road through the trees the way they’d come in time to see the marchers four abreast. Dressed in clothing of every description, all wearing red scarves at their necks. Red or orange, as close to red as they could find. He put his hand on the boy’s head. Shh, he said. (pp. 95–6)
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He wallowed into the ground and lay watching across his forearm. An army in tennis shoes, tramping. Carrying three-foot lengths of pipe with leather wrappings. [...] The phalanx following carried spears or lances tasselled with ribbons, the long blades hammered out of trucksprings in some crude forge upcountry. The boy lay with his face in his arms, terrified. (p. 96)
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In the first extract, only an all-knowing alternative narrator could be privy to the intent behind the marchers’ colour choice of scarves. In the second, the man watches the army, but it’s only an omniscient narrator who can know where their blades were forged and how the boy is feeling. Maybe that narrator is McCarthy; maybe it’s someone else. But it’s not the man.
Example: World-building backstory in a flash
Some genres – science fiction and fantasy for example – lend themselves well to omniscient narrators because they can provide critical world-building backstory quickly. Terry Pratchett’s Wyrd Sisters provides a fine example (pp. 1–2).
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Through the fathomless deeps of space swims the star turtle Great A’Tuin, bearing on its back the four giant elephants who carry on their shoulders the mass of the Discworld. A tiny sun and moon spin around them, on a complicated orbit to induce seasons, so probably nowhere else in the multiverse is it sometimes necessary for an elephant to cock a leg to allow the sun to go past.
Exactly why this should be may never be known. Possibly, the Creator of the universe got bored with all the usual business of axial inclination, albedos and rotational velocities, and decided to have a bit of fun for once. |
What omniscient is not
An omniscient viewpoint can be powerful but it needs to be controlled and used with purpose. If we’re accessing one character’s thoughts and experiences, and we jump to another character’s viewpoint, it can jar the reader. That's called head-hopping.
Imagine you’re listening to your best friend tell you about a difficult experience. Even though it didn’t happen to you, her description of the event helps you to imagine the challenges she faced, the emotions she grappled with. You’re thoroughly immersed and emotionally connected.
Then someone else barges up to you both and tells you what it was like for them. Your friend butts back in to wrestle the telling back to her.
Would the interruption annoy and frustrate you? Would you feel like your efforts to invest in your friend’s story were being thwarted?
The impact is the same when it occurs in a book’s narrative (though not the dialogue, of course). That viewpoint ping pong is not omniscient POV. It’s third-person limited gone awry.
Imagine you’re listening to your best friend tell you about a difficult experience. Even though it didn’t happen to you, her description of the event helps you to imagine the challenges she faced, the emotions she grappled with. You’re thoroughly immersed and emotionally connected.
Then someone else barges up to you both and tells you what it was like for them. Your friend butts back in to wrestle the telling back to her.
Would the interruption annoy and frustrate you? Would you feel like your efforts to invest in your friend’s story were being thwarted?
The impact is the same when it occurs in a book’s narrative (though not the dialogue, of course). That viewpoint ping pong is not omniscient POV. It’s third-person limited gone awry.
Recommendation
I recommend caution. The beauty of fiction often lies in the unveiling, in the immersion. Overuse of an omniscient narrator can block this.
The all-seeing eye can be a powerful tool – as demonstrated by the examples above – but less experienced authors, particularly those writing commercial fiction such as thrillers and mysteries, risk accidental head-hopping, which will destroy the tension and distance the reader from the characters.
The all-seeing eye can be a powerful tool – as demonstrated by the examples above – but less experienced authors, particularly those writing commercial fiction such as thrillers and mysteries, risk accidental head-hopping, which will destroy the tension and distance the reader from the characters.
Cited works and related reading
- Editing Fiction at Sentence Level, Louise Harnby, Panx Press, 2020
- Making Sense of Point of View (Transform Your Fiction series: 1), Louise Harnby, Panx Press, 2020
- Neverwhere, Neil Gaiman, William Morrow Paperbacks, reprint edition, 2016
- Resources for authors: Library of articles, podcasts, videos and booklets for independent writers
- The Road, Cormac McCarthy, Picador, 2009
- 'What’s the Difference Between Omniscient and Third Person Narration?' Sophie Playle, Liminal Pages
- 'What is head-hopping?'
- Wyrd Sisters, Terry Pratchett, Harper, reprint edition, 2013
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
- Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
- Learn: Books and courses
- Discover: Resources for authors and editors
Not sure where to place your speech tags? This guide shows you how to tell readers who’s speaking, not based on a set of rules but in respect of clarity, suspense, invisibility, and rhythm.
What is a dialogue tag?
Dialogue tags, or speech tags, are complementary short phrases that tell the reader who’s talking. They’re not always necessary, particularly if there are only two speakers in a scene, but when they are used, this is what they look like:
Said is often best because readers are so used to seeing it that it’s pretty much invisible and therefore less interruptive.
- ‘Dump that corpse and don’t ever mention it again,’ the hooded guy whispered.
- “Thanks for holding the gun,” Tom said. “Now pull the trigger.”
- Marg turned. Smirked. Said, ‘Tomorrow. If you’re late, he’s late. Geddit?’
Said is often best because readers are so used to seeing it that it’s pretty much invisible and therefore less interruptive.
What’s the rule about where tags go?
Dialogue tags can be placed after, between or before dialogue. Authors sometimes ask which position is best or whether there’s a rule.
There is no rule. All three positions have advantages and disadvantages, depending on what you want to achieve.
There is no rule. All three positions have advantages and disadvantages, depending on what you want to achieve.
Position: After dialogue
Readers are so used to seeing speech tags like said at the end of dialogue that they’re almost invisible. That allows the dialogue, rather than the speaking of the dialogue, to be the focus.
Below is a wee example from Recursion (p. 292). The speech takes centre stage; the doing of speech (screaming, in this case) comes afterwards.
Below is a wee example from Recursion (p. 292). The speech takes centre stage; the doing of speech (screaming, in this case) comes afterwards.
- “Come on!” he screams.
Furthermore, when the tag comes after the dialogue, it can roll seamlessly into any supporting narrative, as shown in the example from The Ghost Fields (p. 194).
- ‘It’s very … evocative,’ says Ruth. This is true. The brushwork may be crude, the planes out of perspective and the figures barely more than stick men, but there’s something about the work of the unknown airman that brings back the past more effectively than any documentary or reconstruction.
There are a couple of potential disadvantages:
- In longer chunks of dialogue in scenes with more than two speakers, the reader will have to wait until the end of the speech to find out who’s saying what.
- Placement at the end of speech can flatten a one-liner or suspense point in dialogue.
Position: Between dialogue
Placing speech tags between dialogue is also common and unlikely to jar the reader. Here are three reasons why it works:
Here are two examples in which the mid placement of the tag means the suspense isn't interfered with. The first is taken from The Ghost Fields (p. 194); the second is something I made up.
- The tag breaks up longer streams of dialogue, which is especially handy if a monologue’s rearing its head.
- We’re given an early indication who’s speaking. If there are more than two speakers in a scene, and the reader’s likely to be confused, placement between the speech is an effective solution.
- One-liners, suspense points and shocks get to take centre stage. Adding the speech tag at the end could flatten the tension.
Here are two examples in which the mid placement of the tag means the suspense isn't interfered with. The first is taken from The Ghost Fields (p. 194); the second is something I made up.
- ‘It’s not signed,’ says Frank, ‘but there’s something that may be a clue.
- “Thanks for holding the gun,” Tom said. “Now pull the trigger.”
In the first example, not having the speech tag at the end of the dialogue focuses the reader on one question: what’s the clue? Not: Frank’s the speaker.
In the second example, rejig the sentence so that Tom said comes after all the speech, and notice how this makes the wallop vanish from the line about pulling the trigger.
In the second example, rejig the sentence so that Tom said comes after all the speech, and notice how this makes the wallop vanish from the line about pulling the trigger.
Position: Before dialogue
Placement of the tag before the dialogue isn’t a no-no but it is a less common option and more noticeable.
A tag tells of speaking; dialogue shows character voice, mood and intention. When the speaker’s announced first, it’s a tap on the shoulder that draws attention to speaking being done. It expands what author and creative-writing expert Emma Darwin calls the ‘psychic distance’ between the reader and the speaker, which can flatten the mood.
And, yet, this can also be its advantage. That tap introduces a more staccato rhythm that can stop a reader in their tracks.
In this extract from Recursion (p. 292), the placement of the tag before the dialogue induces an acute sense of resignation – that dull thump in the pit of one’s stomach when the proverbial’s hit the fan.
A tag tells of speaking; dialogue shows character voice, mood and intention. When the speaker’s announced first, it’s a tap on the shoulder that draws attention to speaking being done. It expands what author and creative-writing expert Emma Darwin calls the ‘psychic distance’ between the reader and the speaker, which can flatten the mood.
And, yet, this can also be its advantage. That tap introduces a more staccato rhythm that can stop a reader in their tracks.
In this extract from Recursion (p. 292), the placement of the tag before the dialogue induces an acute sense of resignation – that dull thump in the pit of one’s stomach when the proverbial’s hit the fan.
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“That’s a Black Hawk,” he says. “Wonder what’s going on in town.”
The chopper banks hard to the left and slows its groundspeed, now drifting back in their direction as it lowers from five hundred feet toward the ground. Helena says, “They’re here for us.” |
Not placing tags: Omission
There’s no need to include a speech tag if it’s adding nothing but clutter. In the following example from Recursion (p. 125), the author has omitted them because there are only two speakers. He lets the dialogue, and its punctuation, inject the voice, mood and intention into the scene rather than telling us who’s speaking and how they’re saying it.
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Slade lifts his Champagne glass and polishes off the rest.
“You stole that other life from me.” “Helena—” “Was I married? Did I have kids?” “Do you really want to know? It doesn’t matter now. It never happened.” “You’re a monster.” |
Summing up
Placement of dialogue tags isn’t about rules. It’s about purpose:
For that reason, mixing up the position of speech tags can be effective.
Let’s end with an extract from Out of Sight (pp. 135–7), which demonstrates the varied ways in which author Elmore Leonard handles his tagging: beginning, between, end, and omission.
- Varying rhythm
- Respecting mood and suspense
- Clarifying who’s speaking
- Avoiding unnecessary clutter
For that reason, mixing up the position of speech tags can be effective.
Let’s end with an extract from Out of Sight (pp. 135–7), which demonstrates the varied ways in which author Elmore Leonard handles his tagging: beginning, between, end, and omission.
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‘But you think they’re coming back,’ Karen said.
‘Yes, indeed, and we gonna have a surprise party. I want you to take a radio, go down to the lobby and hang out with the folks. You see Foley and this guy Bragg, what do you do?’ ‘Call and tell you.’ ‘And you let them come up. You understand? You don’t try to make the bust yourself.’ Burdon slipping back into his official mode. Karen said, ‘What if they see me?’ ‘You don’t let that happen,’ Burdon said. ‘I want them upstairs.’ |
Cited works and further reading
- Editing Fiction at Sentence Level, Louise Harnby, Panx Press, 2020
- How to Punctuate Dialogue (free webinar)
- Out of Sight, Elmore Leonard, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2017
- Recursion, Blake Crouch, Pan, 2020
- The Ghost Fields, Elly Griffiths, Quercus, 2015
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
- Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
- Learn: Books and courses
- Discover: Resources for authors and editors
Not sure what a second-person narrative point of view is, or how to use it effectively in your fiction writing? This post shows you how it works in a novel.
What is narrative point of view?
Point of view (POV) describes whose head we’re in when we read a book ... from whose perspective we discover what’s going on – and the smells, sounds, sights and emotions involved.
There can be multiple viewpoints in a book, not all of which have to belong to a single character. Plus, editors’ and authors’ opinions differ as to which approach works best, and what jars and why.
My aim is to keep the guidance as straightforward as possible, not because I think you should only do it this way or that way, but because most people (myself included) handle complexity best when they start with the foundations.
There can be multiple viewpoints in a book, not all of which have to belong to a single character. Plus, editors’ and authors’ opinions differ as to which approach works best, and what jars and why.
My aim is to keep the guidance as straightforward as possible, not because I think you should only do it this way or that way, but because most people (myself included) handle complexity best when they start with the foundations.
Second-person narrative viewpoint
In second-person narrative POVs, the pronoun is ‘you’. This narration is intimate, but strangely so, as if the author is talking directly to the reader as a character.
That intrusive element is both its strength and its weakness. It’s powerful because it places readers at the heart of the story, and yet we – the ‘you’ – know less than the narrator.
That can create a sense of immediacy, but almost amnesiac dislocation. We have to discover what we think, see, know and do. And if we don’t identify with the ‘you’ – if we feel implicated rather than attached – we can be pulled out of the story rather than brought deeper into it.
Still, this controlling aspect of second person can have an advantage. Whereas first-person narrators tell you what they thought and did, second-person narrators tell us what we thought and did.
This witnessing adds a level of reliability (even if we don’t like it). And readers aren’t daft. They know they’re not really the you-character, which means authors could use it as a tool to create surprise when the ‘you’ is unveiled later in the book.
If you want your readers to feel connected but controlled, second-person POV might be just the ticket, but it’s difficult to pull off and rare that authors of contemporary commercial fiction write an entire novel in it (though check out Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas by Tom Robbins if you want to see a good example in action).
More likely, you’ll see shorter-form use: dedicated chapters or other narrative forms such as diary entries, letters or other missives.
That intrusive element is both its strength and its weakness. It’s powerful because it places readers at the heart of the story, and yet we – the ‘you’ – know less than the narrator.
That can create a sense of immediacy, but almost amnesiac dislocation. We have to discover what we think, see, know and do. And if we don’t identify with the ‘you’ – if we feel implicated rather than attached – we can be pulled out of the story rather than brought deeper into it.
Still, this controlling aspect of second person can have an advantage. Whereas first-person narrators tell you what they thought and did, second-person narrators tell us what we thought and did.
This witnessing adds a level of reliability (even if we don’t like it). And readers aren’t daft. They know they’re not really the you-character, which means authors could use it as a tool to create surprise when the ‘you’ is unveiled later in the book.
If you want your readers to feel connected but controlled, second-person POV might be just the ticket, but it’s difficult to pull off and rare that authors of contemporary commercial fiction write an entire novel in it (though check out Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas by Tom Robbins if you want to see a good example in action).
More likely, you’ll see shorter-form use: dedicated chapters or other narrative forms such as diary entries, letters or other missives.
Example: Curiosity, reliability and the complicit reader
In this example from Complicity (p. 9), Iain Banks uses the second-person viewpoint in which a narrator reports on the actions and thoughts of an unnamed serial killer addressed as ‘you’.
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There is another faint crunching noise as the body spasms once and then goes limp. Blood spreads blackly from his mouth over the collar of his white shirt and starts to drip onto the pale marble of the steps. [...]
You go downstairs and walk through the kitchen, where the two women sit tied to their chairs; you leave via the same window you entered by, walking calmly through the small back garden into the mews where the motorbiked is parked. You hear the first faint, distant screams just as you take the bike’s key from your pocket. You feel suddenly elated. You’re glad you didn’t have to hurt the women. |
Think about how you feel as you read this. It’s as if you’re being addressed, as if you’re complicit. At the very least, the prose arouses curiosity – who is this ‘you’, and how is it that the narrator knows so much about them?
Banks doesn’t present the novel fully in second person; these sections fall between those of a first-person viewpoint character, journalist Cameron Colley. As such, readers are confronted by a juxtaposition of Cameron’s version of events and what was witnessed by the narrator.
Banks doesn’t present the novel fully in second person; these sections fall between those of a first-person viewpoint character, journalist Cameron Colley. As such, readers are confronted by a juxtaposition of Cameron’s version of events and what was witnessed by the narrator.
Recommendation
By all means, experiment with second-person point of view but understand its implications. If you want to draw your reader into the heart of your story, it’s a good choice. However, that connection can come at a price – a lack of control that could alienate your audience.
For that reason, consider the purpose of this narrative style and the extent to which you employ it. It might be better constrained – limited to chapters inhabited by specific viewpoint characters.
If in doubt, rewrite your scene in an alternative narrative viewpoint so you can evaluate how this affects your perception of the story as a reader.
For that reason, consider the purpose of this narrative style and the extent to which you employ it. It might be better constrained – limited to chapters inhabited by specific viewpoint characters.
If in doubt, rewrite your scene in an alternative narrative viewpoint so you can evaluate how this affects your perception of the story as a reader.
Cited sources and related reading
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About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
- Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
- Learn: Books and courses
- Discover: Resources for authors and editors
This post explains when and how to indent your narrative and dialogue according to publishing-industry convention.
The purpose of first-line indents
Each new paragraph signifies a change or shift of some sort ... perhaps a new idea, piece of action, thought or speaker, even a moderation or acceleration of pace. Still, the prose in all those paragraphs within a section is connected.
Paragraph indents have two purposes in fiction:
Paragraph indents have two purposes in fiction:
- Readability: They help the reader identify the shifts visually.
- Connectivity: They indicate a journey. Indented paragraphs are related to what's come before ... part of the same scene.
First lines in chapters and new sections
Chapters and sections are bigger shifts: perhaps the viewpoint character changes, or there's a shift in timeline or location.
To mark this bigger shift in a novel, it’s conventional not to indent the first line of text in a new chapter or a new section. You might hear editorial folks refer to this non-indented text as full out.
NARRATIVE LAYOUT
The following example is taken from Part 5, Chapter 2, of Christopher Priest’s Inverted World (p. 287, 2010):
To mark this bigger shift in a novel, it’s conventional not to indent the first line of text in a new chapter or a new section. You might hear editorial folks refer to this non-indented text as full out.
- This is standard with narrative and dialogue.
- The convention applies regardless of your line spacing.
NARRATIVE LAYOUT
The following example is taken from Part 5, Chapter 2, of Christopher Priest’s Inverted World (p. 287, 2010):
- Paragraph 1 is the first in the chapter.
- The first line is not indented.
- The first lines of the paragraphs that follow it (2) are indented.
And here's an example from Part 2, Chapter 6, p. 147, which shows how the layout works the same after a section break:
- Paragraph 1 is the first in the section.
- The first line is not indented.
- The first lines of the paragraphs that follow it (2) are indented.
Even if an author chooses to include a design feature such as a dropped capital (sometimes called a drop cap), it's standard for that letter to be full out, as shown in the following example from To Kill a Devil (John A. Connell, p. 6, Nailhead Publishing, 2020):
- Paragraph 1 is the first in the chapter.
- The capital letter on the first and second lines is not indented.
- The first line of the paragraph that follows it (2) is indented.
DIALOGUE LAYOUT
The same applies even if the chapter or section starts with dialogue, as in this excerpt from David Rosenfelt's Dog Tags (p. 192, Grand Central, 2010):
The same applies even if the chapter or section starts with dialogue, as in this excerpt from David Rosenfelt's Dog Tags (p. 192, Grand Central, 2010):
- Paragraph 1 is the first in the chapter.
- The first line is not indented.
- The first lines of the paragraphs that follow it (2) are indented.
Body text: dialogue and narrative
The example below from Blake Crouch's Recursion (p. 4, Macmillan, 2019) shows how the indentation works in the body text when there's a mixture of dialogue and narrative.
- Regardless of whether the prose is narrative or reported speech, the text is indented.
- The convention applies regardless of line spacing.
IMPACT OF LINE SPACING
Even if you've elected to set your book file with double line spacing (perhaps at the request of a publisher, agent or editor), the indentation convention applies. Here's the Recursion example again, tweaked to show what it would look like:
Even if you've elected to set your book file with double line spacing (perhaps at the request of a publisher, agent or editor), the indentation convention applies. Here's the Recursion example again, tweaked to show what it would look like:
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Indenting text that follows special elements
Your novel might include special elements such as letters, texts, reports, lists or newspaper articles. Authors can choose to set off these elements with wider line spacing, but how do we handle the text that comes after?
Again, it's conventional to indent text that follows this content, regardless of whether it's narrative or dialogue. That's because of the connective function; the text is part of the same scene.
Here are some examples from commercial fiction pulled from my bookshelves.
Again, it's conventional to indent text that follows this content, regardless of whether it's narrative or dialogue. That's because of the connective function; the text is part of the same scene.
Here are some examples from commercial fiction pulled from my bookshelves.
- REPORT: The Outsider, Stephen King, Hodder, 2018, p. 252
- LIST: Life of Pi, Yann Martel, Canongate, 2002, p. 146
- TRANSCRIPT: Snap, Belinda Bauer, Black Swan, 2018, p. 36
- RECORD: Ready Player One, Ernest Cline, Arrow, 2012, p. 300
It's not the case that full-out text is never used, or can't be used, but fiction readers are used to conventions. When a paragraph isn't indented, they assume it's a new section, which creates a tiny disconnect.
That's what I think's happened in the example below from Kate Hamer's The Girl in the Red Coat (p. 325, Faber & Faber, 2015). Of course, it took me only a split second to work out that the narrator is referring to the preceding letter, but it's a split second that took me away from the story because I'd assumed I was looking at a section break.
My preference would be to indent 'I touch my finger [...]' because that text is part of the scene, not a new section.
That's what I think's happened in the example below from Kate Hamer's The Girl in the Red Coat (p. 325, Faber & Faber, 2015). Of course, it took me only a split second to work out that the narrator is referring to the preceding letter, but it's a split second that took me away from the story because I'd assumed I was looking at a section break.
My preference would be to indent 'I touch my finger [...]' because that text is part of the scene, not a new section.
How to create a first-line indent in Word
Let's finish with some quick guidance on creating first-line indents.
Avoid using spaces and tabs to create indents in Word. Instead, create proper indents. There are several ways to do this.
Avoid using spaces and tabs to create indents in Word. Instead, create proper indents. There are several ways to do this.
- Open the Home tab (1).
- Select your text.
- Move your cursor to the ruler and select the top marker (2).
- Drag it to the position of your preferred indent.
- Right-click on the style in the ribbon (3).
- Select 'Update Normal to Match Selection'.
- Open the Home tab (1).
- Open the Styles pane via the arrow icon (4).
- Select your text.
- Move your cursor to the ruler and select the top marker (2).
- Drag it to the position of your preferred indent.
- Go to the Styles pane (5) and right-click on the style (6).
- Select 'Update Normal to Match Selection'.
OR
- Open the Home tab (1).
- Open the Styles pane via the arrow icon (4).
- Go to the Styles pane (5) and right-click on the style (6).
- Select 'Modify' to open the Modify Styles pane (A).
- Click on the Format button in the bottom left-hand corner (B).
- Select Paragraph to open the Paragraph pane (C).
- Make sure you're in the Indents and Spacing tab.
- Look at the Indentations section in the middle. Make sure 'First line' is selected under 'Special:' (D).
- Adjust the first-line indent according to your preference (E).
- Click OK (F).
Create a new style for your full-out paragraphs using the same tools.
- If using the ruler, ensure the markers (2) are aligned, one on top of the other.
- If using the styles pane, adjust the indent spacing (E) to zero.
Free webinar
If you need more assistance with creating styles, watch this free webinar. There's no sign-up; just click on the button and dig in.
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
- Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
- Learn: Books and courses
- Discover: Resources for authors and editors
Non-viewpoint characters have emotions too. But how do we show them without head-hopping? The answer lies in mastering observable behaviour.
What is head-hopping?
When a reader can access the internal experiences (emotions, thoughts, memories) of more than one character in a chapter or section, head-hopping is usually in play.
The exception is if you’re tackling the tricky beast that is omniscient narration. It’s difficult to pull off and rarely used in contemporary commercial fiction.
Here’s an example of what head-hopping looks like on the page. Jack is the viewpoint character and the narration style is third-person limited.
The exception is if you’re tackling the tricky beast that is omniscient narration. It’s difficult to pull off and rarely used in contemporary commercial fiction.
Here’s an example of what head-hopping looks like on the page. Jack is the viewpoint character and the narration style is third-person limited.
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The pebble bounces on the water seven, eight, no, nine times. Best ever, Jack thinks.
Pete weaves through the grass and slumps into a hollow in the dune. His brother’s whoop, the arc of his arm … just like Dad’s when they played skimming stones. Before the accident. Before the world changed. He shakes the memory from his head. Dwelling on that stuff never ends well. Jack turns away from the ocean, waves and calls for Pete to come down but the crashing surf swallows his words. |
Notice the following:
- Best ever is Jack’s thought. That puts us in his head, which is fine because this is an excerpt from a chapter in which he’s the viewpoint character. But that means we cannot access what’s going on in Pete’s head – how he is remembering his dad and the accident, and the decision to not dwell on those things.
- Look at the physicality too. Jack turns away from the water, which means he was facing it and couldn’t have observed Pete weaving through the grass and slumping into the dune. All he can do is see Pete on the dune after he’s turned.
How to enter a non-viewpoint character’s space without dropping viewpoint
There will be times when you want your reader to enter the emotional and physical space of a non-viewpoint character.
Mastering observable behaviour – showing us what the viewpoint character can see, and their interpretation of that behaviour – is one solution that will enable you to hold viewpoint.
Here’s a recast of the Jack/Pete scene:
Mastering observable behaviour – showing us what the viewpoint character can see, and their interpretation of that behaviour – is one solution that will enable you to hold viewpoint.
Here’s a recast of the Jack/Pete scene:
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The pebble bounces on the water seven, eight, no, nine times. Best ever, Jack thinks.
He whoops and turns his back to the ocean. Pete’s lumbering gait is unmistakable. He weaves through the grass on the dune and slumps into a hollow, mouth set in a hard line, neck hunched into his shoulders, complexion pasty. But he’s out; the sunlight’s on his face. It’s the first time since a month of whenevers. Skimming stones was something they did with Dad. Before the accident. Before the world changed. Jack shakes the memory from his head. Dwelling on that stuff never ends well. He waves, calls for his brother to come down but the crashing surf swallows his words. |
Notice the following:
- We don’t leave Jack’s head. I’ve given him the memory of their dad and the accident, and the decision to not dwell.
- I’ve changed the order of movement. Jack turns first so he can observe Pete’s journey through the grass and into the hollow of the dune.
- Pete’s mood isn’t told (since we can’t access his inner experience). However, it can be shown through the set of his mouth, the position of his neck and the hue of his skin as Jack perceives it. Furthermore, we can infer that he’s been struggling to deal with the accident through Jack’s relief that he’s at least outside for a change.
Mastering observation
Mastering observation enables writers to retain viewpoint but not be restricted by it. Think about how non-viewpoint characters will move in a way that reflects their internal experience, or what they will look like. Here are a few examples:
Example 1
What the non-viewpoint character feels but cannot be told because we’re not in their head:
Example 2
What the non-viewpoint character feels but cannot be told because we’re not in their head:
Example 3
What the non-viewpoint character feels but cannot be told because we’re not in their head:
Example 4
What the non-viewpoint character feels but cannot be told because we’re not in their head:
Example 5
What the non-viewpoint character feels but cannot be told because we’re not in their head:
Example 1
What the non-viewpoint character feels but cannot be told because we’re not in their head:
- Pain
- They grimace
- They clutch a part of their body
- They wince
- They howl
Example 2
What the non-viewpoint character feels but cannot be told because we’re not in their head:
- Shock
- They jump back
- They gasp
- They stumble
- They put a hand to their chest
Example 3
What the non-viewpoint character feels but cannot be told because we’re not in their head:
- Nervousness
- They fidget with a zipper
- They pick at their nails
- They shred a beer mat
- They stutter
Example 4
What the non-viewpoint character feels but cannot be told because we’re not in their head:
- Embarrassment
- They blush
- They avoid eye contact
- Their breathing is shallow
- They speak faster than usual
Example 5
What the non-viewpoint character feels but cannot be told because we’re not in their head:
- Nausea
- Their complexion is tinged a different colour
- They gag or retch
- Their voice is flat
Summing up
If you’re writing in a third-person limited narration style, consider what the viewpoint character already knows, what they can observe in relation to a non-viewpoint character, and what they could infer from those observations. That will determine what they can report.
What they report can still allow readers to access the internal experience of the non-viewpoint character through a back door. And while that report will be biased, it will be immersive.
What they report can still allow readers to access the internal experience of the non-viewpoint character through a back door. And while that report will be biased, it will be immersive.
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
- Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
- Learn: Books and courses
- Discover: Resources for authors and editors
Want to copyedit fiction for indie authors? Even if you have extensive experience of working for publishers, there are skills and knowledge you might need to acquire before making the shift.
Publishing has its own language
Fiction copyediting means something specific in a publishing company. It’s usually (there are always exceptions to the rule) the corrective work that focuses on spelling, punctuation, grammar, consistency and logic.
It’s important work – meticulous and detailed. It stops a character giving birth two months before she got pregnant; it spots when your protagonist’s eyes have changed colour; it flags up the trigger safety that doesn’t exist on the model of gun being described.
In the wider world, ‘copyediting’ can mean all sorts of things. It will include all of the above but might include a deeper level of stylistic work.
Some editors will use different terminology to describe their services, such that this middle-level editing – further down the chain than developmental or structural work but higher up than the prepublication proofread – is more intense.
Some editors even include developmental/structural work in their ‘copyediting’ service because their target clients fall into one or both of the following categories:
It’s important work – meticulous and detailed. It stops a character giving birth two months before she got pregnant; it spots when your protagonist’s eyes have changed colour; it flags up the trigger safety that doesn’t exist on the model of gun being described.
In the wider world, ‘copyediting’ can mean all sorts of things. It will include all of the above but might include a deeper level of stylistic work.
Some editors will use different terminology to describe their services, such that this middle-level editing – further down the chain than developmental or structural work but higher up than the prepublication proofread – is more intense.
Some editors even include developmental/structural work in their ‘copyediting’ service because their target clients fall into one or both of the following categories:
- aren’t familiar with all the levels of editing
- are more likely to search for terms such as ‘copyediting’ and ‘proofreading’ even though the big-picture elements of their story might also need some work
The mismatch between language and need
Some editors work only for publishers. Some work only for indie authors. Some work for both.
That messy publishing language becomes problematic when everyone’s using one term – ‘copyediting’ – to mean different things.
Plus, none of us knows what we don’t know.
If an editor has copyedited fiction only for publishers, and then moves into the indie-author market, there’s a risk that their knowledge and skills match the needs and expectations of mainstream publishers, but not those of indie authors.
Many indie authors are self-publishing for the first time. They’ll expect a professional editor to know what they don’t. But a fiction copyeditor, just by virtue of having done something called ‘fiction copyediting’ as defined by publishers, might not know how to handle the stylistic issues in a book.
That doesn’t mean they’re a bad editor. It means they have a specific skill set that might not be what the indie author needs or asks for.
That messy publishing language becomes problematic when everyone’s using one term – ‘copyediting’ – to mean different things.
Plus, none of us knows what we don’t know.
If an editor has copyedited fiction only for publishers, and then moves into the indie-author market, there’s a risk that their knowledge and skills match the needs and expectations of mainstream publishers, but not those of indie authors.
Many indie authors are self-publishing for the first time. They’ll expect a professional editor to know what they don’t. But a fiction copyeditor, just by virtue of having done something called ‘fiction copyediting’ as defined by publishers, might not know how to handle the stylistic issues in a book.
That doesn’t mean they’re a bad editor. It means they have a specific skill set that might not be what the indie author needs or asks for.
Case study: Good editor but bad fit
The author
Jo Pennedanovel is navigating the independent publishing world for the first time. She’s never gone it alone so she’s working from scratch – writing, finding editorial support and a cover designer, building a promotion strategy, and learning about sales and distribution platforms.
The brief
Jo knows that more than a proofread is required, but she’s happy with the big-picture aspects of her novel. She needs something in the middle: ‘copyediting’, she’s heard it called. So that’s what she looks for.
Jo goes online and searches for a copyeditor, finds someone who has over a decade’s worth of experience of copyediting fiction for some of the big-name publishing houses.
If that editor’s good enough for them, they’re good enough for Jo! Jo hires the copyeditor for her book.
The outcome
Jo’s a professional and takes her writing seriously. She knows there will be outstanding glitches that were missed at copyediting stage, so she hires another editor to proofread her book. All well and good so far.
The editor fixes the outstanding proofreading glitches but notices the following:
The fix
The proofreader could ignore all the line-craft issues. After all, he’s not been commissioned to do this work and it will cut into his hourly rate. And anyway, shouldn’t the previous editor have fixed this stuff?
Still, he’s committed to editorial excellence, wants a cracking book in his portfolio, and would like to work with that author again, so he decides that ignoring these problems isn’t an option.
He could do one of the following:
I’ve done all three in my time. My choice was based on the author, my schedule, and the connection I felt with the project. There’s no wrong or right, just informed decision-making.
Jo Pennedanovel is navigating the independent publishing world for the first time. She’s never gone it alone so she’s working from scratch – writing, finding editorial support and a cover designer, building a promotion strategy, and learning about sales and distribution platforms.
The brief
Jo knows that more than a proofread is required, but she’s happy with the big-picture aspects of her novel. She needs something in the middle: ‘copyediting’, she’s heard it called. So that’s what she looks for.
Jo goes online and searches for a copyeditor, finds someone who has over a decade’s worth of experience of copyediting fiction for some of the big-name publishing houses.
If that editor’s good enough for them, they’re good enough for Jo! Jo hires the copyeditor for her book.
The outcome
Jo’s a professional and takes her writing seriously. She knows there will be outstanding glitches that were missed at copyediting stage, so she hires another editor to proofread her book. All well and good so far.
The editor fixes the outstanding proofreading glitches but notices the following:
- There are over 300 viewpoint drops – most are small but still glaring to him because, well, he’s studied line craft.
- The prose is sometimes laboured and repetitive – not because Jo’s a poor writer but because she’s immersed in the storytelling rather than the minutiae.
- A plethora of speech tags tell of mood that’s already been adequately conveyed in the excellent dialogue.
The fix
The proofreader could ignore all the line-craft issues. After all, he’s not been commissioned to do this work and it will cut into his hourly rate. And anyway, shouldn’t the previous editor have fixed this stuff?
Still, he’s committed to editorial excellence, wants a cracking book in his portfolio, and would like to work with that author again, so he decides that ignoring these problems isn’t an option.
He could do one of the following:
- Flag up the issues in a report but elect not to solve each individual problem.
- Go the whole hog, offer suggested recasts so Jo can fix the problems easily, and write off the extra time as a marketing expense. Maybe he can persuade Jo to hire him for the copyediting stage next time.
- Halt the proofread, go back to Jo, explain the problem and try to renegotiate the project brief.
I’ve done all three in my time. My choice was based on the author, my schedule, and the connection I felt with the project. There’s no wrong or right, just informed decision-making.
What’s gone wrong in the editing process?
So what went wrong in that case study? This problem arises because of flawed assumptions about language and responsibility.
Language
The author and the editor are using the same language to describe different outcomes.
What Jo needed was an editor who recognizes that ‘copyediting’ could mean something different in the author’s head – something like: Do what’s required to make my prose sing! I don’t know what those things are, but that’s why I’m hiring you.
What she got was a traditional high-quality copyedit as defined by a different client type. It’s work that she needed, but not all the work she needed.
The author and the editor are using the same language to describe different outcomes.
- The author thinks of ‘copyediting’ as a middle-ground service between developmental/structural editing and proofreading.
- The editor, who works mainly for publishers, considers ‘copyediting’ a non-stylistic type of work that comes after line editing.
What Jo needed was an editor who recognizes that ‘copyediting’ could mean something different in the author’s head – something like: Do what’s required to make my prose sing! I don’t know what those things are, but that’s why I’m hiring you.
What she got was a traditional high-quality copyedit as defined by a different client type. It’s work that she needed, but not all the work she needed.
Responsibility
A frequent fallback position on the editor’s part is this: it’s the author’s fault because they didn’t hire the right service. Jo shouldn’t have commissioned a copyedit when stylistic work was required.
That’s flawed. She hired a professional editor precisely because they’re a professional editor. She wanted them to show her what she didn’t know.
The situation is complicated further by the fact that editors define their services differently. I offer ‘line-/copyediting’. Some of my colleagues offer the same level of intervention but call it just ‘copyediting’. Others offer two distinct services: ‘line editing’ and ‘copyediting’.
Yet others don’t even call line editing ‘line editing’. It might be called ‘substantive editing’ or ‘stylistic editing’.
It is any wonder that an indie author chooses to ignore the tangled terminology and focus on collating a shortlist of editors who have extensive experience of working for traditional industry gatekeepers – publishers?
That works splendidly when the editors have the skills and knowledge to go beyond what a publisher might expect from a fiction copyedit. But it can fall of a cliff when the rigidity of the terminology restricts the depth of editing required.
That’s flawed. She hired a professional editor precisely because they’re a professional editor. She wanted them to show her what she didn’t know.
The situation is complicated further by the fact that editors define their services differently. I offer ‘line-/copyediting’. Some of my colleagues offer the same level of intervention but call it just ‘copyediting’. Others offer two distinct services: ‘line editing’ and ‘copyediting’.
Yet others don’t even call line editing ‘line editing’. It might be called ‘substantive editing’ or ‘stylistic editing’.
It is any wonder that an indie author chooses to ignore the tangled terminology and focus on collating a shortlist of editors who have extensive experience of working for traditional industry gatekeepers – publishers?
That works splendidly when the editors have the skills and knowledge to go beyond what a publisher might expect from a fiction copyedit. But it can fall of a cliff when the rigidity of the terminology restricts the depth of editing required.
How can editors help fix the problem?
Editors must take responsibility for the language they use and the skills they have so that they’re fit for a diverse indie-author market. That means learning and educating.
Learn line craft
Fiction editors serving indie authors should learn line craft – the stylistic sentence-level editing that might be required.
If we don’t understand the likes of show and tell, narrative viewpoint, tense, holding suspense, dialogue craft, and so on, we should question whether we’re ready for this market.
And if we do still want to serve this market with publisher-defined copyediting, we must be explicit about the fact that we don’t offer solutions to stylistic problems in prose.
Still, being able to say we don’t offer those solutions means understanding what they are in the first place. Not recognizing them is not an option.
Fiction editors serving indie authors should learn line craft – the stylistic sentence-level editing that might be required.
If we don’t understand the likes of show and tell, narrative viewpoint, tense, holding suspense, dialogue craft, and so on, we should question whether we’re ready for this market.
And if we do still want to serve this market with publisher-defined copyediting, we must be explicit about the fact that we don’t offer solutions to stylistic problems in prose.
Still, being able to say we don’t offer those solutions means understanding what they are in the first place. Not recognizing them is not an option.
Educate authors
We must go the extra mile to ensure that our online and direct communications with authors explain the different levels of editing and how we define them.
A website that boasts of our achievements but doesn’t show our understanding of the craft of fiction editing doesn’t help a beginner author make informed decisions. It serves only us, not them.
That can lead to disappointment on the author’s part. And disappointment leads to mistrust, not just with the editor who did the work but with the global editorial community in general.
Editors frequently report that editing is ‘undervalued’ and ‘underpaid’. But value and worth have to be earned. So does trust.
When an editor works with an indie author, but doesn’t have the skills to offer what’s required, or is ignorant of the fact that they don’t have those skills, it’s they – not the author – who is bringing down value and worth in the editing industry.
We must go the extra mile to ensure that our online and direct communications with authors explain the different levels of editing and how we define them.
A website that boasts of our achievements but doesn’t show our understanding of the craft of fiction editing doesn’t help a beginner author make informed decisions. It serves only us, not them.
That can lead to disappointment on the author’s part. And disappointment leads to mistrust, not just with the editor who did the work but with the global editorial community in general.
Editors frequently report that editing is ‘undervalued’ and ‘underpaid’. But value and worth have to be earned. So does trust.
When an editor works with an indie author, but doesn’t have the skills to offer what’s required, or is ignorant of the fact that they don’t have those skills, it’s they – not the author – who is bringing down value and worth in the editing industry.
How can authors help fix the problem?
Writers can help themselves too. If you’re an indie author, and you’re not one hundred per cent sure about what you need, do the following:
Author checklist: Finding a good-fit editor
Author checklist: Finding a good-fit editor
- Learn about the various levels of editing (there's a booklet below that will help you with that).
- Be aware that publishing language is messy. Focus on the what rather than the what-it’s-called. One person’s ‘copyedit’ might look very different from another’s. One person’s ‘line edit’ might be another’s ‘stylistic edit’.
- Check more than the editor’s career history. Where they worked is interesting; what they did is critical. Yes, they’ve copyedited a hundred novels for Hodder & Stoughton but what did that ‘copyediting’ include? Is that what you require, or might you need something deeper, more stylistic?
- Get more than one sample edit if not-knowing-what-you-don’t-know is in play. That will give you a glimpse of how each editor would tackle your novel; how deep they’d go, and what the problems might be.
- Consider their training. Have they learned about, or are they teaching sentence-level fiction editing? It’s only part of the story, but it’s yet another light you can shine to see what lies beneath the glossy portfolio.
CLICK IMAGE TO ACCESS BOOKLET AND FREE WEBINAR
Summing up
What publishers expect from a fiction copyeditor is often very different to what indie authors will want or need.
If you’re an editor who wants to offer sentence-level work for indie authors, think about the following:
Even if you have an extensive fiction copyediting background by virtue of having worked for a ton of mainstream publishers, there might still be a mismatch between what’s required or what’s asked for and your own definitions and experience.
Be prepared to learn, and to show what you’ve learned when you communicate with indie authors. That’s how we build trust, value and worth.
If you’re an editor who wants to offer sentence-level work for indie authors, think about the following:
- The language you use to describe your service.
- The indie author’s expectations.
Even if you have an extensive fiction copyediting background by virtue of having worked for a ton of mainstream publishers, there might still be a mismatch between what’s required or what’s asked for and your own definitions and experience.
Be prepared to learn, and to show what you’ve learned when you communicate with indie authors. That’s how we build trust, value and worth.
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
- Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
- Learn: Books and courses
- Discover: Resources for authors and editors
Not sure if contractions are a good fit for your fiction’s dialogue? Here’s why they (nearly always) work.
How natural speech works in real life
Next time you’re in the pub with friends, at the dinner table with your family, or travelling on the bus, do a bit of people-listening. They’ll speak with contractions: you’re, they’re, I’m, don’t, hadn’t, can’t and so on.
Contractions are a normal part of speech. They help us communicate faster and improve the flow of a sentence.
Watch the following videos and listen to the spoken words. They feature people with very different backgrounds, sharing different stories, and in situations that demand varying levels of formality.
The people talking have one thing in common: they use contractions when they speak ... most (though not all) of the time.
That’s why when we want to write natural dialogue – dialogue that flows with the ease of real-life speech – contractions work.
Contractions are a normal part of speech. They help us communicate faster and improve the flow of a sentence.
Watch the following videos and listen to the spoken words. They feature people with very different backgrounds, sharing different stories, and in situations that demand varying levels of formality.
- A philosopher presenting a TED Talk about why the universe exists
- A fictional lawyer questioning a witness
- A child reading a poem
- A drug dealer describing his criminal activity
- A reporter’s voiceover on a news programme
- A vicar giving a sermon in a UK church
- A queen broadcasting a message to the nation
The people talking have one thing in common: they use contractions when they speak ... most (though not all) of the time.
That’s why when we want to write natural dialogue – dialogue that flows with the ease of real-life speech – contractions work.
How contractions affect the flow of dialogue
Take a look at this excerpt from No Dominion by Louise Welsh (Kindle edition, John Murray, 2017).
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He settled himself on the chair. ‘I don’t know where you’ve just come from, but round here nothing’s odd.’ He emphasised the word, making it sound absurd. ‘People come, people go. Sometimes they need something. Sometimes they’ve got something I need. We trade and they go on their way.’
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Below is a contraction-free recast. It reads awkwardly, and leaves us unconvinced that what’s in our mind’s ear bears any relation to what we would have heard had this been real speech. And that means we’re questioning the authenticity of the story rather than immersing ourselves in it.
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He settled himself on the chair. ‘I do not know where you have just come from, but round here nothing is odd.’ He emphasised the word, making it sound absurd. ‘People come, people go. Sometimes they need something. Sometimes they have got something I need. We trade and they go on their way.’
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Contractions and genre
Some authors avoid contractions because of the genre they’re writing in. You’re more likely to see this in historical fiction than contemporary commercial fiction but it’s not strictly genre-specific and is more an issue of authorial style.
Here’s an excerpt from a contemporary psychological mystery, The Wych Elm (Penguin, 2019, p. 71). Tana French uses contractions in the narrative and dialogue. The speech sounds natural; the narrative that frames it is informal.
Here’s an excerpt from a contemporary psychological mystery, The Wych Elm (Penguin, 2019, p. 71). Tana French uses contractions in the narrative and dialogue. The speech sounds natural; the narrative that frames it is informal.
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‘Oh, yeah. Now’s when you’ll notice anything out of place. And you’ll want to get the gaff back in order, and you can’t do that till you’ve done the look-round.’ Back in order— It hadn’t even occurred to me to think about what shape my apartment might be in.
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Compare this with Our Mutual Friend (Wordsworth Editions, 1997, p. 235). Dickens, writing literary fiction in the 1860s, still uses contractions in dialogue, although he avoids them in his more formal but wickedly tart narrative.
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‘We’ll bring him in,’ says Lady Tippins, sportively waving her green fan. ‘Veneering for ever!’
‘We’ll bring him in!’ says Twemlow. ‘We’ll bring him in!’ say Boots and Brewer. Strictly speaking, it would be hard to show cause why they should not bring him in, Pocket-Breaches having closed its little bargain, and there being no opposition. However, it is agreed that they must ‘work’ to the last, and that, if they did not work, something indefinite would happen. It is likewise agreed they are all so exhausted with the work behind them, and need to be so fortified for the work before them, as to require peculiar strengthening from Veneering’s cellar. |
Now look at Ambrose Parry’s The Way of All Flesh (Canongate Books, 2018). The authors (Parry is the pseudonym used by Chris Brookmyre and Marisa Haetzman) don’t avoid contractions completely but the sparing usage does give the dialogue a more archaic and formal feel. Here’s an excerpt from p. 259.
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‘I know only that it is a private matter, and I know not to ask further detail. You would be wise to follow suit, unless you would rather Dr Simpson was made aware of your curiosity.’
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I doubt anyone would be surprised when I say that the setting is 1847. And so it works. However, if the novel were set in 2019, there’d be a problem. We’d consider the dialogue overblown and those characters unrealistically pompous ... unless pompous is exactly what the author is aiming for.
Contractions, pace and voice
The decision to use or avoid contractions is a tool that authors can use to deepen character voice.
Specific contracted forms might enable readers to imagine regional accents, social status and personality traits such as pomposity.
P.G. Wodehouse is a master of dialogue. Bertie Wooster is a wealthy young idler from the 1920s. Jeeves is his savvy valet. The dialogue between the two pops off the page and Wodehouse uses or avoids contractions to make the characters’ voices distinct.
You can see it in action in The Inimitable Jeeves (Kindle version, Aegitus, 2019).
Specific contracted forms might enable readers to imagine regional accents, social status and personality traits such as pomposity.
P.G. Wodehouse is a master of dialogue. Bertie Wooster is a wealthy young idler from the 1920s. Jeeves is his savvy valet. The dialogue between the two pops off the page and Wodehouse uses or avoids contractions to make the characters’ voices distinct.
- Jeeves’s speech is often uncontracted. This moderates the pace of the dialogue and helps to render his voice as serious, formal, patient and long-suffering.
- Bertie’s speech is often contracted. This accelerates the dialogue and helps to render his voice as flighty, foolish and careless.
You can see it in action in The Inimitable Jeeves (Kindle version, Aegitus, 2019).
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‘Mr Little tells me that when he came to the big scene in Only a Factory Girl, his uncle gulped like a stricken bull-pup.’
‘Indeed, sir?’ ‘Where Lord Claude takes the girl in his arms, you know, and says—’ ‘I am familiar with the passage, sir. It is distinctly moving. It was a great favourite of my aunt’s.’ ‘I think we’re on the right track.’ ‘It would seem so, sir.’ ‘In fact, this looks like being another of your successes. I’ve always said, and I always shall say, that for sheer brains, Jeeves, you stand alone. All the other great thinkers of the age are simply in the crowd, watching you go by.’ ‘Thank you very much, sir. I endeavour to give satisfaction.’ |
In Oliver Twist (Wordsworth Classics, 1992, p. 8), Dickens contracts is not (ain’t) and them (’em) to indicate the low social standing of Mrs Mann, who runs a workhouse into which orphaned children are farmed.
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‘Why, it’s what I’m obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put into the blessed infants’ Daffy, when they ain’t well, Mr Bumble,’ replied Mrs Mann as she opened a corner cupboard, and took down a bottle and glass. ‘I’ll not deceive you, Mr B. It’s gin.’
‘Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs Mann?’ inquired Bumble, following with his eyes the interesting process of mixing. ‘Ah, bless ’em, that I do, dear as it is,’ replied the nurse. ‘I couldn’t see ’em suffer before my very eyes, you know, sir.’ |
Contractions and their impact on stress and tone
You can use or omit contractions in order to force where the stress falls in a sentence. Compare the following:
By not using a contraction in the second example, the stress on ‘cannot’ is harder. The change is subtle but evident. With can’t the mood is one of disbelief tempered with a whining tone; with cannot the disbelief remains but the tone is angry.
Here’s another excerpt from The Way of All Flesh (p. 140). The speaker is a surgeon, Dr Ziegler.
- ‘I can’t believe you said that,’ Louise said.
- ‘I cannot believe you said that,’ Louise said.
By not using a contraction in the second example, the stress on ‘cannot’ is harder. The change is subtle but evident. With can’t the mood is one of disbelief tempered with a whining tone; with cannot the disbelief remains but the tone is angry.
Here’s another excerpt from The Way of All Flesh (p. 140). The speaker is a surgeon, Dr Ziegler.
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‘I believe it is important to provide the best possible care for the patients regardless of the manner in which they got themselves into their present predicament,’ Ziegler continued. ‘Desperate people are often driven to do desperate things. I have known young women to take their own lives because they could not face the consequences of being with child; and some because they could not face their families discovering it.’
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Parry’s dialogue doesn’t just evoke a historical setting. The style of the speech affects the tone too. The voice is compassionate, the mood stoic. However, the lack of contractions renders the tone precise and careful.
On p. 142, Raven – a medical student turned sleuth – talks with the matron about medical charlatanry:
Using there is forces the stress on is, and in consequence the tone is resigned. With there’s the stress would have fallen on worse, and we might have assumed a more conspiratorial tone, as if she were about to divulge a secret.
On p. 142, Raven – a medical student turned sleuth – talks with the matron about medical charlatanry:
- ‘Aye, though there is worse,’ said Mrs Stevenson.
Using there is forces the stress on is, and in consequence the tone is resigned. With there’s the stress would have fallen on worse, and we might have assumed a more conspiratorial tone, as if she were about to divulge a secret.
Contractions and narration style
If you’re wondering whether to reserve your contractions for dialogue only, consider who the narrator is.
Let’s revisit Tana French (p. 1). The viewpoint character is a privileged man called Toby, the setting contemporary Dublin. What’s key here is that the narration viewpoint style is first person.
It is Toby who reports the events of the mystery; the narrative voice belongs to him. His narration register is therefore the same as his dialogue register – relaxed, colloquial – and the author, accordingly, retains the contractions in the narrative.
Let’s revisit Tana French (p. 1). The viewpoint character is a privileged man called Toby, the setting contemporary Dublin. What’s key here is that the narration viewpoint style is first person.
It is Toby who reports the events of the mystery; the narrative voice belongs to him. His narration register is therefore the same as his dialogue register – relaxed, colloquial – and the author, accordingly, retains the contractions in the narrative.
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I wasn’t abused as a kid, or bullied in school; my parents didn’t split up or die or have addiction problems or even get into any but the most trivial arguments [...] I know it wasn’t that simple.
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For sections written in third-person limited, the narrative voice would likely mirror the viewpoint character’s style of speaking. However, if you shift to a third-person objective viewpoint, where the distance between the characters and the readers is greater, the narrative might handle contractions differently to dialogue. It's a style choice you'll have to make.
Guidance from Chicago
Still a little nervous? Here’s some sensible advice from The Chicago Manual of Style, section 5.105:
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Most types of writing benefit from the use of contractions. If used thoughtfully, contractions in prose sound natural and relaxed and make reading more enjoyable. Be-verbs and most of the auxiliary verbs are contracted when followed by not: are not–aren’t, was not–wasn’t, cannot–can’t, could not–couldn’t, do not–don’t, and so on. A few, such as ought not–oughtn’t, look or sound awkward and are best avoided. Pronouns can be contracted with auxiliaries, with forms of have, and with some be-verbs. Think before using one of the less common contractions, which often don’t work well in prose, except perhaps in dialogue or quotations.
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Evaluate the sound
Here are three ways to help you evaluate the effectiveness of contracted or contracted-free dialogue:
1. Read the dialogue aloud
Is it difficult or awkward to say it? Does it sound unnatural to your ear? Do you stumble? Does it feel laboured, like you’re forcing the flow? If so, recast it with contractions. If the revised version is smoother, and the integrity of the setting is retained, go with the contracted forms.
2. Ask someone else to read the dialogue
Objectivity is almost impossible when it comes to our own writing. If the plan is that no one but you will ever read your book, write your dialogue the way you want to write it and leave it at that. If, however, you’re writing for readers too, and want to give them the best experience possible, fresh eyes (and ears) will serve you well.
You could even give your readers two versions of the dialogue sample – one with contractions and one without – and ask them which flows better and reads most naturally.
3. Head for YouTube
Dig out examples of speech by people whose backgrounds, environments and historical settings are similar to those of your characters. Watching characters in action will give you confidence to place on the page what can be heard from the mouths of those on the screen.
1. Read the dialogue aloud
Is it difficult or awkward to say it? Does it sound unnatural to your ear? Do you stumble? Does it feel laboured, like you’re forcing the flow? If so, recast it with contractions. If the revised version is smoother, and the integrity of the setting is retained, go with the contracted forms.
2. Ask someone else to read the dialogue
Objectivity is almost impossible when it comes to our own writing. If the plan is that no one but you will ever read your book, write your dialogue the way you want to write it and leave it at that. If, however, you’re writing for readers too, and want to give them the best experience possible, fresh eyes (and ears) will serve you well.
You could even give your readers two versions of the dialogue sample – one with contractions and one without – and ask them which flows better and reads most naturally.
3. Head for YouTube
Dig out examples of speech by people whose backgrounds, environments and historical settings are similar to those of your characters. Watching characters in action will give you confidence to place on the page what can be heard from the mouths of those on the screen.
Summing up
Whether to use contractions or not in dialogue is a style choice. There are no rules. However, a style choice that renders dialogue stilted and unrealistic is not good dialogue.
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
- Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
- Learn: Books and courses
- Discover: Resources for authors and editors
Find out more about the 7 goals we should achieve with every editorial report we write for our authors.
The report goals in brief
Every editorial report we write for our authors should achieve 7 goals. Some benefit us, some benefit our clients, but they’re all connected. If you feel your report-writing skills could do with a boost, use this goal-based framework to pep things up.
Goals that benefit the editor
Goals that benefit the client
Goals that benefit the editor
- Create the report efficiently
- Demonstrate editorial excellence
- Build trust
- Compel future commissions and recommendations
Goals that benefit the client
- Offer a comprehensive learning tool
- Take a mindful approach
- Provide a solution-based critical review
Goal 1: Create the report efficiently
Efficiency means achieving the three goals that benefit the client without compromising on one iota of quality and without damaging our productivity. We are in business, after all.
Creating detailed editorial reports can eat into an editor’s hourly rate. It’s easy – even for experienced sentence-level editors – to omit the time for report-writing when creating a quote; I’ve done it myself. We focus on the number of words per hour we edit, based perhaps on a sample.
Or perhaps we have included the report-writing component in our calculations but the author wants to negotiate on price. Every efficiency we incorporate allows us greater choice about whether to accept or reject a client’s proposal.
Creating detailed editorial reports can eat into an editor’s hourly rate. It’s easy – even for experienced sentence-level editors – to omit the time for report-writing when creating a quote; I’ve done it myself. We focus on the number of words per hour we edit, based perhaps on a sample.
Or perhaps we have included the report-writing component in our calculations but the author wants to negotiate on price. Every efficiency we incorporate allows us greater choice about whether to accept or reject a client’s proposal.
Goal 2: Demonstrate editorial excellence
Our second goal is to demonstrate editorial excellence. Those of you who are members of a national editorial society might well be bound by a code of practice that demands this.
That’s the case for members of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP), which says in its CoP: ‘Good communication between client/employer and freelance/employee is essential.’
Editorial excellence isn’t just about being an expert in typo hunting, grammar correction and stylistic revision.
Neither does it end with clarity on the project brief or issues of privacy, confidentiality and security.
It’s also about communicating the why of our edits. Comprehensive editorial reports are the perfect communication tool, and the reason why we shouldn’t skimp.
That’s the case for members of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP), which says in its CoP: ‘Good communication between client/employer and freelance/employee is essential.’
Editorial excellence isn’t just about being an expert in typo hunting, grammar correction and stylistic revision.
Neither does it end with clarity on the project brief or issues of privacy, confidentiality and security.
It’s also about communicating the why of our edits. Comprehensive editorial reports are the perfect communication tool, and the reason why we shouldn’t skimp.
Goal 3: Build trust
When we communicate the why of our decisions, we build trust.
If a client is anxious about how we’ve edited their work because they don’t understand the changes we’ve made and/or because we’re new to them, trust is low.
Part of our job is to earn it. A comprehensive editorial report that demonstrates a deep knowledge of our craft creates author confidence. And that’s the key to a healthy business relationship.
If a client is anxious about how we’ve edited their work because they don’t understand the changes we’ve made and/or because we’re new to them, trust is low.
Part of our job is to earn it. A comprehensive editorial report that demonstrates a deep knowledge of our craft creates author confidence. And that’s the key to a healthy business relationship.
Goal 4: Compel future commissions and recommendations
A client with a detailed editorial report that demonstrates excellence and builds confidence in your ability is more likely to do the following:
Now let's look at the benefits for the author.
- Come back to you with their next project
- Wait for you if your schedule is full
- Accept your price
- Recommended you to their friends, family and colleagues
Now let's look at the benefits for the author.
Goal 5: Offer a comprehensive learning tool
Our fifth goal is to provide our authors with an outstanding learning tool, rich in problem/solution-focused detail, which they can use to hone their writing craft.
The independent-author market is huge, and many in the community lack experience – they’re right at the beginning of their writing journey. They might well have talent by the bucket load but the line work we do is nevertheless extensive.
An editorial report gives us the chance to offer our guidance in a format that’s accessible and clear. And because it’s separate from their book file, they can refer to it time and again.
A comprehensive learning tool includes strengths, too. Writers can learn as much from knowing what they’re doing well – and should continue doing – as from knowing how they can up their game.
The independent-author market is huge, and many in the community lack experience – they’re right at the beginning of their writing journey. They might well have talent by the bucket load but the line work we do is nevertheless extensive.
An editorial report gives us the chance to offer our guidance in a format that’s accessible and clear. And because it’s separate from their book file, they can refer to it time and again.
A comprehensive learning tool includes strengths, too. Writers can learn as much from knowing what they’re doing well – and should continue doing – as from knowing how they can up their game.
Goal 6: Take a mindful approach
Our penultimate goal is to show mindfulness. As editors, we can never forget that every one of our author clients has a choice – and they chose us. They also have a passion – their book.
It takes commitment to write a story, and sometimes not a little courage to place it in the hands of a professional editor, particularly one they haven't worked with before. That decision comes with risk.
For the editor, being selected is a privilege rather than an entitlement. We must respect that choice, the risk taken, and their investment (time and money).
Yes, we should report on weaknesses; that’s how they’ll improve their sentence-level craft. But we must do so gently and respectfully, and complement that analysis with reflection on their strengths.
It takes commitment to write a story, and sometimes not a little courage to place it in the hands of a professional editor, particularly one they haven't worked with before. That decision comes with risk.
For the editor, being selected is a privilege rather than an entitlement. We must respect that choice, the risk taken, and their investment (time and money).
Yes, we should report on weaknesses; that’s how they’ll improve their sentence-level craft. But we must do so gently and respectfully, and complement that analysis with reflection on their strengths.
Goal 7: Provide a solution-based critical review
Many indie-author book files end up in our editing studios without having been evaluated by a developmental editor, a critiquing editor, an experienced beta reader or even a colleague or friend in a writing group.
Our reports need to offer a critical review that explores the book’s sentence-level strengths and weaknesses.
What’s essential is that we offer solutions to any weaknesses we identify. Without those, we risk creating a shopping list of what was good and what wasn’t. That kind of analysis won’t help the author grow as a writer. Neither will it reflect our editorial excellence.
Our reports need to offer a critical review that explores the book’s sentence-level strengths and weaknesses.
What’s essential is that we offer solutions to any weaknesses we identify. Without those, we risk creating a shopping list of what was good and what wasn’t. That kind of analysis won’t help the author grow as a writer. Neither will it reflect our editorial excellence.
Want to learn how to do it, and love it?
If you’re a sentence-level editor and think your reporting skills could do with a boost, or a new editor who wants to nail it from the start, take a look at my new course, How to Write the Perfect Fiction Editorial Report.
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
- Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
- Learn: Books and courses
- Discover: Resources for authors and editors
This post helps less experienced authors and editors understand how a third-person narrative viewpoint works in fiction, and the differences between objective and limited.
What is narrative point of view?
Point of view (POV) describes whose head we’re in when we read a book ... from whose perspective we discover what’s going on – and the smells, sounds, sights and emotions involved.
Third-person limited POV
Along with third-person objective, this viewpoint is the one that most writers find easiest to master at the beginning of their journey. Furthermore, readers are used to encountering it in contemporary fiction. The pronouns of choice are ‘she’, ‘he’, ‘it’ and ‘they’.
Third-person limited is so called because it’s a deeper viewpoint that limits readers to a single character’s experience – what they see, hear, feel and think. Readers get to sit in their skin and that provides an immersive experience. It’s as if we’re them.
Example: Intimacy and getting under the character’s skin
Here are some examples from Mick Herron, Harry Brett and Louise Penny that demonstrate an intimate third-person limited narrative:
Third-person limited is so called because it’s a deeper viewpoint that limits readers to a single character’s experience – what they see, hear, feel and think. Readers get to sit in their skin and that provides an immersive experience. It’s as if we’re them.
Example: Intimacy and getting under the character’s skin
Here are some examples from Mick Herron, Harry Brett and Louise Penny that demonstrate an intimate third-person limited narrative:
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For almost a minute that was that. Shirley could feel her watch ticking; could feel through the desk’s surface the computer struggling to return to life. Two pairs of feet tracked downstairs. Harper and Guy. She wondered where they were off to. (Dead Lions, p. 17)
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The blurred figures at the far end of the long corridor seemed almost liquid, or smoke. There, but insubstantial. Fleeting. Fleeing.
As she wished she could. This was it. The end of the journey. Not just that day’s journey as she and her husband, Peter, had driven from their little Québec village to the Musée d’Art Contemporain in Montréal, a place they knew well. Intimately. (A Trick of the Light, pp. 1–2) |
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His mum pushed past him, bringing a cloud of thick night air seasoned with salt and something he couldn’t place. A perfume perhaps, but not his mother’s normal scent. (Time to Win, p. 321)
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The voices are distinctive. It’s not just dialogue that conveys how the viewpoint characters speak and think; it’s the narrative too.
However, it’s called third-person limited for a reason. Strictly speaking, what that character can’t see or know shouldn’t be reported. In the above examples, we’re left with questions – of destination in the first, of the origin of a smell in the second, and of the nature of the journey – because we don’t know any more than the viewpoint characters.
Third-person limited is effective because an author doesn’t want to give everything away at once. The limitations over what can be known, and therefore divulged, allow the writer to control the unveiling of information via the viewpoint character.
Recommendation
I recommend you stick to a single character’s POV per chapter or section to avoid confusion or interruption. Mittelmark and Newman (p. 159) offer this wisdom:
However, it’s called third-person limited for a reason. Strictly speaking, what that character can’t see or know shouldn’t be reported. In the above examples, we’re left with questions – of destination in the first, of the origin of a smell in the second, and of the nature of the journey – because we don’t know any more than the viewpoint characters.
Third-person limited is effective because an author doesn’t want to give everything away at once. The limitations over what can be known, and therefore divulged, allow the writer to control the unveiling of information via the viewpoint character.
Recommendation
I recommend you stick to a single character’s POV per chapter or section to avoid confusion or interruption. Mittelmark and Newman (p. 159) offer this wisdom:
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Sometimes an author slips into a different point of view for the space of a single paragraph, or even a sentence. This is especially jarring when the remaining novel is given from the point of view of a single character, whom we have come to regard as our second self. It gives the feeling of a fleeting and unexplained moment of telepathy, an uncomfortable intrusion of somebody else’s thoughts. When the protagonist’s point of view resumes, we move forward into the narrative warily, ready at any moment for a fresh assault on our minds.
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That’s worth heeding. It means the reader’s trust has been lost, that they’ve been pulled out of the story rather than drawn further into it.
Trickier still is narrative ping pong, where within one section we bounce back and forth between the POVs of Character X and Character Y.
Here’s a made-up example that demonstrates how things can go wrong.
Trickier still is narrative ping pong, where within one section we bounce back and forth between the POVs of Character X and Character Y.
Here’s a made-up example that demonstrates how things can go wrong.
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Jan ran down the road, her lungs screaming for air. She snatched a glance over her shoulder, hoping to Christ Melody was behind.
‘You okay, Jan?’ said Melody. She’d barely got the words out – her throat was on fire. All she wanted to do was stop, breathe, devour that bottle of water in her backpack bouncing hard against her spine. ‘We’re here,’ Jan said. Thank God. Tears of relief stung her eyes. She’d been worried Mel wouldn’t keep up. Guilt niggled. Would she have gone back for her? She wasn’t sure. |
The problem with this kind of setup is that it ‘alienates the reader from both perspectives. She is unable to identify with either because there’s no telling when it will be yanked away’ (Mittelmark and Newman, p. 161).
In other words, the reader has been prevented from immersing themselves in the character’s version of the story. When you stay in the head of one character per chapter or section, you make your writing life and your reader’s journey easier.
In other words, the reader has been prevented from immersing themselves in the character’s version of the story. When you stay in the head of one character per chapter or section, you make your writing life and your reader’s journey easier.
Third-person objective POV
If third-person limited provides intimacy – allowing us to explore a character’s emotions and hear their voice – third-person objective offers a more neutral flexibility when we need some distance to look around and beyond objectively.
Like its limited sister, writers find this easiest to master and readers are used to encountering it. The pronouns too are ‘she’, ‘he’, ‘it’ and ‘they’.
It’s a useful viewpoint for the author who wants to convey descriptive information – height, weight, facial expression, environment. If you’re using this POV, practice your observation skills so that you understand how people move from place to place, what they wear, where they live, how they gesture, so that you can show what might be going on in their heads through what can be observed.
The same can be said of the objects in your novel. How does light play on water or a brick building at various times of the day? What sounds might be audible in your environment? How do the seasons affect the flora and fauna?
Third-person objective viewpoints are powerful because they force a writer to show rather than tell what’s being seen. That’s because we don’t have access to the internal thoughts of a character.
Example: A more distant and descriptive narrative
Here’s an example from David Baldacci’s The Fix (p. 3) that demonstrates third-person narration as observable description.
Like its limited sister, writers find this easiest to master and readers are used to encountering it. The pronouns too are ‘she’, ‘he’, ‘it’ and ‘they’.
It’s a useful viewpoint for the author who wants to convey descriptive information – height, weight, facial expression, environment. If you’re using this POV, practice your observation skills so that you understand how people move from place to place, what they wear, where they live, how they gesture, so that you can show what might be going on in their heads through what can be observed.
The same can be said of the objects in your novel. How does light play on water or a brick building at various times of the day? What sounds might be audible in your environment? How do the seasons affect the flora and fauna?
Third-person objective viewpoints are powerful because they force a writer to show rather than tell what’s being seen. That’s because we don’t have access to the internal thoughts of a character.
Example: A more distant and descriptive narrative
Here’s an example from David Baldacci’s The Fix (p. 3) that demonstrates third-person narration as observable description.
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Amos Decker trudged along alone. He was six-five and built like the football player he had once been. He’d been on a diet for several months now and had dropped a chunk of weight, but he could stand to lose quite a bit more. He was dressed in khaki pants stained at the cuff and a long, rumpled Ohio State Buckeyes pullover that concealed both his belly and the Glock 41 Gen4 pistol riding in a belt holster on his waistband.
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Example: Shown-not-told in action
Here are some excerpts from Stephen King’s The Stand that demonstrate a close attention to the way things and people behave when observed.
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The Chevy jumped like an old dog that had been kicked and plowed away the hi-test pump. It snapped off and rolled away, spilling a few dribbles of gas. The nozzle came unhooked and lay glittering under the fluorescents. (p. 8)
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“Clock went red,” the man on the floor grunted, and then began to cough, racking chainlike explosions that send heavy mucus spraying from his mouth in long and ropy splatters. Hap leaned backward, grimacing desperately. (p. 11)
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She walked softly up behind him and laid both hands on his shoulders.
Jess, who had been holding his rocks in his left hand and plunking them into Mother Atlantic with his right, let out a scream and lurched to hit feet. Pebbles scattered everywhere, and he almost knocked Frannie off the side and into the water. He almost went in himself, head first. (p. 16) |
Objectivity allows the writer to explore in detail what would be unnatural for a character to report directly. Remember, we’re not accessing thoughts, opinions and emotions with an objective POV, just the stuff that any onlooker could see, hear or smell.
Objective is the key word here. Third-person objective viewpoints should focus on what could be known by a narrator witnessing that scene. When information is reported that moves beyond a floating camera that’s tracking the immediate environs and into a space where the narrator knows more than could possibly be witnessed by the character or the onlooker, omniscience is in play (more on that below).
In some genres – crime fiction for example – this can be useful because the reader will be forced to reach their own conclusions as to the reasons for, or motivations behind, a particular event or behaviour. In other words, it’s mysterious.
However, it can be distancing if overused and as a result contemporary commercial fiction writers rarely write entire novels from an objective POV because it’s reportage and we can’t get into the characters’ heads. It’s harder to understand what motivates them unless they express it through dialogue. A blend of limited and objective is a more likely choice.
Recommendation
Use third-person objective POV to create suspense, to make your reader wonder, and ask their own questions, and to provide scene-setting information, but blend with a limited viewpoint for deeper emotional engagement.
In the first paragraph of the example below, Baldacci (The Fix, p. 3) uses third-person objective to give us background facts. In the second, he switches to limited to explain the character’s feelings. It’s a lovely fusion:
Objective is the key word here. Third-person objective viewpoints should focus on what could be known by a narrator witnessing that scene. When information is reported that moves beyond a floating camera that’s tracking the immediate environs and into a space where the narrator knows more than could possibly be witnessed by the character or the onlooker, omniscience is in play (more on that below).
In some genres – crime fiction for example – this can be useful because the reader will be forced to reach their own conclusions as to the reasons for, or motivations behind, a particular event or behaviour. In other words, it’s mysterious.
However, it can be distancing if overused and as a result contemporary commercial fiction writers rarely write entire novels from an objective POV because it’s reportage and we can’t get into the characters’ heads. It’s harder to understand what motivates them unless they express it through dialogue. A blend of limited and objective is a more likely choice.
Recommendation
Use third-person objective POV to create suspense, to make your reader wonder, and ask their own questions, and to provide scene-setting information, but blend with a limited viewpoint for deeper emotional engagement.
In the first paragraph of the example below, Baldacci (The Fix, p. 3) uses third-person objective to give us background facts. In the second, he switches to limited to explain the character’s feelings. It’s a lovely fusion:
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His size fourteen shoes hit the pavement with noisy splats. His hair was, to put it kindly, dishevelled. Decker worked at the FBI on a joint task force. He was on his way to a meeting at the Hoover Building.
He was not looking forward to it. He sensed that a change was coming, and Decker did not like change. He’d experienced enough of it in the last two years to last him a lifetime. He had just settled into a new routine with the FBI and he wanted to keep it that way. |
Cited works and related reading
- A Trick of the Light, Louise Penny, Three Pines Creations, 2011
- How Not to Write a Novel, Howard Mittelmark and Sandra Newman, Penguin, 2009
- The Fix, David Baldacci, Pan Books, 2017
- The Stand, Stephen King, First Anchor Books, mass-market edition, 2011
- What is a first-person narrative point of view?
- What is a second-person narrative point of view?
- What is an omniscient narrative point of view?
- What is head-hopping?
- Making Sense of Point of View (Transform Your Fiction series: 1)
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
- Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
- Learn: Books and courses
- Discover: Resources for authors and editors
Here are 10 tips to help you prepare the way for editing and proofreading fiction for independent authors and self-publishers.
Tips for specializing in fiction ...
If your editorial business is relatively new and you’re keen to specialize in fiction editing, there are some core issues that are worth considering. Some of these certainly apply to other specialisms, but fiction does bring its own joys and challenges.
1. Untangle the terminology
You'll need to be sensitive to the fact that your clients may not be familiar with conventional editorial workflows or the terms we use to describe them!
Clarify what the client expects, especially when using terms like ‘proofreading’ and 'editing'.
Clarify what the client expects, especially when using terms like ‘proofreading’ and 'editing'.
- Most authors who ask for proofreading actually want what editorial pros would traditionally call copyediting – checking and correcting the raw text files in Word (usually using Track Changes).
- Editorial pros themselves don’t use universal terminology. One editor’s copyediting could include developmental work, while another's could be strictly sentence-level editing.
- Offer advice on the different levels of editing, and be honest about which ones you’re capable of supplying.
2. Discuss the revision extent
Clarify the extent of revision required before you agree a price.
- A final quality-control check for spelling, punctuation, grammar and consistency errors may be the least of what’s required.
- Deeper problems may exist that ideally would have been attended to at an earlier editing stage – for example, problems with clarity, plot holes or inconsistencies, repetitive words and phrases, mangled sentence structure, dangling modifying clauses – all of which disfigure the text.
- Your copyediting could well include line editing – that takes longer and has to be factored into the budget.
3. Manage expectations
Find out how many stages of professional editing the file has already been through.
- If you’re the first, it’s more than likely that you’ll make thousands of amendments.
- Perfection, while aimed for, will be impossible unless you have superpowers!
- Make it clear that one pass is not enough to ensure that every literal and contextual error is attended to.
- Be honest about what’s possible within the available budget.
4. Put the client first – it’s all about the author
What’s required according to the editorial pro and what’s desired by the client (owing to budget or some other factor) could well be two very different things.
- You’re entitled to decline the work if you feel you can’t do what the client wants, given what hasn’t gone before.
- The client is also entitled to not take their book through four stages of professional revision if they choose. If they want your help and you think you can help, and you’re both clear about how far that help can go, then by all means work with the author. If you prefer to wave goodbye, then that’s fine too.
5. Be a champion of solutions
The authors we’re working with are at different stages of writing-craft development.
Some are complete beginners, some are emerging, others are developing and yet others are seasoned artists. If they’re in discussion with us, it’s because they think we can help.
Some are complete beginners, some are emerging, others are developing and yet others are seasoned artists. If they’re in discussion with us, it’s because they think we can help.
- Even the beginner and emerging writers I’ve worked with have many strengths. Perhaps the sentences are awkward and repetitive, and yet the story they support and the characters who live within the narrative are amazing.
- An editorial report that summarizes strengths and weaknesses can help the author to develop their craft. I don’t provide professional manuscript evaluations/critiques or development/structural editing. That doesn’t mean I can’t tell the client what I liked, what I think they can work on, and where they might go to develop their skills.
- My editorial reports can stretch to many pages depending on what I find. They don’t take long to produce because I use the template from my course.
6. Be prepared to walk away
Sometimes the author and the editor are simply not a good fit for each other. In the case of fiction, this can be because the editor can't emotionally connect with the story.
- If, for example, deeper line editing is required, the editor will need to ‘get’ the author, be able to feel their way into the soul of the text so that they can polish without stripping out the author’s voice or style of writing.
- Repeating the mantra ‘It’s not my book’ can help but the ability to mimic the author is often intuitive more than anything else.
- If you don’t feel that intuition kicking in when you see the initial sample of the book – if it’s not grabbing you – it might well be necessary to walk away unless you’re being hired for micro correction work that focuses on spelling, grammar, punctuation and consistency.
7. Decide whether fiction’s a good fit for you
There are challenges and benefits to fiction editing and proofreading.
- On the one hand, fiction lends itself to flexibility with regard to strict adherence to pedantry, especially when that pedantry does more harm than good.
- Editing and proofreading fiction is in some ways nowhere near as technically demanding as an academic project with a book-length style guide attached to it and a reference list of a similar length.
- On the other hand, however, that very flexibility makes fiction work trickier too. Improving prose so that it meets publishing-industry standards while retaining authenticity of voice, flow, mood and style requires not a little artistry.
- If you've been hired to copyedit or proofread, you might not expect to have to deal with viewpoint problems. Still, they arise often enough with self-publishers that it's worth understanding how POV works so that you can query or fix. I use this guide to explain it to authors.
- Being emotionally responsive to the text is essential. That's a difficult thing to learn on a course.
- Every change or suggestion needs to be carried out gently and elegantly so that the editor’s input is invisible to the reader. Some editors and proofreaders steer well clear of fiction; for others, it’s the best job in the world! There’s no shame in deciding it’s not for you.
8. Do a short sample edit before you commit
Unless you’ve previously worked with the author, work on a short sample so that you know what you’re letting yourself in for.
- Sometimes it’s only by actually working on a piece, rather than just reading it through, that you get a sense of where the problems are and whether you’re capable of solving them within the asked-for brief.
- This will help you to get the fee spot on, too, because you’ll be able to extrapolate how long it should take to complete the project.
9. Query like a superhero!
All querying requires diplomacy, but fiction needs a particularly gentle touch.
- Your authors have poured their hearts and souls into their novels. When you’re highlighting problems or suggesting recasts, it’s essential to get the tone right so that you don’t come across as critical.
- If it sounds like I’m stating the obvious, bear in mind that when you’re drawing attention to dangling modifier number 87 and you’re only on Chapter 5, it’s easy for notes of frustration to creep into your comments! I know this because one of my regular authors joked with me that she’d sensed this in my commenting in one of her books. Eeek! That made me pull my socks up.
10. Keep your clients’ mistakes to yourself
Some of our self-publishing clients are pulled a thousand-and-one ways every day. And, yet, they’ve found the time and energy to write a book. We must salute them.
Some are right at the beginning of the journey. There’s still a lot to learn and they’re on a budget; they’ve not taken their book through all the levels of professional editing that they might have liked to if things had been different.
Some haven't attended writer workshops and taken courses, and they probably never will – there’s barely enough time in the day to deal with living a normal life, never mind writing classes. They’re doing the best they can.
With that in mind, respect the journey.
We must always, always respect the writer and their writing, and acknowledge the privilege of having been selected to edit for them.
Those are my 10 tips for working with indie fiction writers! I hope you find them useful as you begin your own fiction-editing journey!
Some are right at the beginning of the journey. There’s still a lot to learn and they’re on a budget; they’ve not taken their book through all the levels of professional editing that they might have liked to if things had been different.
Some haven't attended writer workshops and taken courses, and they probably never will – there’s barely enough time in the day to deal with living a normal life, never mind writing classes. They’re doing the best they can.
With that in mind, respect the journey.
- We're professionals and we're hired to fix problems. If your author has struggled with a sentence and made an error that you think is amusing, fix it or suggest a recast, and move on.
- Don't share that error in an editing Facebook group (regardless of that group's privacy settings) so that you and your colleagues can have a giggle about it. Our clients are the people who pay our mortgages and food bills. None of us is perfect. We all make mistakes. We're hired to sort out these problems, not use them as fodder for relaxation and networking.
- Those 'closed' online groups can feel like private, intimate spaces where we can chat and let off steam with a select group of editor friends, but that's not what's happening in reality. What goes online, stays online. If you're sharing a head-desk moment, it can be seen by hundreds, perhaps even thousands of other editors, most of whom don't know you (though they might just know your author).
- If you're in doubt about whether you're oversharing, ask yourself how you would feel if you were the author. If the words 'hurt', 'offended' or 'disrespected' come to mind, you know what to do (or not to do).
- That the author's name hasn't been mentioned isn't an excuse. We are being paid to edit the words, not share unintentional blunders with 500+ colleagues. At best it's rude and unprofessional. At worst, it's a breach of privacy.
- If you need guidance from colleagues on how to recast or make sense of a piece of writing, create a fresh example that illustrates the problem and ask them for advice on that, not the original.
- Plus, if authors never made mistakes, we'd be redundant. And there's nothing funny about being an unemployed editor.
We must always, always respect the writer and their writing, and acknowledge the privilege of having been selected to edit for them.
Those are my 10 tips for working with indie fiction writers! I hope you find them useful as you begin your own fiction-editing journey!
Learn more about fiction editing
Visit the fiction editing section of my resource library. You'll find books, booklets, webinars, courses and podcast episodes.
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
- Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
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