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This practical framework shows you 9 steps for line editing scenes in crime and thriller fiction so that every sentence pulls its weight and delivers the appropriate level of tension.
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Why your novel’s not gripping the reader
If you feel like your novel’s not gripping the reader, it’s all too easy to blame something going on at story level. Perhaps it’s not twisty enough. Maybe the plot’s too thin. Perhaps the structure’s not balanced and the prose feels saggy in the middle of the book.
Before you rework the whole thing, take a step back and ask yourself if it’s the line work. The reason I say that is because line editing for crime fiction and thrillers takes place within the same foundational framework as any other genre. However, there’s an additional matter that needs engineering at line level: tension. That tension can’t just live at the macro level – in the story. It has to have a home in the sentences too. What is line editing?
Structural editing is SHAPING work. It examines big-picture elements like plot, pacing, structure, character arcs and coherence. Editors focus on improving the clarity and impact of the whole story.
Proofreading is QUALITY CONTROL work. It focuses on surface issues, amending spelling, grammar, punctuation, formatting and consistency issues to ensure the novel’s ready for publication. Line editing is EXPRESSION work. It sits in between the structural and proofreading stages, and considers what the scene is trying to do – whether that’s creating drama, building tension, revealing character, conveying information – and then making stylistic improvements to ensure the language actually achieves that. Use the framework below to check each scene and make sure that every sentence is pulling its weight. 1. Check for clarity
The first step is to check for clarity. Here, you’re making sure that:
Just because a line is lean doesn’t mean it needs to be boring. Sometimes writers need to tell it like it is and give the reader the cleanest pathway through so that they can live in the moment of the action rather than having to untangle it. This is particularly important in high-stakes situations, where the clock is ticking or a character’s in pursuit or being pursued. Examples
In the edited version, clarity has been improved by following a cleaner telling of the order of play: time (the watch), movement (hurried) and path (direction). I’ve also used more precise verbs ('checked' and 'hurried') to show how the character’s actions are controlled. This means we can ditch the adverbs ('urgently' and 'briefly') because those verbs do the heavy-lifting. I’ve also suggested free indirect speech ('What if the … no matter'). That’s more concise and takes us into the character’s headspace without the need for the cluttering filter words ('wondered' and 'realized'). Key principle: Keep tension intact my ensuring your reader doesn’t have to stop and re-read a sentence. 2. Manage narrative velocity with sentence length
Narrative velocity is the speed at which the reader perceives events taking place in a story. At scene level, it’s shaped by sentence structure, pacing and how quickly information and action are delivered.
Just because you’re writing crime fiction or a thriller doesn’t mean the pace has to rocket in every sentence. Instead, make sure it’s controlled in a way that shows rather than tells the perceived speed. How sentence length affects perceived speed As a general rule, long sentences tend to slow the pace of a scene, while short sentences accelerate it. There’s space for both, of course, so think about what’s happening in your scene in terms of stakes. Is danger increasing? Is time running out? Is something shocking revealed? Try shortening your sentences in those cases. For extra impact, use sentence fragments – though sparingly, because then the reader won’t notice that you’re doing it, only how it makes them feel. If, however, the scene is more reflective – perhaps a law-enforcement officer is trying to make sense of some inconsistent evidence, or they’re remembering a former case – a longer sentence will mirror the more stretched-out thought process. Example
Notice how in the example above, the leading longer sentences elongate the perceived time, reflecting the tedious graft that our character’s putting in. Then, as something unexpected is discovered, shorter sentences and fragments make the prose snappier. This truncates the moment into something immediate and jarring.
This mirrors real-life human experience. When we’re under pressure we tend to think in bursts, whereas when we’re in a safe, calm space we have more time for reflection. By controlling the length of a sentence in prose we can mirror that tension, or the lack of it. Key principle: Mix up sentence length so that you’re reflecting mood. 3. Build micro-tension with rhythmic tools
Rhythm determines how quickly a reader moves through a scene. Faster rhythms can convey urgency, action, fear, anger and shock. Slower rhythms can convey sadness, calm, thoughtfulness and introspection. Interruptions to rhythm force the reader to pay attention.
We’ve already looked at how sentence length affects pacing, so here are five more rhythmic devices that you can call on at line editing stage to create or ease tension. Think about what’s happening in the scene and what the character’s feeling, then consider which tool might be most effective:
Examples In all five examples below, there are different levels of micro-tension in play, and the rhythmic tools help mirror the emotional pressure experienced by the characters.
The repetition feels weighty and emphasizes the character’s desperate longing and the pressure he’s feeling.
The omission of conjunctions in the asyndeton example allows the list to flow rapidly, conveying urgency.
Postponing who’s in the chair builds suspense.
The succession of conjunctions mirrors the character’s exhausting pursuit.
Short one-line paragraph: The man in the photo was him.
By giving this pithy one-liner its own space, the revelation lands hard.
Key principle: Rhythmic tools help readers tap into character experience viscerally, but they need to be used judiciously so that that they don’t overshadow the story.
4. Regulate what the reader knows, and when
When there’s a gap between what’s happening and what the reader understands about it, you create suspense. It’s your chance to make them wait and wonder what’s going to happen – to tease them so that their anticipation builds! And all the while, tension increases.
If a particular scene has important information or a surprise in it, even a small one, look for line editing opportunities to delay the reveal by a line or two. If you have several revelations in your scene, think about how you can break them up so they land in stages. Example
In the example above, the tension builds as Marv grapples with his conundrum, and the reader isn’t any the wiser. We uncover the reveal at the same time as him.
I’ve kept that reveal short, concrete and slightly incomplete to maximize impact. This means the reader has to do some of the work in that moment. Further revelation and explanation can come later. 5. Control narrative point of view
What the reader knows, or doesn’t know, is key, so review the scene to check that you’ve reinforced the limits of your chosen narrative point-of-view style.
If you’ve used a limited or subjective viewpoint, which is common in crime fiction and thrillers, check that:
Examples (Arjun is the perspective character)
In the first example, Arjun can’t know that a person is behind him, never mind one holding a gun, precisely because this action is happening behind him. In the revised version, he senses movement, but that’s all. The reader knows only what the character knows, and if Arjun’s uncertain, so are we. That delay in information adds to the tension. Key principle: Limit the information reported in the narrative to what the perspective character can experience. 6. Strengthen your verbs
If you want to maximise tension, looking at your verbs is a great place to start. Small tweaks can make a big difference to whether an action feels like it’s gentler and happening at arm’s length, or strong and immediate.
Generally speaking, weak verbs dilute tension, while stronger ones amplify it, so line edit in a way that focuses the reader’s attention sharply on what’s being done. Example Imagine an escape scene and take a look at the following two options:
Nothing’s technically wrong with the first version, but the action feels expository. Note the verb – ‘was running’. It’s the past continuous tense, or action in progress. That’s grammatically unproblematic but it’s somewhat soft. This is exacerbated by the addition of a clause that reminds the reader what they already know given that this is an escape scene. The second version seeks to draw the reader into the moment. I’ve suggested a more forceful verb – ‘sprinted’. Using the simple past tense conveys urgency. I’ve also replaced the expository ‘trying to get away’ with an additional precise verb – ‘skidded’. Now we leave the reader to join up the dots, and instead of telling them what the intention is – to escape – we focus on what the character’s doing right now. It’s a small change, but one that transforms the energy in the scene and makes it feel more tense. Key principle: If a verb has scaffolding around it – ‘was [verb]ing’, ‘began to [verb]’, ‘seemed to [verb]’ – experiment with stripping it down so it’s more precise and conveys a sense of impact rather than effort. 7. Sharpen dialogue with subtext
Real-life speech is often filled with stuff that comes out of social norms (eg saying hello and goodbye, offering drinks, talking about the weather).
However, including this in your crime fiction or thriller risks ripping the tension out of a scene because it’s not what the reader’s interested in. When you’re line editing, look for opportunities to:
Example: Authentic but distracting
Example: Focused and tension-filled
The first version feels real enough, but it's rather expository. There’s no tension between the two speakers.
In the second version, the filler is gone, and one of the characters is cagey, then interruptive when their colleague goes on the defence. The subtext – that one of them missed something – is shown rather than told. Key principle: Dialogue should do triple duty – reveal character (voice), show the mood (the subtext of the conversation), and deliver intent (so that the story advances). 8. Ensure description matches the stakes
Line editing is also the time to consider whether the stakes in a scene are apparent. The reader should never forget what’s at risk, so check that characters’ actions and reactions match the situation.
Examples of high stakes could include:
In these situations, line edit to ensure your description is targeted and precise. That way, the information conveyed is vivid but delivered fast, creating more immediate pressure-based tension. Examples of low stakes could include:
In these situations, the description can be more detailed and the pace slower. You can still deliver tension, but it’s more stretched out because there’s no imminent threat. Examples
In the high-stakes example, the description is more focused on the immediate movement, which inflates a sense of urgency. Here, the prose creates a mood that’s abrupt and determined. In the low-stakes example, the character is able to move in a more procedural fashion, and take in their surroundings and notice the details. Here, the prose describes a drab, neglected space, and creates a bleak and institutional mood. Key principle: Ensure the level of detail given to the reader reflects the character’s ability to process it in any given situation. 9. Review your story beginnings and chapter endings
A super first line in a novel makes readers ask questions and creates a sense of intrigue that draws the reader in. Think of it as a tension pull.
A powerful closing line in a chapter withholds just enough resolution or adds a twist, which creates momentum. This is the tension push – the encouragement to turn the page and read the next chapter. Examples: Opening lines that pull readers into a novel
Those four novel opening lines provide mystery, imbalance and unanswered implication. Rather than explaining, they disturb the equilibrium and force the reader to ask questions. Examples: Closing lines that push readers onto the next chapter
Those four chapter closing lines function as momentum triggers. Each one either opens a new question, shifts the reader’s perception or interrupts their certainty. Key principle: Start the book with something that disrupts normal expectations of situation, logic or truth. End a chapter at a moment where certainty shifts. Summing up
Every story needs to have a great plot – a structured sequence of events where characters pursue goals, face obstacles and experience change through conflict and resolution. Getting that right is structural or developmental editing work – the shaping stage.
But every novel needs to work at line level too, because that expression work is what will keep readers interested and focused, rather than skimming. 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 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.
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.
This post explores how to use embedded dialogue snippets and what effect they have on tone, character and flow.
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Read on to find out more about:
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.
Discover what implied dialogue is and four ways you can use it in your novel, whatever the genre, to enrich your readers’ experience.
What’s in this post
Find out more about:
What is implied dialogue?
Implied dialogue is information that could be included naturally in a character’s speech but is instead offered in a narrative form that implies that direct speech has taken place.
Here’s a comparative example:
In the first version, aside from the speech tag (Ava said), the information is conveyed as present-tense direct speech. I’ve used single quotation marks, but doubles would have been fine too if I’d been writing in a different style.
In the second version, some of that direct speech has been rendered as third-person past-tense narrative instead. It still has the feel of Ava’s speech because the narrative follows on coherently from her introductory statement about having second thoughts. That she actually spoke these words to the listener is therefore implied. 4 reasons to experiment with implied dialogue
Whether you use implied dialogue, and how often, is a stylistic choice. There are certainly no rules. However, it’s worth considering the impact it can have on your writing and the way your reader engages with your prose.
Here are four reasons why I think you should experiment with it. 1. Reducing psychic distance to involve the reader
When two or more characters are talking to each other through direct speech, the reader is relegated to the role of invisible listener.
With implied dialogue, the narrator shifts their gaze towards the reader and invites them to participate by being an active listener. That reduces the psychic (or narrative) distance between the narrator and reader so that our experience of the novel is more intimate. EXAMPLE 1 Below is an example from p. 290 of False Value by Ben Aaronovitch. Our protagonist Peter Grant narrates in the first person, which means that the psychic distance between him and the reader is usually fairly intimate – he’s always telling us, the readers, what’s happened. In this example, he’s on a Skype call with an FBI agent called Reynolds who’s updating him on what she’s discovered about a case. By rendering some of Reynolds’s speech as implied rather than direct, Aaronovitch subtly ensures that the reader’s still invited to the party. It’s as if Grant has looked away from Reynolds on the screen for just a moment, and towards us.
2. Summarising to avoid repetition
Sometimes the reader has already accessed information via a viewpoint character. If that character then shares the detail with another via direct speech, the reader will be subjected to repetition that encourages them to skim.
A narrative summary enables authors to imply the spoken sharing of information without actually putting the whole conversation down on paper twice. EXAMPLE 2 In the excerpt below, the protagonist – with the help of a companion – has escaped from an unknown location after being kidnapped.
Notice how the dialogue at the end of the excerpt repeats information we already know because Grant has narrated the journey of discovery and the direction he takes in the previous paragraphs. It’s repetitive and dull.
But actually, I’ve butchered it. The real excerpt from pp. 329–30 of Lies Sleeping, also by Ben Aaronovitch, looks like this:
Take a look at the final line. Aaronovitch uses narrative, rather than direct speech, to imply what Grant has actually said to Guleed.
The repetition is gone. Instead, of laboured direct speech that tells readers what they already know, the implied dialogue is taut and pacy, and lets us move on to the next part of the scene. Summarising information via implied dialogue doesn’t necessarily reduce the word count, but that’s fine. The goal is not to necessarily to reduce the number of words (though that may be the result) but to keep the reader interested and drive the story forward. 3. Breaking up would-be monologues
When non-viewpoint characters have information to share, direct speech is the perfect vehicle because we can learn about their experiences even though we haven’t been party to them.
However, when there’s a lot of detail, that information can turn into what feels like a monologue. The reader can end up dislocated from the environment, as if the speaker is talking in a vacuum or floating in white space. You might see this referred to as ‘talking heads syndrome’. Implied dialogue is the antidote. It breaks up the dialogue so that while some of what was said is rendered in direct speech, chunks of it are voiced by the narrator. That is, what was actually spoken by the non-viewpoint character is implied. EXAMPLE 3 Below is a fine example from False Value again, this time on p. 287. Consider how long Reynolds’s spiel would have been if Aaronovitch hadn’t broken it up by allowing the protagonist and first-person narrator, Peter Grant, to bear some of the burden. It’s implied that the 113 words about what happened on August 2015 were spoken by Reynolds, but it’s Grant who delivers the information to the reader on her behalf. The monologue has been avoided but we know exactly how that conversation went.
And don’t forget the impact on reader inclusion discussed earlier. This monologue-breaker has also served to turn Grant’s narrative gaze towards us – the readers – rather than focusing solely on the person who’s talking to him via Skype.
4. Making direct speech more impactful
Using implied dialogue can also enable direct speech to shine a little more brightly, especially when there’s a punchy spoken one-liner that deserves to stand out on the page.
EXAMPLE 4 The excerpt below is from p. 369 of Lies Sleeping. The author uses a combination of direct speech, implied dialogue and narrative to present a coherent telling of the what the characters are saying and doing. In this case, the implied dialogue is how readers know about the relatively mundane conversations that have taken place between the characters, but note in particular the penultimate line in which we learn that Guleed said she’d been about to phone. What that does is put her closing direct speech centre stage. And that’s right and proper because it’s anything but mundane. It’s a section-closer that drips with suspense and tension – compelling the reader to turn the page so they can find out more about the problem Guleed’s identified, what the implications are and how the team are going to fix it.
Summing up
Implied dialogue does what it says on the tin. It is narrative that implies what characters said to each other, even though it’s not presented in the present tense and (often) with quotation/speech marks surrounding it.
And while direct speech that’s rich in voice, conveys mood, and shows intent is knockout, it may be that you’re concerned about excluding your readers – or, worse, boring them. If that's the case, experiment with this tool and see what effect it has on your prose when you mix things up a little. Related resources and cited texts
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
Are your thriller’s sentences front-loaded with filter words? If so, you could be slowing your reader down. This post explains what filter words are, how they affect a sentence and how to decide whether to include them or ditch them.
What’s in this post ...
Read on to find out more about:
- Why the start of a sentence is important.
- What filter words are.
- How filter words reduce momentum.
- How filter words make space for reflection.
Why the start of a sentence is important
If you’ve read any guidance about online writing, you’ll have come across the concept of front-loading a sentence. It means putting the most important stuff at the start. The idea is that website visitors are busy and scan for relevance. The quicker they find it, the more likely they are to engage.
While a novel that reads like a Google snippet from start to finish isn’t likely to win any prizes, the principle is worth paying attention to because the information at the start of a novel’s sentence is still what the reader will pay most attention to.
The start of a sentence is therefore valuable real estate. If filter words are being assigned to that top spot too often, more interesting subjects and verbs are likely being demoted.
While a novel that reads like a Google snippet from start to finish isn’t likely to win any prizes, the principle is worth paying attention to because the information at the start of a novel’s sentence is still what the reader will pay most attention to.
The start of a sentence is therefore valuable real estate. If filter words are being assigned to that top spot too often, more interesting subjects and verbs are likely being demoted.
What are filter words?
In everyday speech, we sometimes use the term ‘filter’ to convey a sense of slowdown or separation, usually because of a barrier of some sort. For example:
In literature, filter words are verbs that do a similar thing – they slow down the reader’s access to what the viewpoint character is experiencing.
Examples include 'watched', 'saw', 'noticed', 'spotted', 'looked at', 'felt', 'thought', 'wondered', 'heard', 'realised' and 'knew'.
Take a look at this short excerpt from Chapter 2 of Razorblade Tears by S.A. Cosby.
- Sunlight filtered through the tree canopy.
- Over the next couple of hours, information about the explosion filtered out of the camp.
- The children filtered through the turnstile and lined up in in yard.
In literature, filter words are verbs that do a similar thing – they slow down the reader’s access to what the viewpoint character is experiencing.
Examples include 'watched', 'saw', 'noticed', 'spotted', 'looked at', 'felt', 'thought', 'wondered', 'heard', 'realised' and 'knew'.
Take a look at this short excerpt from Chapter 2 of Razorblade Tears by S.A. Cosby.
- Ike Randolph let go of his wife's hand. She slumped against him.
Ike is the viewpoint character, which means we experience the scene from his perspective.
Notice first what’s front-loading those two sentences. The subjects (Ike in the first, ‘she’ – Ike’s wife – in the second) and the verbs ‘let go’ and ‘slumped’.
That front-loading forces our gaze outwards – first towards Ike, then towards the movement of Ike’s wife’s body.
Now let’s introduce a filter word.
Notice first what’s front-loading those two sentences. The subjects (Ike in the first, ‘she’ – Ike’s wife – in the second) and the verbs ‘let go’ and ‘slumped’.
That front-loading forces our gaze outwards – first towards Ike, then towards the movement of Ike’s wife’s body.
Now let’s introduce a filter word.
- Ike Randolph let go of his wife's hand. He watched as she slumped against him.
Now the second sentence is front-loaded with a new verb – ‘watched’. Our access to the movement (the slumping) has been slowed down. We can’t shift directly to it without taking an extra step that involves centring our gaze for just a second on Ike’s watching.
In that brief moment, we’re no longer looking outward at what Ike’s experiencing. Instead, we’re looking inward at Ike and how he acquires that experience – by watching.
Less experienced writers can be tempted to overuse filter words. Indeed, it’s one of the most common problems I see in my editing studio. At sentence-level revision stage – whether that work’s being done by the writer themselves or with the help of a professional editor – it’s therefore worth watching out for them and assessing whether they’re impeding the novel’s pace.
In that brief moment, we’re no longer looking outward at what Ike’s experiencing. Instead, we’re looking inward at Ike and how he acquires that experience – by watching.
Less experienced writers can be tempted to overuse filter words. Indeed, it’s one of the most common problems I see in my editing studio. At sentence-level revision stage – whether that work’s being done by the writer themselves or with the help of a professional editor – it’s therefore worth watching out for them and assessing whether they’re impeding the novel’s pace.
When filter words reduce momentum
Thrillers are supposed to thrill, and action-packed scenes such as escapes, fights, heists and chases need to be written with razor-sharp precision so that readers don’t start skimming.
Problematic filter words can appear anywhere in a sentence, but front-loading sentences with them is even more likely to rip the momentum out of the prose. If you want your readers to focus on the action, make sure that any you retain are earning their keep.
Take a look at an excerpt from a published thriller that I’ve fiddled with. It’s a heist scene and the action takes place in a matter of seconds. The viewpoint character is coked up to his eyeballs and desperate, acting on impulse.
Problematic filter words can appear anywhere in a sentence, but front-loading sentences with them is even more likely to rip the momentum out of the prose. If you want your readers to focus on the action, make sure that any you retain are earning their keep.
Take a look at an excerpt from a published thriller that I’ve fiddled with. It’s a heist scene and the action takes place in a matter of seconds. The viewpoint character is coked up to his eyeballs and desperate, acting on impulse.
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He knew that under normal circumstances he would never put his hands on a lady. However, these were not normal circumstances. Not, he thought, by a long shot.
Ronnie struck the manager just above her right eye with the butt of the .38. He watched as a divot the width of a popsicle stick appeared above her eye. Blood spewed from the wound like water from a broken faucet. |
The three instances of filtering moderate the pace and draw our attention towards the narrator’s doing knowing, thinking and watching, none of which are as interesting as what he knows, thinks and watches. All those filter words act as barriers that the reader has to jump over in order to get to the action.
We could even argue that they introduce a sort of voyeurism – as if Ronnie is reflecting on the impact of his violence, almost in slow motion. But that’s not what’s going on here. Rather, he’s wired, out of control and operating in the moment.
And that’s why the unadulterated version of Blacktop Wasteland (p. 113) – also by S.A. Cosby – is perfect:
We could even argue that they introduce a sort of voyeurism – as if Ronnie is reflecting on the impact of his violence, almost in slow motion. But that’s not what’s going on here. Rather, he’s wired, out of control and operating in the moment.
And that’s why the unadulterated version of Blacktop Wasteland (p. 113) – also by S.A. Cosby – is perfect:
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Under normal circumstances he would never put his hands on a lady. However, these were not normal circumstances. Not by a long shot.
Ronnie struck the manager just above her right eye with the butt of the .38. A divot the width of a popsicle stick appeared above her eye. Blood spewed from the wound like water from a broken faucet. |
The filter words have gone, and with them the unintended pathological introspection, but the momentum is restored. We're in the moment with Ronnie as he lashes out. It's no less violent but the pace of the prose now mirrors the action authentically.
When filter words make space for reflection
Sometimes, however, the author wants us to slow down, step back and focus inward on the acquisition of experience.
Let’s take a look at another example from Cosby’s Razorblade Tears, this one also from Chapter 2.
Let’s take a look at another example from Cosby’s Razorblade Tears, this one also from Chapter 2.
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The little girl sitting in her lap played with Mya's braids. Ike looked at the girl. Skin the color of honey with hair to match. Arianna had just turned three the week before her parents died. Did she have any inkling of what was happening? When Mya had told her that her daddies were asleep, she seemed to accept it without too much trouble. He envied the elasticity of her mind. She could wrap her head around this in a way that he couldn't.
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The filter phrase is ‘looked at’, and it’s important. Ike is looking hard at what’s in front of him. As will be revealed later, this girl is his murdered son’s daughter. Ike recalls something he’d said to his son a few months earlier: ‘But that little girl, she gonna have it hard enough already. She's half Black. Her mama was somebody you paid to carry her, and she got two gay daddies. So now what?’
Ike and his wife will now be raising the little girl. Cosby wants to focus our attention inward for a moment on Ike’s reflection, and the filter word makes space for that.
While filter words can be effective when they’re used to create a sense of introspection, littering prose with them will be disruptive and pull the reader out of the viewpoint character's headspace. In other words, the psychic or narrative distance will be widened and we’ll feel disconnected from the immediacy of the character’s experience.
For that reason, always use filter words judiciously. In the above example, Cosby offers just a single nudge, and it’s enough.
Ike and his wife will now be raising the little girl. Cosby wants to focus our attention inward for a moment on Ike’s reflection, and the filter word makes space for that.
While filter words can be effective when they’re used to create a sense of introspection, littering prose with them will be disruptive and pull the reader out of the viewpoint character's headspace. In other words, the psychic or narrative distance will be widened and we’ll feel disconnected from the immediacy of the character’s experience.
For that reason, always use filter words judiciously. In the above example, Cosby offers just a single nudge, and it’s enough.
Summing up
Every filter word needs to be assessed on its own merits. Some will have a place in a novel because the author wants to introduce a sense of introspection into a viewpoint character’s narrative. Just bear in mind the following:
- When filter words front-load a sentence, they’re the first thing a reader notices.
- They destroy momentum and so are often best avoided in pacy action scenes, regardless of their position.
- And even if they do serve a purpose – focusing a reader’s attention inwards on how the viewpoint character acquires the experience they’re reporting (by looking, thinking, feeling etc.) – it's worth keeping their use to a bare minimum. One nudge will likely be enough.
Further reading
Take a look at these related resources for editors and writers. They'll help you develop your fiction line craft:
- For editors: Fiction editing learning centre
- For authors: Line craft learning centre
- Becoming a Fiction Editor (free booklet for editors)
- Blacktop Wasteland, Cosby, S.A., Headline, 2020
- Editing Fiction at Sentence Level (book for editors and authors)
- Filter words in fiction: Purposeful inclusion and dramatic restriction (blog post)
- Making Sense of ‘Show, Don’t Tell’ (book for editors and authors)
- Narrative Distance: A Toolbox for Writers and Editors (course)
- Razorblade Tears, Cosby, S.A., Headline, 2021
- Switching to Fiction (course for editors)
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
Here are three clutter checks you can carry out on your novel. Reviewing, and editing where appropriate, will help keep your crime fiction, thriller or mystery writing tight and engaging.
In this post ...
In this post, I look at the following ways of decluttering prose in commercial fiction:
- Clutter check #1: Reviewing filter words
- Clutter check #2: Reviewing speech tags
- Clutter check #3: Reviewing action beats
Clutter check #1: Review your filter words
Filter words are verbs that focus the reader’s gaze inwards on the senses a character is using to experience action with.
Too many filter words that explain this sensory behaviour in action can make prose feel told rather shown, and increase narrative distance.
Examples include ‘noticed’, ‘seemed’, ‘spotted’, ‘saw’, ‘realized’, ‘felt’, ‘thought’, ‘wondered’, ‘believed’, ‘knew’ and ‘decided’.
Removing them focuses the reader’s gaze outwards on what is being experienced.
Sometimes an author wants an inward focus, but it’s often the case that the reader will assume that an odour is being smelled, a view is being seen, a thought is being thought, and knowledge is being known.
Review your narrative and consider whether the removal of a filter word would make the prose shorter and more immersive. Here are some examples:
Example 1
With filter:
Filter removed:
Example 2
With filter:
Filter removed:
Example 3
With filter:
Filter removed:
Too many filter words that explain this sensory behaviour in action can make prose feel told rather shown, and increase narrative distance.
Examples include ‘noticed’, ‘seemed’, ‘spotted’, ‘saw’, ‘realized’, ‘felt’, ‘thought’, ‘wondered’, ‘believed’, ‘knew’ and ‘decided’.
Removing them focuses the reader’s gaze outwards on what is being experienced.
Sometimes an author wants an inward focus, but it’s often the case that the reader will assume that an odour is being smelled, a view is being seen, a thought is being thought, and knowledge is being known.
Review your narrative and consider whether the removal of a filter word would make the prose shorter and more immersive. Here are some examples:
Example 1
With filter:
- Danni knew there was a door in the back of the hut that led into the woods. She could make her escape there.
Filter removed:
- There was a door in the back of the hut that led into the woods. She could make her escape there.
Example 2
With filter:
- The backdoor – it leads to the woods, Danni thought.
Filter removed:
- The backdoor – it leads to the woods.
- The backdoor – it led to the woods.
Example 3
With filter:
- He flung open the door and saw a gunman standing over by the window, rifle trained on the street below.
Filter removed:
- He flung open the door. A gunman stood over by the window, rifle trained on the street below.
Clutter check #2: Review speech tags
'Great speech tags help the reader keep track of who’s speaking without drawing attention away from the dialogue.
Review your dialogue tags and consider the following:
If there are only two characters in a scene, it might be obvious who’s speaking, which gives the author space to introduce reminder nudges only now and then.
Example with all the tags!
‘There’s a door at the back of the hut,’ Danni said.
‘You’re sure it isn’t locked?’ I said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’
‘And that’ll get us into the woods?’ I said.
‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish,’ she said.
‘What do you mean was?’ I said.
‘You’re too funny,’ she said, and pulled a face.
Same example but with reduced tagging
‘There’s a door at the back of the hut,’ Danni said.
‘You’re sure it isn’t locked?’
‘No. Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’
‘And that’ll get us into the woods?’
‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?’ I said.
Danny pulled a face. ‘You’re too funny.’
‘Said’ is often best because it’s used so frequently in novels that it’s almost invisible. ‘Asked’ is also inoffensive when used to tag questions in dialogue. Others like ‘whispered’, ‘yelled’, ‘hissed’, ‘spat’ and ‘barked’ can be useful when used sparingly to convey volume and mood.
Showy speech tags
Showy speech tags scream their presence from the page, and shift the reader’s attention away from the dialogue and onto the tag. They often tell what the dialogue’s already shown, and indicate a lack of trust in the reader to get the speech. Examples include ‘exclaimed’, ‘opined’, ‘commanded’
Example 1:
Example 2:
‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?’ I joked.
[Tag takes centre stage]
‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?'
[Dialogue takes centre stage]
Facial expressions used as tags need special care. Examples include ‘laughed’, ‘smiled’, ‘grimaced’ and ‘sneered’. These are best recast as action beats or replaced with simpler speech tags.
Example 1:
‘No,’ Danni grimaced. ‘Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’ [Expression tag]
‘No.’ Danni grimaced. ‘Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’ [Action beat]
Example 2:
‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?’ I laughed. [Expression tag]
‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?’ I said. [Speech tag]
Removing redundant tags will reduce your word count. Recasting showy and illogical tags won’t, but your prose will still be more immersive.
Review your dialogue tags and consider the following:
- Is the tag necessary?
- Is the tag taking centre stage?
- Is the tag illogical?
If there are only two characters in a scene, it might be obvious who’s speaking, which gives the author space to introduce reminder nudges only now and then.
Example with all the tags!
‘There’s a door at the back of the hut,’ Danni said.
‘You’re sure it isn’t locked?’ I said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’
‘And that’ll get us into the woods?’ I said.
‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish,’ she said.
‘What do you mean was?’ I said.
‘You’re too funny,’ she said, and pulled a face.
Same example but with reduced tagging
‘There’s a door at the back of the hut,’ Danni said.
‘You’re sure it isn’t locked?’
‘No. Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’
‘And that’ll get us into the woods?’
‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?’ I said.
Danny pulled a face. ‘You’re too funny.’
‘Said’ is often best because it’s used so frequently in novels that it’s almost invisible. ‘Asked’ is also inoffensive when used to tag questions in dialogue. Others like ‘whispered’, ‘yelled’, ‘hissed’, ‘spat’ and ‘barked’ can be useful when used sparingly to convey volume and mood.
Showy speech tags
Showy speech tags scream their presence from the page, and shift the reader’s attention away from the dialogue and onto the tag. They often tell what the dialogue’s already shown, and indicate a lack of trust in the reader to get the speech. Examples include ‘exclaimed’, ‘opined’, ‘commanded’
Example 1:
- ‘Watch out!’ Danni warned. [Tag takes centre stage]
- ‘Watch out!’ Danni said. [Dialogue takes centre stage]
Example 2:
‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?’ I joked.
[Tag takes centre stage]
‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?'
[Dialogue takes centre stage]
Facial expressions used as tags need special care. Examples include ‘laughed’, ‘smiled’, ‘grimaced’ and ‘sneered’. These are best recast as action beats or replaced with simpler speech tags.
Example 1:
‘No,’ Danni grimaced. ‘Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’ [Expression tag]
‘No.’ Danni grimaced. ‘Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’ [Action beat]
Example 2:
‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?’ I laughed. [Expression tag]
‘Yup. There’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?’ I said. [Speech tag]
Removing redundant tags will reduce your word count. Recasting showy and illogical tags won’t, but your prose will still be more immersive.
Clutter check #3: Review action beats
Action beats are short descriptions that come before, between or just after dialogue. They ground speech in the characters’ environment and can be effective alternatives to speech tags.
They key to effective use is ensuring they amplify dialogue rather than interrupt it.
Think about movies. On the screen, all the actors movements and gestures are visible. Replicating this detail in a novel can be invasive and pull the reader away from what’s being unveiled through the speech.
While action beats are superb backdoors into the emotional space of non-viewpoint characters, the dialogue should be where the main action is taking place. If it’s not, what might be required is a reworking of the dialogue, not the introduction of more action beats.
Instead of mimicking the screen experience, use action beats to show what the dialogue doesn’t convey. That needn’t mean including them with every turn. Great dialogue doesn’t need to be anchored every time a character opens their mouth. A purposeful nudge now and then will be enough.
Watch out in particular for prose that’s overloaded with mundane action beats – legs stretching, fingers raking through hair, raised eyebrows, arms folding, fingers steepling.
Review your action beats:
Getting rid of the dull and redundant ones will reduce your word count. And what’s left on the page will be more engaging.
Example
Action beats that interrupt dialogue:
Danni pointed at the back of the cellar. ‘Over there. The door. It leads to the woods.’
‘You’re sure it isn’t locked?’ Max rubbed his forehead. ‘Maybe we need a Plan B.’
‘No.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’
Max tilted his head. ‘The fire? What happened?’
‘It was years ago.’ She waved his question away and jabbed a finger towards the door again. ‘Out back there’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?’ he said, and smirked.
She pulled a face. ‘You’re too funny.’
Action beats that amplify dialogue:
Danni pointed at the back of the cellar. ‘Over there. The door. It leads to the woods.’
‘You’re sure it isn’t locked?’ Max said. ‘I dunno, maybe we need a Plan B.’
‘No. Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’
‘The fire? What—’
‘It was years ago. Whatever. Focus. Out back there’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?’
She pulled a face. ‘You’re too funny.’
They key to effective use is ensuring they amplify dialogue rather than interrupt it.
Think about movies. On the screen, all the actors movements and gestures are visible. Replicating this detail in a novel can be invasive and pull the reader away from what’s being unveiled through the speech.
While action beats are superb backdoors into the emotional space of non-viewpoint characters, the dialogue should be where the main action is taking place. If it’s not, what might be required is a reworking of the dialogue, not the introduction of more action beats.
Instead of mimicking the screen experience, use action beats to show what the dialogue doesn’t convey. That needn’t mean including them with every turn. Great dialogue doesn’t need to be anchored every time a character opens their mouth. A purposeful nudge now and then will be enough.
Watch out in particular for prose that’s overloaded with mundane action beats – legs stretching, fingers raking through hair, raised eyebrows, arms folding, fingers steepling.
Review your action beats:
- Do they tell the reader something the dialogue doesn’t or are they mundane details that a reader could imagine?
- Are they infrequent nudges or are they littering the dialogue at every turn of speech?
- Could the mood conveyed by the action beat be conveyed better by improving the dialogue?
Getting rid of the dull and redundant ones will reduce your word count. And what’s left on the page will be more engaging.
Example
Action beats that interrupt dialogue:
Danni pointed at the back of the cellar. ‘Over there. The door. It leads to the woods.’
‘You’re sure it isn’t locked?’ Max rubbed his forehead. ‘Maybe we need a Plan B.’
‘No.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’
Max tilted his head. ‘The fire? What happened?’
‘It was years ago.’ She waved his question away and jabbed a finger towards the door again. ‘Out back there’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?’ he said, and smirked.
She pulled a face. ‘You’re too funny.’
Action beats that amplify dialogue:
Danni pointed at the back of the cellar. ‘Over there. The door. It leads to the woods.’
‘You’re sure it isn’t locked?’ Max said. ‘I dunno, maybe we need a Plan B.’
‘No. Trish never locks it. Not since the fire.’
‘The fire? What—’
‘It was years ago. Whatever. Focus. Out back there’s a track. It’s overgrown but I know the way. Used it all the time when I was young and foolish.’
‘What do you mean was?’
She pulled a face. ‘You’re too funny.’
Summing up
There’s nothing wrong with the filter words, speech tags and actions beats. They’re useful tools when they help a reader make sense of the story.
However, if they’re mundane or interruptive clutter that can be assumed, leave them out so we can focus on the words that really matter.
However, if they’re mundane or interruptive clutter that can be assumed, leave them out so we can focus on the words that really matter.
Related reading
- 3 reasons to use free indirect speech in your crime fiction
- Author writing resources
- Becoming a Fiction Editor (free booklet for editors)
- Dialogue tags and how to use them in fiction writing
- Editing Fiction at Sentence Level (book for editors and authors)
- Filter words in fiction
- Making Sense of ‘Show, Don’t Tell’ (book for editors and authors)
- Switching to Fiction (course for editors)
- Tips on lean writing
- What are action beats and how can you use them in fiction writing?
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
One-line paragraphs are powerful tools that pull readers into your story and compel them to turn the page. This post explores why they work and offers some examples of smashing shorties that pack a punch!
What’s in this post
In this post, I look at five reasons why it’s worth experimenting with very short paragraphs in commercial fiction writing and editing, including:
- to show rather than tell internal experience
- to decelerate reading speed
- to emphasize key information
- to create clutter-free immediacy
- to deliver suspenseful chapter finales
Showing rather than telling internal experience
The narrative passages in a novel are often several lines long. This gives the author space for necessary exposition about the environment, the characters and the action. This is where we make sense of a scene and how it relates to the bigger story.
The staccato rhythm of one-line paragraphs is interruptive, both rhythmically and visually. Each short line is its own single beat, one that’s structurally visible on the page. Every time the reader moves onto the next, they take mental breath.
Because the lines are short, the breaths come quickly, and it’s there that the author can show rather than tell a character's internal experience in a way that's rich in mood and voice.
In this excerpt from Recursion by Black Crouch, p. 317 (Pan, 2019), look at how the structure of those two initial short lines in bold mirrors the meaning of the words.
The staccato rhythm of one-line paragraphs is interruptive, both rhythmically and visually. Each short line is its own single beat, one that’s structurally visible on the page. Every time the reader moves onto the next, they take mental breath.
Because the lines are short, the breaths come quickly, and it’s there that the author can show rather than tell a character's internal experience in a way that's rich in mood and voice.
In this excerpt from Recursion by Black Crouch, p. 317 (Pan, 2019), look at how the structure of those two initial short lines in bold mirrors the meaning of the words.
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The memories arrive in a blink.
One moment nothing. The next, he knows exactly where he is, the full trajectory of his life since Helena found him, and exactly what the equations on the blackboard mean. Because he wrote them. They're extrapolations of the Schwarzschild solution, an equation that defines what the radius of an object must be, based upon its mass, in order to form a singularity. That singularity then forms an Einstein-Rosen wormhole that can, in theory, instantaneously connect far-flung regions of space and even time. |
One minute the memories aren’t there; the next they are. The beat of their arrival is reflected in the way the prose is formatted. We’re therefore shown how the viewpoint character experiences the lightning-speed download of knowledge, and as a result we feel it all the more intensely.
Decelerating reading speed
Those of us who read a lot are used to seeing chunks of ink on a page or pixels on a screen and learn how to zip through them and absorb the content without dissecting each word.
Such speedy reading can lead to skimming because we relax into the flow of the narrative. One-line paragraphs, however, stand out because they contrast so starkly with the longer passages, surrounded as they are by so much white space.
Text that stands out begs for our attention and forces us to slow down and focus on each word. And that means it’s not only the rhythm of the prose that’s changed; so has the rhythm of how we’re interacting with it as readers.
Take a look at this example on p. 470 of The Good Daughter by Karin Slaughter (HarperCollins, 2017).
Such speedy reading can lead to skimming because we relax into the flow of the narrative. One-line paragraphs, however, stand out because they contrast so starkly with the longer passages, surrounded as they are by so much white space.
Text that stands out begs for our attention and forces us to slow down and focus on each word. And that means it’s not only the rhythm of the prose that’s changed; so has the rhythm of how we’re interacting with it as readers.
Take a look at this example on p. 470 of The Good Daughter by Karin Slaughter (HarperCollins, 2017).
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There was more tapping, more tracking, and then colours on the screen were almost too much. The blacks were up so far that gray spots bubbled through the midnight fields.
Charlie suggested, “Use the blue on the lockers as a color guide. They’re close to the same blue as Dad’s funeral suit. Ben opened the color chart. He clicked on random squares. “That’s it,” Charlie said. “That’s the blue.” “I can clean it up more.” He sharpened the pixels. Smoothed out the edges. Finally, he zoomed in as close as he could without distorting the image into nothing. “Holy shit,” Charlie said. She finally got it. Not a leg, but an arm. Not one arm, but two. One black. One red. A sexual cannibal. A slash of red. A venomous bite. They had not found Rusty’s unicorn. They had found a black widow. |
The non-bold text is what we’re most used to seeing. It makes for a comfortable, leisurely, skimmable read. But when we get to the bold single-line paragraphs, the contrast is visible on the page. Our reading pace decelerates and our attention zooms in on every word.
Emphasizing key information
Very short paragraphs enable authors to place emphasis on key words and phrases that they want us to pay attention to. Perhaps it’s a clue or a moment of suspense. Maybe it’s to shock us. Maybe it’s to draw our focus towards an aspect of a character’s personality.
Because the one-liner stands out, it’s an opportunity for centre-staging. Here’s a great example from Harlan Coben’s Win, p. 38 (Century, 2021).
Because the one-liner stands out, it’s an opportunity for centre-staging. Here’s a great example from Harlan Coben’s Win, p. 38 (Century, 2021).
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Respect, yes. Bow, no. I also don’t use these techniques,
per the platitude, “only for self-defense,” an obvious untruth on the level of “the check is in the mail” or “don’t worry, I’ll pull out.” I use what I learn to defeat my enemies, no matter who the aggressor happens to be (usually: me). I like violence. I like it a lot. I don’t condone it for others. I condone it for me. I don’t fight as a last resort. I fight whenever I can. I don’t try to avoid trouble. I actively seek it out. After I finish with the bag, I bench-press, powerlift, squat. When I was younger, I’d have various lifting days—arm days, chest days, leg days. When I reached my forties, I found it paid to lift less often and with more variety. |
Coben wants us to know something about his protagonist Windsor Horne Lockwood III, something we might find distasteful and hard to fathom. Nevertheless, it’s central to the characterization; Win’s actions throughout the novel don’t make sense unless we know this. Coben ensures we don’t miss it.
Creating clutter-free immediacy
Very short paragraphs pull the reader through each moment of the action, second by second, step by step. This can reduce narrative distance – the space between the reader and the viewpoint character.
Here’s beautiful example from p. 296 of The Cold Cold Ground by Adrian McKinty (Serpent’s Tail, 2012)
Here’s beautiful example from p. 296 of The Cold Cold Ground by Adrian McKinty (Serpent’s Tail, 2012)
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“You had to stick your fucking neb in, didn’t ya? You had to open your big yapper. Can’t you fucking take a hint? After all them ciggies we give you too,” he said.
He raised the gun. I closed my eyes. Held my breath. A bang. Silence. When I opened my eyes again Bobby Cameron was staring at me and shaking his head. Billy White was dead to my left with the back of his head blown off. |
The narration is first person, so it’s already immersive. But the one-line paragraphs in bold drive us deeper into Sean Duffy’s experience. There’s no fluff, no filtering, no cluttering description.
Each moment of the action is presented oh so precisely, slamming us into the now of the novel – the weapon being raised, Duffy’s physical response, then what he hears: first a bang, then nothing.
In five lines and fourteen words, McKinty shows us something powerful – that he trusts us to get it. We don’t know for sure what Duffy is feeling. It could be sadness, terror, anger, resignation, or a combination of some or all those things.
The author’s had the courage to leave it to us, to allow us to imagine what this moment means internally for Duffy, rather than forcing us one way or another. In doing so, we get to be Duffy for a while rather than a fly on the wall. The narrative distance is so small, it’s barely perceptible.
Each moment of the action is presented oh so precisely, slamming us into the now of the novel – the weapon being raised, Duffy’s physical response, then what he hears: first a bang, then nothing.
In five lines and fourteen words, McKinty shows us something powerful – that he trusts us to get it. We don’t know for sure what Duffy is feeling. It could be sadness, terror, anger, resignation, or a combination of some or all those things.
The author’s had the courage to leave it to us, to allow us to imagine what this moment means internally for Duffy, rather than forcing us one way or another. In doing so, we get to be Duffy for a while rather than a fly on the wall. The narrative distance is so small, it’s barely perceptible.
Delivering suspenseful chapter finales
A smart one-liner at the end of a chapter can create suspense. Perhaps it’s a question, a shocking statement or a realization. Regardless, it leaves the reader aching for answers. When that yearning is encapsulated in one line, it stands out and demands that we turn the page.
Here are the final two paragraphs from p. 132 of David Rosenfelt’s Open and Shut (Grand Central Publishing, 2002):
Here are the final two paragraphs from p. 132 of David Rosenfelt’s Open and Shut (Grand Central Publishing, 2002):
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The next morning, to my undying shame, I did not withdraw my request. I had the time of my life at camp that summer, and I know now that my father, so desperate for me to go that he was in terrible pain, had millions of dollars that he refused to touch.
Money that he did not make delivering newspapers. [Chapter ends] |
There is only one question on the reader’s mind as the chapter closes: So how did his father make all that money?
And because the answer lies beyond – maybe in the next chapter, maybe right at the end of the book – we turn the page.
And because the answer lies beyond – maybe in the next chapter, maybe right at the end of the book – we turn the page.
Why less is more
Overdependence on any literary device risks reducing its dramatic effect, and short paragraphs are no exception.
One-liners pack the biggest punch when they’re used now and then as a tool with which to vary the pulse of your prose and deepen your reader’s immersion in the world you’ve created.
Save them for best so that they stand out.
One-liners pack the biggest punch when they’re used now and then as a tool with which to vary the pulse of your prose and deepen your reader’s immersion in the world you’ve created.
Save them for best so that they stand out.
More writing and editing resources
- 6 ways to improve your novel right now (blog post)
- 7 ways to write chapter endings that hold readers in suspense (blog post)
- Author resource library (includes links to free webinars)
- Becoming a Fiction Editor (free booklet)
- Editing Fiction at Sentence Level (book – listen to a free audio chapter)
- Making Sense of ‘Show, Don’t Tell’ (book – listen to a free audio chapter)
- Playing with the rhythm of fiction: commas and conjunctions (blog post)
- Switching to Fiction (course for new fiction editors)
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
Your novel’s written in first person. Here are some tips for how to ensure your narrative doesn’t become overloaded with ‘I’ but remains immersive.
What’s in this post
- Why reduce the ‘I’
- Why ‘I’ still has a place front and centre
- Focusing on the exterior rather than the interior
- Reducing the use of filter words
- Removing speech and thought tags
- Applying the principles of free indirect speech
- Taking the 'I' out of introspection
- Balancing ‘I’ with ‘we’
Why reduce the ‘I’
We might think that the mention of ‘I’ would always make prose more immediate, and draw the reader in closer to the viewpoint character. But sometimes the opposite is true.
Too much ‘I’ is a tap on the shoulder, one that says to the reader, ‘Just in case you’ve forgotten who the narrator is, here are lots of reminders.’
The consequence is that readers are pulled away. And that can actually increase rather than reduce narrative distance.
Too much ‘I’ is a tap on the shoulder, one that says to the reader, ‘Just in case you’ve forgotten who the narrator is, here are lots of reminders.’
The consequence is that readers are pulled away. And that can actually increase rather than reduce narrative distance.
Why ‘I’ still has a place front and centre
I confess to being a huge fan of first-person narrations. When done well, the pronoun is almost invisible, even if it’s used frequently. Certainly the books I’ve borrowed excerpts from here allow ‘I’ to take centre stage.
However, they don’t rely on a first-person pronoun to convey experience, thought, speech and action. Below, I'll show you some examples – ones that ensure the intimacy of the narration style is left intact.
And so while we don’t want to obliterate ‘I’, because avoiding it completely would render the prose awkward, inauthentic and overworked, too much ‘I’ can be repetitive and interruptive. What’s required is a balance.
This post aims to offer you choice – fitting alternatives that retain intimacy and immediacy when you’re concerned you’ve overdone it.
However, they don’t rely on a first-person pronoun to convey experience, thought, speech and action. Below, I'll show you some examples – ones that ensure the intimacy of the narration style is left intact.
And so while we don’t want to obliterate ‘I’, because avoiding it completely would render the prose awkward, inauthentic and overworked, too much ‘I’ can be repetitive and interruptive. What’s required is a balance.
This post aims to offer you choice – fitting alternatives that retain intimacy and immediacy when you’re concerned you’ve overdone it.
1. Focus on the exterior rather than the interior
With a first-person narration, what’s reported must be through the lens of the narrator. Since their presence is a given, we don’t always need to be reminded that ‘I’ is involved.
A little peppering in a more objective report will suffice because the reader knows that it’s coming from the narrator, and only the narrator. It has to be.
And while writers can make space to explore the viewpoint character’s emotional behaviour, the exterior world is what grounds their experience in the novel’s physical world. It gives the novel substance, and the reader something to bite into.
Instead of focusing on who’s doing the reporting, shift the prose towards what’s being reported.
What and who else is in the scene? Why are they there? How do they behave? What do they look like? This information can be reported without ‘I’ so that the reader experiences the physical world within which the narrator is operating.
Here’s an example from To Kill a Mockingbird (Harper Lee, Pan, 1974, p. 11).
A little peppering in a more objective report will suffice because the reader knows that it’s coming from the narrator, and only the narrator. It has to be.
And while writers can make space to explore the viewpoint character’s emotional behaviour, the exterior world is what grounds their experience in the novel’s physical world. It gives the novel substance, and the reader something to bite into.
Instead of focusing on who’s doing the reporting, shift the prose towards what’s being reported.
What and who else is in the scene? Why are they there? How do they behave? What do they look like? This information can be reported without ‘I’ so that the reader experiences the physical world within which the narrator is operating.
Here’s an example from To Kill a Mockingbird (Harper Lee, Pan, 1974, p. 11).
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Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it. In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on the sidewalks, the court-house sagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then; a black dog suffered on a summer’s day; bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the live oaks on the square. Men’s stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three o’clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft tea-cakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.
People moved slowly then. They ambled across the square, shuffled in and out of the stores around it, took their time about everything. A day was twenty-four hours long but seemed longer. There was no hurry, for there was nowhere to go, nothing to buy and no money to buy it with, nothing to see outside the boundaries of Maycomb County. But it was a time of vague optimism for some of the people: Maycomb County had recently been told that it had nothing to fear but fear itself. |
Notice the (almost) absence of ‘I’. Scout – our narrator – tells us about the town she lived in: Maycomb. The recollection is hers certainly – ‘when I first knew it’ anchors it as such. It’s therefore intimate.
And yet because there’s only one I-nudge, we’re allowed enough emotional distance to step back and pan, like a roving camera, across Maycomb’s vista. We’re dislocated from Scout’s doing the experiencing and encouraged instead to focus on what she’s experiencing.
What’s happening here is a shift from the subjective to the objective.
Here’s an example of a short excerpt that’s subjective. The focus is on the I-narrator.
And yet because there’s only one I-nudge, we’re allowed enough emotional distance to step back and pan, like a roving camera, across Maycomb’s vista. We’re dislocated from Scout’s doing the experiencing and encouraged instead to focus on what she’s experiencing.
What’s happening here is a shift from the subjective to the objective.
Here’s an example of a short excerpt that’s subjective. The focus is on the I-narrator.
SUBJECTIVE FOCUS: 'I ...'
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I’m stunned by the news. Not that Hatchet has been up since early this morning, but that he has a wife. Someone actually sleeps with the man.
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And here’s the real excerpt from David Rosenfelt’s Play Dead (Grand Central, 2009, p. 19). Now the focus is objective, yet in no way does this distance us from the centrality of the first-person narrator’s experience. We’re still deep in his head.
OBJECTIVE FOCUS: NO 'I ...'
OBJECTIVE FOCUS: NO 'I ...'
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This is a stunning piece of news. Not that Hatchet has been up since early this morning, but that he has a wife. Someone actually sleeps with the man.
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2. Reduce the use of filter words
Filter words are a clue that an interior rather than exterior focus is in play. They’re verbs that increase the narrative distance, reminding us that what we’re reading is being told by someone rather than experienced, or shown, through the eyes of the character.
Examples include noticed, seemed, spotted, saw, realized, felt, thought, wondered, believed, knew, and decided.
Filter words focus the reader’s gaze inwards (interior focus) on the manner through which the viewpoint character experiences the world – the how.
They come with a pronoun: I saw, they believed, we decided, she knew, he noticed.
By removing filter words, the reader’s gaze is shifted outwards (exterior focus) and onto what is being experienced. That can make for a more immersive read. Plus, the omission means we say goodbye to their accompanying pronoun: 'I'.
Here are a few examples to give you a flavour of how you might recast in a way that avoids first-person filtering.
Examples include noticed, seemed, spotted, saw, realized, felt, thought, wondered, believed, knew, and decided.
Filter words focus the reader’s gaze inwards (interior focus) on the manner through which the viewpoint character experiences the world – the how.
They come with a pronoun: I saw, they believed, we decided, she knew, he noticed.
By removing filter words, the reader’s gaze is shifted outwards (exterior focus) and onto what is being experienced. That can make for a more immersive read. Plus, the omission means we say goodbye to their accompanying pronoun: 'I'.
Here are a few examples to give you a flavour of how you might recast in a way that avoids first-person filtering.
EXAMPLE 1:
‘I’ plus filter word. Reader’s gaze is inwards, on the how
I recall the argument we had last week.
Recast: Reader’s gaze drawn outwards towards the what
Last week’s argument is still fresh in my mind.
‘I’ plus filter word. Reader’s gaze is inwards, on the how
I recall the argument we had last week.
Recast: Reader’s gaze drawn outwards towards the what
Last week’s argument is still fresh in my mind.
EXAMPLE 2:
‘I’ plus filter word. Reader’s gaze is inwards, on the how
I recognized the man’s face.
Recast: Reader’s gaze drawn outwards towards the what
The man’s face was familiar.
‘I’ plus filter word. Reader’s gaze is inwards, on the how
I recognized the man’s face.
Recast: Reader’s gaze drawn outwards towards the what
The man’s face was familiar.
EXAMPLE 3:
‘I’ plus filter word. Reader’s gaze is inwards, on the how
I saw the guy turn left and dart into the alley.
Recast: Reader’s gaze drawn outwards towards the what
The guy turned left and darted into the alley.
‘I’ plus filter word. Reader’s gaze is inwards, on the how
I saw the guy turn left and dart into the alley.
Recast: Reader’s gaze drawn outwards towards the what
The guy turned left and darted into the alley.
EXAMPLE 4:
‘I’ plus filter word. Reader’s gaze is inwards, on the how
I spotted the red Chevy from yesterday parked outside the bank.
Recast: Reader’s gaze drawn outwards towards the what
There, parked outside the bank, was the same red Chevy from yesterday.
‘I’ plus filter word. Reader’s gaze is inwards, on the how
I spotted the red Chevy from yesterday parked outside the bank.
Recast: Reader’s gaze drawn outwards towards the what
There, parked outside the bank, was the same red Chevy from yesterday.
EXAMPLE 5:
‘I’ plus filter word. Reader’s gaze is inwards, on the how
I still feel ashamed about the vile words I unleashed even after all these years.
Recast: Reader’s gaze drawn outwards towards the what
The vile words I unleashed still have the power to bathe me in shame even after all these years.
‘I’ plus filter word. Reader’s gaze is inwards, on the how
I still feel ashamed about the vile words I unleashed even after all these years.
Recast: Reader’s gaze drawn outwards towards the what
The vile words I unleashed still have the power to bathe me in shame even after all these years.
3. Remove speech and thought tags
Dialogue tags are what writers use to indicate which character is speaking. Their function is, for the most part, mechanical. If the reader can keep track of who’s saying what in a conversation, you can omit dialogue tags.
This will work best if there are no more than two characters. Most writers don’t extend the omission for more than a few back-and-forths before they introduce a reminder tag or an action beat.
Watching out for unnecessary tags is good practice regardless of narration style, but with a first-person narration it’s a particularly efficient way to declutter ‘I’-heavy prose.
Take a look at this excerpt from David Rosenfelt’s Play Dead, pp. 194–5. There are two characters in this scene: Andy Carpenter, the protagonist and narrator, and Sam Willis, the non-POV character on the other end of the phone.
This will work best if there are no more than two characters. Most writers don’t extend the omission for more than a few back-and-forths before they introduce a reminder tag or an action beat.
Watching out for unnecessary tags is good practice regardless of narration style, but with a first-person narration it’s a particularly efficient way to declutter ‘I’-heavy prose.
Take a look at this excerpt from David Rosenfelt’s Play Dead, pp. 194–5. There are two characters in this scene: Andy Carpenter, the protagonist and narrator, and Sam Willis, the non-POV character on the other end of the phone.
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“Great!” he says, making no effort to conceal his delight. He's probably hoping it results in another high-speed highway shooting.
“The woman's name is Donna Banks. She lives in apartment twenty-three-G in Sunset Towers in Fort Lee. I don't have the exact address, but you can get it.” “Pretty swanky apartment,” he says. “Right. I want you to find out the source of that swank.” “What does that mean?” “I want to know how she can afford it. She doesn't work, and she's the widow of a soldier. Maybe her name is Banks because her family owns a bunch of them, but I want to know for sure.” “Got it.” “No problem?” I ask. I'm always amazed at Sam's ability to access any information he needs. “Not so far. Anything else?” “Yes. I left her apartment at ten thirty-five this morning. I want to know if she called anyone shortly after I left, and if so, who.” “Gotcha. Which do you want me to get on first? Although neither will take very long.” “I guess her source of income.” “Then say it, Andy.” “Say what?” “Come on, play the game. You're asking me to find out where she gets her cash. So say it.” “Sam …” “Say it.” “Okay. Show me the money.” “Thatta boy. I'll get right on it.” |
The exchange involves 19 speech elements within the thread, but only 3 speech tags, and only one of those marks our first-person narrator.
At no point do we lose track, and at no point are we distracted by repetitive ‘I said’s.
At no point do we lose track, and at no point are we distracted by repetitive ‘I said’s.
4. Apply the principles of free indirect speech
If you’ve played with free indirect speech (also called free indirect style/discourse) in third-person narratives, call on your craft for first-person narration.
In a nutshell, free indirect speech offers the essence of first-person dialogue or thought but through a third-person viewpoint. The character’s voice takes the lead, but without the clutter of speech marks, speech tags, italic, or other devices to indicate who’s thinking or saying what.
Here’s an example of third-person narration. Notice the filter words ‘glanced’ and ‘noticed’, the italic present-tense thought, and the thought tag:
In a nutshell, free indirect speech offers the essence of first-person dialogue or thought but through a third-person viewpoint. The character’s voice takes the lead, but without the clutter of speech marks, speech tags, italic, or other devices to indicate who’s thinking or saying what.
Here’s an example of third-person narration. Notice the filter words ‘glanced’ and ‘noticed’, the italic present-tense thought, and the thought tag:
- Dave glanced at the guy’s hand and noticed that the signature tattoo was missing. Christ, maybe my intel’s been compromised again, he thought.
Let’s change that to a first-person narration. The filter words are still there and there’s a thought tag with the ‘I’ pronoun.
- I glanced at the guy’s hand and noticed that the signature tattoo was missing. Christ, maybe my intel’s been compromised again, I thought.
Here’s what the third-person version could look like in free indirect style. The filter words and tags are gone. It feels like a first-person thought but the base tense and third-person narration remain intact.
- The signature tattoo on the guy’s hand was missing. Christ, had his intel been compromised again?
And now the first-person version. All I’ve done is swapped out the pronoun ‘his’ for ‘my’.
- The signature tattoo on the guy’s hand was missing. Christ, had my intel been compromised again?
5. Take the ‘I’ out of introspection
There’s nothing wrong with contemplation and introspection. Authentic characters ruminate just like real people.
However, when prose is littered rather than peppered with constructions such as I wasn’t sure if, I didn’t know whether, I wondered if, it can feel muddled and be laborious to read. The reader might respond: Well, of course you’re wondering. Who else could it be? You’re the narrator.
Worse, readers might think the narrator’s rather self-absorbed and unsure of themselves. While that might be necessary now and then, it’s problematic if it’s a staple because a narrator who’s always focused on themselves, and who never instils confidence in us, can’t tell the story as effectively.
Look out for ‘I’-centred introspection and experiment with statements and questions that allow the ‘I’ to be assumed.
Here are a few examples to show you how it might work.
However, when prose is littered rather than peppered with constructions such as I wasn’t sure if, I didn’t know whether, I wondered if, it can feel muddled and be laborious to read. The reader might respond: Well, of course you’re wondering. Who else could it be? You’re the narrator.
Worse, readers might think the narrator’s rather self-absorbed and unsure of themselves. While that might be necessary now and then, it’s problematic if it’s a staple because a narrator who’s always focused on themselves, and who never instils confidence in us, can’t tell the story as effectively.
Look out for ‘I’-centred introspection and experiment with statements and questions that allow the ‘I’ to be assumed.
Here are a few examples to show you how it might work.
EXAMPLE 1:
‘I’-centred introspection
I wasn’t sure if Shami was a reliable witness but I couldn’t afford to ignore her, given what she’d divulged.
‘I’-less introspection
Was Shami a reliable witness? Maybe, maybe not. She couldn’t be ignored given what she’d divulged.
‘I’-centred introspection
I wasn’t sure if Shami was a reliable witness but I couldn’t afford to ignore her, given what she’d divulged.
‘I’-less introspection
Was Shami a reliable witness? Maybe, maybe not. She couldn’t be ignored given what she’d divulged.
EXAMPLE 2:
‘I’-centred introspection
I still didn’t know who the killer was.
‘I’-less introspection
The killer’s identity was still a mystery.
‘I’-centred introspection
I still didn’t know who the killer was.
‘I’-less introspection
The killer’s identity was still a mystery.
EXAMPLE 2:
‘I’-centred introspection
I wondered whether Shami was a reliable witness.
‘I’-less introspection (3 options)
Shami might or might not be a reliable witness.
Shami’s reliability as a witness was hardly a given.
Shami’s reliability as a witness was questionable.
‘I’-centred introspection
I wondered whether Shami was a reliable witness.
‘I’-less introspection (3 options)
Shami might or might not be a reliable witness.
Shami’s reliability as a witness was hardly a given.
Shami’s reliability as a witness was questionable.
6. Balance ‘I’ with ‘we’
Another option is to consider whether your narrator’s lived experience at particular points within the novel involves others.
This is an opportunity to frame the narrative around ‘we’ rather than just ‘I’.
Here’s an excerpt from To Kill a Mockingbird (p. 162) in which Scout, Harper Lee’s first-person narrator, frames the recollection around not just her own experience but those of the people she was hanging out with.
This is an opportunity to frame the narrative around ‘we’ rather than just ‘I’.
Here’s an excerpt from To Kill a Mockingbird (p. 162) in which Scout, Harper Lee’s first-person narrator, frames the recollection around not just her own experience but those of the people she was hanging out with.
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As the county went by us, Jem gave Dill the histories and general attitudes of the more prominent figures: M4 Tensaw Jones voted the straight Prohibition ticket; Miss Emily Davis dipped snuff in private; Mr Byron Waller could play the violin; Mr Jake Slade was cutting his third set of teeth.
A wagonload of unusually stern-faced citizens appeared. When they pointed to Miss Maudie Atkinson's yard, ablaze with summer flowers, Miss Maudie herself came out on the porch. There was an odd thing about Miss Maudie – on her porch she was too far away for us to see her features clearly, but we could always catch her mood by the way she stood. She was now standing arms akimbo, her shoulders drooping a little, her head cocked to one side, her glasses winking in the sunlight. |
The effect is powerful because we’re shown rather than told a sense of her belonging, of her being in a group, of the togetherness of that experience. And that intensifies our immersion in her world.
Summing up
There’s nothing wrong with ‘I’, but a first-person narrator can tell a story without relying on their pronoun all the time. Since they’re the ones doing the reporting, the ‘I’ can often be assumed.
Try recasting sentences that start with ‘I’ more objectively, so that the focus is on the what – the emotion, the object, the person, the action and so on – rather than the sense being used to experience it or the I-narrator doing the experience.
Use the principles of free indirect speech to reduce your ‘I’ count. It’s a tool that encourages a narrowing of narrative distance to such a degree that the reader feels deeply connected to the viewpoint character – more like we’re reading a thought than straight narrative.
As for speech and thought tags, you might not need as many as you think. The speaker can usually be identified without them if there are only two people in the conversation. Removing redundant tags is worth considering whichever narration style you’re writing in.
Try recasting sentences that start with ‘I’ more objectively, so that the focus is on the what – the emotion, the object, the person, the action and so on – rather than the sense being used to experience it or the I-narrator doing the experience.
Use the principles of free indirect speech to reduce your ‘I’ count. It’s a tool that encourages a narrowing of narrative distance to such a degree that the reader feels deeply connected to the viewpoint character – more like we’re reading a thought than straight narrative.
As for speech and thought tags, you might not need as many as you think. The speaker can usually be identified without them if there are only two people in the conversation. Removing redundant tags is worth considering whichever narration style you’re writing in.
Related resources
- 3 reasons to use free indirect speech
- 6 ways to improve your novel right now
- Author resource library (includes links to free webinars)
- Editing Fiction at Sentence Level: A Guide for Beginner and Developing Writers
- Filter words in fiction: Purposeful inclusion and dramatic restriction
- Making Sense of Point of View: Transform Your Fiction 1
- What is head-hopping, and is it spoiling your fiction writing?
- Switching to Fiction: Course for new fiction editors
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
Your novel features characters from different countries. Should their dialogue, thoughts or narration be spelled differently just because their voices are regionally distinct and they come from different places? The answer’s no. Here’s why.
What’s covered in this post
In this post, I explore the following:
- How there are multiple Englishes with different spellings
- The difference between spelling style and voice
- A case study from the 007 files
- Overcoming ‘But it looks wrong’
- Adding regional flavour to voice
- 3 examples of when spelling inconsistency works
- A note on suffixes, dashes and quotation marks
Multiple Englishes, different spellings
There are multiple Englishes each with their own spelling conventions: British, Indian, Canadian, American and Australian are just five examples of English.
Most words are spelled the same regardless of which English is in play, though there are many that aren’t, for example ‘color’/’colour’, ‘judgment’/‘judgement’, ‘harmonize’/‘harmonise’, ‘behavior’/‘behaviour’, ‘gray’/‘grey’, 'liter'/'litre'.
None are right or wrong, better or worse, or correct or incorrect. Rather, the way each version of English is spelled is about convention and style.
This post uses examples of American English (AmE) and British English (BrE) style to explain how to approach spelling/voice conundrums in fiction.
Most words are spelled the same regardless of which English is in play, though there are many that aren’t, for example ‘color’/’colour’, ‘judgment’/‘judgement’, ‘harmonize’/‘harmonise’, ‘behavior’/‘behaviour’, ‘gray’/‘grey’, 'liter'/'litre'.
None are right or wrong, better or worse, or correct or incorrect. Rather, the way each version of English is spelled is about convention and style.
This post uses examples of American English (AmE) and British English (BrE) style to explain how to approach spelling/voice conundrums in fiction.
The difference between spelling style and voice
Strive for a mindset that separates style and character voice.
Voice isn’t something that’s spelled. Rather, it’s something the reader experiences, ‘hears’ with their mind’s ear. It therefore follows the base spelling style, regardless of where the character comes from. With that in mind:
The easiest way to illustrate how spelling consistency works is with a case study. Let’s take a peek into the world of 007!
- How the words in a novel are spelled is for the most part a question of style.
- What a character says, thinks, feels, and the words used to report this on the page, is a question of voice. This is the case for dialogue and narrative.
Voice isn’t something that’s spelled. Rather, it’s something the reader experiences, ‘hears’ with their mind’s ear. It therefore follows the base spelling style, regardless of where the character comes from. With that in mind:
- If you’re writing fiction, decide on your spelling style and stick to it.
- If you’re editing for an author, identify the spelling style and aim for consistency.
The easiest way to illustrate how spelling consistency works is with a case study. Let’s take a peek into the world of 007!
A case study from the 007 files
I’ve chosen Jeffery Deaver’s Carte Blanche, a continuation novel featuring Ian’s Fleming’s British MI6 agent, James Bond.
The version from Hodder & Stoughton (part of Hachette UK), published in 2011, is styled as follows:
The version from Hodder & Stoughton (part of Hachette UK), published in 2011, is styled as follows:
- BrE spelling
- Single quotation marks
- BrE punctuation style
- -is- suffixes (e.g. organisation, realised)
Here are three snippets from Chapter 2.
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It was eight forty and the Sunday evening was clear here, near Novi Sad, where the Pannonian Plain rose to a landscape that the Serbs called ‘mountainous’, though Bond guessed the adjective must have been chosen to attract tourists;
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‘Now, I’m ninety per cent sure he’ll believe you,’ Bond said. ‘But if not, and he engages, remember that under no circumstances is he to be killed. I need him alive. Aim to wound in the arm he favours, near the elbow, not the shoulder.’ Despite what one saw in the movies, a shoulder wound was usually as fatal as one to the abdomen or chest.
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The Night Action alert meant an immediate response was required, at whatever time it was received. The call to his chief of staff had blessedly cut the date short and soon he had been en route to Serbia, under a Level 2 project order, authorising him to identify the Irishman, plant trackers and other surveillance devices and follow him.
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However, the version from Pocket Star Books (a division of Simon and Schuster), published in 2012, is styled as follows:
- AmE spelling
- Double quotation marks
- AmE punctuation style
- -iz- suffixes (e.g. organization, realized)
Bond’s words haven’t changed. Bond’s nationality hasn’t changed. Bond’s job hasn’t changed. Bond’s narrative voice hasn’t changed. All that’s changed is the novel’s styling.
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It was eight forty and the Sunday evening was clear here, near Novi Sad, where the Pannonian Plain rose to a landscape that the Serbs called “mountainous,” though Bond guessed the adjective must have been chosen to attract tourists;
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“Now, I’m ninety percent sure he’ll believe you, Bond said. “But if not, and he engages, remember that under no circumstances is he to be killed. I need him alive. Aim to wound in the arm he favors, near the elbow, not the shoulder.” Despite what one saw in the movies, a shoulder wound was usually as fatal as one to the abdomen or chest.
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The Night Action alert meant an immediate response was required, at whatever time it was received. The call to his chief of staff had blessedly cut the date short and soon he had been en route to Serbia, under a Level 2 project order, authorizing him to identify the Irishman, plant trackers and other surveillance devices and follow him.
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Later in the novel (Chapter 26), Felix Leiter, an American, joins Bond on his mission. Here’s how it's rendered in the AmE version:
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Felix Leiter, a former marine whom Bond had met in the service, was a HUMINT spy. He vastly preferred the role of handler—running local assets, like Yusuf Nasad. “I pulled in a lot of favors and talked to all my key assets. Whatever Hydt and his local contacts’re up to, they’re keeping the lid on really tight. I can’t find any leads. Nobody’s been moving any mysterious shipments of nasty stuff into Dubai. Nobody’s been telling friends and family to avoid this mosque or that shopping center around seven tonight. No bad actors’re slipping in from across the Gulf.”
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And here it is in the BrE version. Leiter is still American and still has the same distinct voice, but now the spelling has changed (as has the punctuation; note the spaced en dash and single quotation marks).
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Felix Leiter, a former marine whom Bond had met in the service, was a HUMINT spy. He vastly preferred the role of handler – running local assets, like Yusuf Nasad. ‘I pulled in a lot of favours and talked to all my key assets. Whatever Hydt and his local contacts’re up to, they’re keeping the lid on really tight. I can’t find any leads. Nobody’s been moving any mysterious shipments of nasty stuff into Dubai. Nobody’s been telling friends and family to avoid this mosque or that shopping centre around seven tonight. No bad actors’re slipping in from across the Gulf.’
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Overcoming ‘But it looks wrong’
Our brains can mess with us when we associate a particular spelling style with a character’s place of birth or residence, particularly if their voice is regionally distinct.
For example, perhaps they use idiomatic phrases that wedge them firmly in a country, state/province/county or even town/city that we’re from.
The British editor working on a book set in Southern California and written by an American author who writes in AmE might well struggle when a viewpoint character from Norfolk (the UK one where I live) turns up in Santa Barbara and mutters the following on seeing a cluster of huge ladybirds:
“Look at the color o’ them bishy barnabees. And big as a thruppence too!”
The spelling of ‘color’ might jar because ‘thruppence’ is so clearly unAmerican, so very British, while ‘bishy barnabees’ is particular to Norfolk. And yet the spelling is (and should be) AmE if that’s how the novel’s been styled overall.
An editor colleague recently reported this kind of problem in a Facebook group discussion. The novel was set in AmE, but the British viewpoint character spoke, thought and talked to herself in a Yorkshire accent. The first-person narration style deepened the voice still further.
‘The character's voice is really strong,’ the editor said, ‘and the US spelling seems at odds.’
The editor slept on it and the next day announced a simple but clever solution that had enabled her to overcome her resistance.
‘I mentally changed the British voice to a South African one so that I'm not so conscious of spelling variations, et voilà! It's suddenly clear as day.’
It’s a neat trick, a way of breaking the false connection between spelling and voice. If you come up against a similar situation, try it!
For example, perhaps they use idiomatic phrases that wedge them firmly in a country, state/province/county or even town/city that we’re from.
The British editor working on a book set in Southern California and written by an American author who writes in AmE might well struggle when a viewpoint character from Norfolk (the UK one where I live) turns up in Santa Barbara and mutters the following on seeing a cluster of huge ladybirds:
“Look at the color o’ them bishy barnabees. And big as a thruppence too!”
The spelling of ‘color’ might jar because ‘thruppence’ is so clearly unAmerican, so very British, while ‘bishy barnabees’ is particular to Norfolk. And yet the spelling is (and should be) AmE if that’s how the novel’s been styled overall.
An editor colleague recently reported this kind of problem in a Facebook group discussion. The novel was set in AmE, but the British viewpoint character spoke, thought and talked to herself in a Yorkshire accent. The first-person narration style deepened the voice still further.
‘The character's voice is really strong,’ the editor said, ‘and the US spelling seems at odds.’
The editor slept on it and the next day announced a simple but clever solution that had enabled her to overcome her resistance.
‘I mentally changed the British voice to a South African one so that I'm not so conscious of spelling variations, et voilà! It's suddenly clear as day.’
It’s a neat trick, a way of breaking the false connection between spelling and voice. If you come up against a similar situation, try it!
Adding regional flavour to voice
If you’re still worried that a spelling choice looks odd, remember that voice lies not in how the text is spelled but in what the character is saying, the turns of phrase they use, and the emotions and motivations behind their action (whether that action comes through speech, thought, movement or narration).
It’s worth bearing in mind, too, that language is often borrowed to the extent that some words no longer feel like, say, Britishisms, Americanisms, Canadianisms or Indianisms when they roll out of our mouths, regardless of how we identify or where we live.
Would I, a Brit, ever use the terms ‘cell phone’ and ‘movie’ rather than ‘mobile’ and ‘film’? Yes, I would.
How about ‘elevator’ rather than ‘lift’, ‘sidewalk’ rather than ‘pavement’, ‘aluminum’ rather than ‘aluminium’? Would I refer to ‘my mom’ rather than ‘my mum?’ Not while roaming around Norwich, but on a visit to Chicago, possibly, if I wanted to ensure people understood me. And almost definitely if I'd made my home there for some time.
Perhaps, then, the trick is not to be too precious about it, either when we’re writing or editing. Instead, we can consider the character’s environment and the degree to which the ‘local’ language flavour is something they’re likely to have assimilated into their speech, thoughts and narratives.
Those choices aside, the spelling style will be consistent. Unless …
It’s worth bearing in mind, too, that language is often borrowed to the extent that some words no longer feel like, say, Britishisms, Americanisms, Canadianisms or Indianisms when they roll out of our mouths, regardless of how we identify or where we live.
Would I, a Brit, ever use the terms ‘cell phone’ and ‘movie’ rather than ‘mobile’ and ‘film’? Yes, I would.
How about ‘elevator’ rather than ‘lift’, ‘sidewalk’ rather than ‘pavement’, ‘aluminum’ rather than ‘aluminium’? Would I refer to ‘my mom’ rather than ‘my mum?’ Not while roaming around Norwich, but on a visit to Chicago, possibly, if I wanted to ensure people understood me. And almost definitely if I'd made my home there for some time.
Perhaps, then, the trick is not to be too precious about it, either when we’re writing or editing. Instead, we can consider the character’s environment and the degree to which the ‘local’ language flavour is something they’re likely to have assimilated into their speech, thoughts and narratives.
Those choices aside, the spelling style will be consistent. Unless …
3 examples of when spelling inconsistency works
There are instances where inconsistent styling will be called for. Here are 3.
The character is spelling a spelling
Imagine a Bond novel is styled in BrE. Bond and Leiter are speaking to each other on the phone and the line is terrible. Bond thinks Leiter has said ‘dissenter’. Leiter’s dialogue might go like this: ‘Not dissenter. The centre. C-E-N-T-E-R. Move to the centre.’
A proper noun is being referenced
Now imagine Bond’s telling Leiter that he’s received intelligence about a heist in the Rockefeller Center. Even if the novel’s styled in BrE, the AmE spelling of ‘Center’ should be retained because it’s referencing the name of a building.
Excerpts from written materials have been transcribed
Excerpts from diaries, newspaper cuttings, reports, letters, texts and so on can be rendered in the spelling style most likely used by whomever in the novel wrote them because they’re supposed to be authentic transcripts.
Imagine that Bond’s reading a document written by an American CIA operative. Even if the novel is styled in BrE, the spelling in the report would be AmE, unless referencing a proper noun that required a BrE spelling.
The character is spelling a spelling
Imagine a Bond novel is styled in BrE. Bond and Leiter are speaking to each other on the phone and the line is terrible. Bond thinks Leiter has said ‘dissenter’. Leiter’s dialogue might go like this: ‘Not dissenter. The centre. C-E-N-T-E-R. Move to the centre.’
A proper noun is being referenced
Now imagine Bond’s telling Leiter that he’s received intelligence about a heist in the Rockefeller Center. Even if the novel’s styled in BrE, the AmE spelling of ‘Center’ should be retained because it’s referencing the name of a building.
Excerpts from written materials have been transcribed
Excerpts from diaries, newspaper cuttings, reports, letters, texts and so on can be rendered in the spelling style most likely used by whomever in the novel wrote them because they’re supposed to be authentic transcripts.
Imagine that Bond’s reading a document written by an American CIA operative. Even if the novel is styled in BrE, the spelling in the report would be AmE, unless referencing a proper noun that required a BrE spelling.
A note on suffixes, dashes and quotation marks
Finally, a quick note on style and how writers and editors need to consider whether they're being overly prescriptive. I recommend thinking in terms of common conventions rather than rules.
Suffixes
In AmE, it’s standard to spell with -iz- suffixes.
In BrE, both -iz- and -is- are standard. Again, it’s a matter of style.
Thus, in the Night Action alert excerpt above, if Hodder had elected to use ‘authorized’ instead of ‘authorised’, this would not have been a slippage into American spelling but a style choice – an accepted BrE variant that’s been around since the sixteenth century.
Dashes
While most US publishers favour closed-up em dashes and most British publishers favour spaced en dashes when used parenthetically (see the Leiter snippet in the case study), it’s not wrong to used unspaced em dashes when writing in BrE style; it’s Oxford’s preference, for example.
Quotation marks
Again, while it’s more common to see single quotation marks in BrE styling and doubles in AmE, this isn’t an unbreakable rule. Indie authors can choose, for example, BrE spelling and double quotation marks if they wish.
In all three cases, consistency is what counts.
Suffixes
In AmE, it’s standard to spell with -iz- suffixes.
In BrE, both -iz- and -is- are standard. Again, it’s a matter of style.
Thus, in the Night Action alert excerpt above, if Hodder had elected to use ‘authorized’ instead of ‘authorised’, this would not have been a slippage into American spelling but a style choice – an accepted BrE variant that’s been around since the sixteenth century.
Dashes
While most US publishers favour closed-up em dashes and most British publishers favour spaced en dashes when used parenthetically (see the Leiter snippet in the case study), it’s not wrong to used unspaced em dashes when writing in BrE style; it’s Oxford’s preference, for example.
Quotation marks
Again, while it’s more common to see single quotation marks in BrE styling and doubles in AmE, this isn’t an unbreakable rule. Indie authors can choose, for example, BrE spelling and double quotation marks if they wish.
In all three cases, consistency is what counts.
Summing up
Voice can be flavoured by what is said, thought and narrated, and it can show us aspects of a character’s personality, emotions, motivations and background – regardless of how the words that convey it are spelled.
Spelling is about style. The goal is consistency in the main, complemented by good-sense deviation when necessary.
That’s how the mainstream publishing industry approaches it, and editors and writers will do well to follow their lead.
Spelling is about style. The goal is consistency in the main, complemented by good-sense deviation when necessary.
That’s how the mainstream publishing industry approaches it, and editors and writers will do well to follow their lead.
Related resources
- Author and editor resources library
- Blog post: How do I find spelling inconsistencies when proofreading and editing?
- Blog post: How to convey accents in fiction writing: Beyond phonetic spelling
- Blog post: What's the difference between a rule and a preference? Advice for new writers
- Booklet: British English and US English in your fiction, and why you should be consistent
- Podcast: Think it’s American? Think again!
- Podcast: Linguist Rob Drummond on grammar pedantry, peevery and youth language
Visit the grammar and spelling page in my resource library to download a free booklet summarizing suffix variations in American and British English.
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
Give your novel a sentence-level workout. Here are 6 common problems, and the solutions that will improve the flow of your fiction and make the prose pop.
Review your novel for 6 common problems
None of the following activities involve major rewriting, just relatively gentle recasts that will improve your prose significantly, and make your reader's experience more immersive. Here's what I suggest:
- Assess invasive adverbs
- Remove redundant filter words
- Take the spotlight off speech tags
- Pick up dropped viewpoint
- Trim anatomy-based action
- Turn intention into action
1. Assess invasive adverbs
Not all adverbs and adverbial phrases are bad. Suddenly, slightly, slowly, nervously, calmly, quietly can be effective if used now and then.
However, overuse is often a symptom of an author telling us what’s already been shown, which means the adverbs are repetitive and cluttering. In the two examples that follow, they can be ditched because 'fidgeted' shows the nervousness, and the apology in the dialogue shows the regret.
However, overuse is often a symptom of an author telling us what’s already been shown, which means the adverbs are repetitive and cluttering. In the two examples that follow, they can be ditched because 'fidgeted' shows the nervousness, and the apology in the dialogue shows the regret.
Examples
- Jane fidgeted nervously with the napkin.
- ‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,’ she said with regret. ‘It’s been one of those days.’
- Jane fidgeted with the napkin.
- ‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,’ she said. ‘It’s been one of those days.’
Even when adverbs are telling us something new, consider elegant recasts that use stronger verbs but still keep readers in the moment.
Examples
- Jane turned around suddenly and ducked.
- Jane opened the shed door cautiously and peeked in.
- Jane spun around and ducked.
- Jane inched open the shed door and peeked in.
2. Remove redundant filter words
When readers are told of doing being done by a viewpoint character, filtering is in play. Realized, knew that, wondered, thought, saw, and decided are just a few examples.
The reader is already experiencing the story through a viewpoint character. For that reason, we often don’t need to be told that they realize, see, think or feel anything. We’re already in their heads.
It’s telling what’s already been shown.
Examples
Alternatives
Filtering pulls us out of the deep, limited viewpoint. Worse, it’s repetitive and obvious. Jane has already looked at the screen so we know her eyes are doing the work; telling us that she saw as a result of her glancing is redundant.
In the example where Matthew’s the narrative viewpoint character, we needn’t be told he feels the thumping in his temples, since if he weren’t feeling it he couldn’t report it. Nor do we need to know he’s thinking about that third glass because we’re already in his head.
The reader is already experiencing the story through a viewpoint character. For that reason, we often don’t need to be told that they realize, see, think or feel anything. We’re already in their heads.
It’s telling what’s already been shown.
Examples
- Jane’s phone trilled. She glanced at the screen and saw that it was James calling again.
- Matthew felt a thumping in his temples and thought about how that third glass of wine had been a bad idea.
Alternatives
- Jane’s phone trilled. She glanced at the screen. James again.
- Mathew’s temples thumped. That third glass of wine had been a bad idea.
Filtering pulls us out of the deep, limited viewpoint. Worse, it’s repetitive and obvious. Jane has already looked at the screen so we know her eyes are doing the work; telling us that she saw as a result of her glancing is redundant.
In the example where Matthew’s the narrative viewpoint character, we needn’t be told he feels the thumping in his temples, since if he weren’t feeling it he couldn’t report it. Nor do we need to know he’s thinking about that third glass because we’re already in his head.
3. Take the spotlight off speech tags
'Said' is almost invisible when it comes to dialogue tags. A smattering of 'asked', 'replied', 'whispered', and 'yelled' can also work well.
Sometimes tags aren’t even necessary because it’s obvious who’s speaking. Other times, we can replace a tag with an action beat than conveys movement and emotion.
Readers should be focused on the dialogue. If a showy tag is necessary to convey a character’s voice or mood, the speech might need a rethink.
In the examples below, the speech tags do the following:
Examples
Alternatives
Sometimes tags aren’t even necessary because it’s obvious who’s speaking. Other times, we can replace a tag with an action beat than conveys movement and emotion.
Readers should be focused on the dialogue. If a showy tag is necessary to convey a character’s voice or mood, the speech might need a rethink.
In the examples below, the speech tags do the following:
- tell what the punctuation’s already shown
- tell what the dialogue’s already shown
- tell us what the dialogue could have shown but doesn’t
- express non-speech-related behaviour
Examples
- 'That’s extraordinary!’ Jane exclaimed, and ran her index finger over the polished wood.
- ‘Put the damn thing down now. That’s an order, soldier,’ Reja commanded, raising her rifle.
- ‘Stop,’ Mathew pleaded.
- ‘I really need to hit the sack,’ James yawned.
Alternatives
- ‘That’s extraordinary!’ Jane ran her index finger over the polished wood.
- ‘Put the damn thing down now.’ Reja raised her rifle. ‘That’s an order, soldier.’
- ‘Stop,’ Mathew said. ‘I’m bloody begging you.’
- James yawned. ‘I really need to hit the sack.’
4. Pick up dropped viewpoint
Narrative viewpoint is a big topic so I’ve focused on two common sentence-level slips:
The viewpoint character reports what they can’t know
Reporting what can’t be known often comes with filter phrases such as 'could tell (that)' and 'knew (that)'.
In this example, John is the viewpoint character. We experience the story though his senses.
Example
There, behind the desk, sat Reja, the girl he’d dated two decades earlier.
‘Sergeant John Davis,’ he said, and held out his hand. He could tell she didn’t remember him.
Actually he can’t tell any such thing. It might seem that way, but for all John knows, she could be hiding it because she has another agenda. Telling us that’s not the case removes any underlying suspense – stops us asking the question.
This might seem like a small slip but it’s the kind of thing that turns over all the power of a limited/deep viewpoint to an all-knowing narrator and rips apart the tight psychic distance between reader and the viewpoint character.
Here are two recasts that avoid the viewpoint drop:
Alternatives
There, behind the desk, sat Reja, the girl he’d dated two decades earlier.
‘Sergeant John Davis,’ he said, and held out his hand.
She showed no sign of recognizing him.
There, behind the desk, sat Reja, the girl he’d dated two decades earlier.
‘Sergeant John Davis,’ he said, and held out his hand.
There was no recognition on her face.
Non-viewpoint characters’ internal experiences
Here we’re talking about head-hopping. It’s when readers are able to access emotions, mood and thoughts of a non-viewpoint character. In the example that follows, Reja is the viewpoint character.
Example
Bloody fool. Who did he think he was? Reja jammed her hat down over her ears. No way was she leaving with him.
John could have kicked himself. He shouldn’t have come on that strong. Not after what she’d been through.
The solution is to recast the text so that these emotions, mood and thoughts can be inferred or accessed externally – for example, through movement or speech – by the viewpoint character only. Here’s a possible recast.
Alternative
Bloody fool. Who did he think he was? Reja jammed her hat down over her ears. No way was she leaving with him.
John palmed his forehead and spluttered an apology. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. Not after … well, you know.’
- The viewpoint character reports what they can’t know.
- The reader is given access to non-viewpoint characters' internal experiences.
The viewpoint character reports what they can’t know
Reporting what can’t be known often comes with filter phrases such as 'could tell (that)' and 'knew (that)'.
In this example, John is the viewpoint character. We experience the story though his senses.
Example
There, behind the desk, sat Reja, the girl he’d dated two decades earlier.
‘Sergeant John Davis,’ he said, and held out his hand. He could tell she didn’t remember him.
Actually he can’t tell any such thing. It might seem that way, but for all John knows, she could be hiding it because she has another agenda. Telling us that’s not the case removes any underlying suspense – stops us asking the question.
This might seem like a small slip but it’s the kind of thing that turns over all the power of a limited/deep viewpoint to an all-knowing narrator and rips apart the tight psychic distance between reader and the viewpoint character.
Here are two recasts that avoid the viewpoint drop:
Alternatives
There, behind the desk, sat Reja, the girl he’d dated two decades earlier.
‘Sergeant John Davis,’ he said, and held out his hand.
She showed no sign of recognizing him.
There, behind the desk, sat Reja, the girl he’d dated two decades earlier.
‘Sergeant John Davis,’ he said, and held out his hand.
There was no recognition on her face.
Non-viewpoint characters’ internal experiences
Here we’re talking about head-hopping. It’s when readers are able to access emotions, mood and thoughts of a non-viewpoint character. In the example that follows, Reja is the viewpoint character.
Example
Bloody fool. Who did he think he was? Reja jammed her hat down over her ears. No way was she leaving with him.
John could have kicked himself. He shouldn’t have come on that strong. Not after what she’d been through.
The solution is to recast the text so that these emotions, mood and thoughts can be inferred or accessed externally – for example, through movement or speech – by the viewpoint character only. Here’s a possible recast.
Alternative
Bloody fool. Who did he think he was? Reja jammed her hat down over her ears. No way was she leaving with him.
John palmed his forehead and spluttered an apology. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. Not after … well, you know.’
5. Trim anatomy-based action
Prose is more immersive when readers aren’t told what they can assume is being done by body parts that are associated with particular actions – holding with hands, gazing with eyes, standing to their feet, kneeling on their knees, nodding heads, and shrugging shoulders.
In the example below, we might remove the obvious body parts and focus more specifically on the part of John's legs doing the kicking and the impact of his action. As for the gun-toter, the hands have been ditched.
Example
John kicked out with his legs. The woman stumbled, righted herself and came at him again, pistol raised in her hands.
Alternative
John kicked out, slamming his heel into her kneecap. The woman stumbled, righted herself and came at him again, pistol raised.
In the example below, we might remove the obvious body parts and focus more specifically on the part of John's legs doing the kicking and the impact of his action. As for the gun-toter, the hands have been ditched.
Example
John kicked out with his legs. The woman stumbled, righted herself and came at him again, pistol raised in her hands.
Alternative
John kicked out, slamming his heel into her kneecap. The woman stumbled, righted herself and came at him again, pistol raised.
6. Turn intention into action
Sometimes the reader needs to know what a character wants to achieve from a particular action. This is about the why of an action.
Example
Jane squeezed the detergent into the porridge. Just a couple of squirts to give Alice a taste of her own medicine.
However, when an author means to show the how of an action but tells of intention to act, there’s a problem. The red flag to watch out for is 'to'.
We can check whether the focus is on point by asking a question: What action do we want to show the reader (via Jane)?
If we want to show the reader that Jane can lift her wrist – because that’s what the first example below is showing us – we can leave as is.
However, that's rather dull; it's more likely that we want to show that Jane is checking the time, and so a leaner alternative is more effective.
Example
Jane lifted her wrist to look at her watch. Bang on two.
Alternative
Jane checked her wristwatch. Bang on two.
Example
Jane squeezed the detergent into the porridge. Just a couple of squirts to give Alice a taste of her own medicine.
However, when an author means to show the how of an action but tells of intention to act, there’s a problem. The red flag to watch out for is 'to'.
We can check whether the focus is on point by asking a question: What action do we want to show the reader (via Jane)?
If we want to show the reader that Jane can lift her wrist – because that’s what the first example below is showing us – we can leave as is.
However, that's rather dull; it's more likely that we want to show that Jane is checking the time, and so a leaner alternative is more effective.
Example
Jane lifted her wrist to look at her watch. Bang on two.
Alternative
Jane checked her wristwatch. Bang on two.
Summing up
None of these 6 tweaks are rules! Think of them instead as suggestions to consider, ideas that can help you smooth and tighten up your prose.
And don't worry about them at first-draft stage. Use that space to get the words on the page. Put your sentence-level editing craft in play with a later draft, and once your story's structure, plot and characterization have been fully developed.
And don't worry about them at first-draft stage. Use that space to get the words on the page. Put your sentence-level editing craft in play with a later draft, and once your story's structure, plot and characterization have been fully developed.
Further reading
Want to develop your line-editing skills? Check out these resources:
- Author resource library (includes links to free webinars)
- Editing Fiction at Sentence Level: A Guide for Beginner and Developing Writers
- Making Sense of Point of View: Transform Your Fiction 1
- 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’
- ‘What is anaphora and how can you use it in fiction writing?’
- '2 ways to write about physical pain'
- 'What is head-hopping, and is it spoiling your fiction writing?'
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
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
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
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
There are different types of novel editing: developmental editing, line editing, copyediting and proofreading. Revising in the right order is essential if you want your book to be in the best shape possible.
Other ways to access this information
Feel free to enjoy this article, or watch the complementary webinar and download the free ebook.
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Developmental editing
Developmental editing comes first. This is big-picture work that involves looking at the story as a whole.
You’ll also hear it called structural editing, perhaps even content editing, and the base components always include plot, structure, characterization, pace, viewpoint, narrative style, and tense.
You’ll also hear it called structural editing, perhaps even content editing, and the base components always include plot, structure, characterization, pace, viewpoint, narrative style, and tense.
- Plot: This is the sequence of events that take the reader from the beginning to the end.
- Structure: This determines how the plot is organized. Even if B occurred after A, the reader might learn about B before the events of A are unveiled.
- Characterization: This is how characters are represented such that we can make sense of their behavior as we journey with them through the story.
- Pace: Pacing is about the speed at which the story unfolds. Effective pace ensures readers feel neither rushed nor bored. That doesn’t mean the pace remains steady; a story can include sections of fast-paced action and slower cool-downs.
- Viewpoint: In each chapter or section, readers should understand who the narrator is—whose eyes they are seeing through, whose emotions they have access to, whose voice dominates the narrative. It also means understanding the restrictions in play such that head-hopping doesn’t pull the reader out of the story.
- Narrative style: Is the narrative viewpoint conveyed in the first, second or third person? The choice determines a narrative’s style.
- Tense: Is the story told in the present or the past tense? Each has its benefits and limitations.
3 things you should know about developmental editing
- There are different types of developmental edits—full-novel edits in which the editor revises (or suggests revisions) that will improve story; critiques or manuscript evaluations that report on the strengths and weaknesses of story; and sensitivity reads that offer specialist reports on the potential misrepresentation and devaluation of marginalized others.
- Different editors handle developmental edits in different ways. One might include an assessment of genre and marketability; another might not. Some editors revise the raw text; others restrict the edit to margin markup. Check what you’re being offered against what you want.
- Developmental editing isn’t about checking spelling, grammar, and punctuation.
Line editing
Line editing is the next step in the revision process and it is stylistic work.
A strong sentence elevates story; a poorly crafted one can bury it. This level of editing revises for style, sense, and flow.
You might also hear line editing referred to as substantive editing or stylistic editing. Editors will be addressing the following:
A strong sentence elevates story; a poorly crafted one can bury it. This level of editing revises for style, sense, and flow.
You might also hear line editing referred to as substantive editing or stylistic editing. Editors will be addressing the following:
- Authenticity of phrasing and word choice in relation to character voice
- Character-trait consistency and unveiling
- Clarity and consistency of viewpoint and narrative style
- Cliché and awkward metaphor
- Dialogue and how it conveys voice, mood, and intention
- Sentence pace and flow, with special attention to repetition and overwriting
- Tenses, and whether they’re effective and consistent
- Told versus shown prose
3 things you should know about line editing
- There are different types of sentence-level edits—full-novel line edits in which the editor revises (or suggests revisions) that will improve the line work; line critiques that report on the strengths and weaknesses of the line craft; and mini line edits in which the editor revises an agreed section of the novel such that the author can hone their line craft and mimic the edit throughout the rest of the novel.
- Different editors define their sentence-level services differently. Some include technical checking (copyediting) with the stylistic work, while some do the stylistic and technical work in separate passes. Check what you’re being offered against what you want.
- Line-editing stage is not the ideal place to be fixing problems with plot, theme, pace and viewpoint. Fixes are likely to inelegant and invasive.
Copyediting
Copyediting is the technical side of sentence-level work. Editors will be addressing the following:
- Chapter sequencing
- Consistency of proper-noun spelling
- Dialogue tagging and punctuation
- Letter, word, line, and paragraph spacing
- Logic of timeline, environment, and character traits
- Spelling, grammar, syntax, punctuation, hyphenation, and capitalization
- Standard document formatting
3 things you should know about copyediting
- Some editors offer line editing and copyediting together in a single pass. That combined service might be indicated by what it’s called, e.g. ‘line-/copyediting’. However, it might be called just ‘copyediting’ even though it includes stylistic work. Again, check what you’re being offered against what you want.
- Novel copyediting is best done in a single pass. When an editor works on separate chunks of text, inconsistencies are likely to slip through.
- One pass of a sentence-level edit is not enough to ready a novel for publication. Final quality control is necessary.
Proofreading
Proofreading is the last stage of the editing process prior to publication. Every novel, whether it’s being delivered in print or digitally, requires a final quality-control check.
A proofreader looks for literal errors and layout problems that slipped through previous rounds of revision or were introduced at design stage.
Authors preparing for print can ask a proofreader to annotate page proofs. These are almost what a reader would see if they pulled the novel off the shelf. Others ask proofreaders to amend the raw text, either because they’re preparing for epublication or for audiobook narration.
Proofreaders are more than typo hunters. They check for consistency of spelling, punctuation and grammar, but also for layout problems such as (but not limited to) indentation, line spacing, inconsistent chapter drops, missing page numbers, and font and heading styles. The remit is extensive (download a free checklist).
The art of good proofreading lies in knowing when to change and when to leave well enough alone. A good proofreader should understand the impact of their revisions—not only in relation to the knock-on effect on other pages but also to the cost if a third-party designer/formatter is part of the team.
A proofreader looks for literal errors and layout problems that slipped through previous rounds of revision or were introduced at design stage.
Authors preparing for print can ask a proofreader to annotate page proofs. These are almost what a reader would see if they pulled the novel off the shelf. Others ask proofreaders to amend the raw text, either because they’re preparing for epublication or for audiobook narration.
Proofreaders are more than typo hunters. They check for consistency of spelling, punctuation and grammar, but also for layout problems such as (but not limited to) indentation, line spacing, inconsistent chapter drops, missing page numbers, and font and heading styles. The remit is extensive (download a free checklist).
The art of good proofreading lies in knowing when to change and when to leave well enough alone. A good proofreader should understand the impact of their revisions—not only in relation to the knock-on effect on other pages but also to the cost if a third-party designer/formatter is part of the team.
3 things you should know about proofreading
- A proofread is rarely enough, no matter how experienced the writer. It’s the last line of defense, not the only line of defense.
- Be sure to clarify with an editor what you want and which mediums the editor works with. Proofreading designed page proofs requires an additional level of checking that a raw-text review doesn’t. And some editors work only on raw text, some only on PDF, and some only on hard copy.
- Proofreading is about quality control. The proofreader should be polishing the manuscript, not filling in plot holes or trimming purple prose.
Which type of editing do you need?
Authors need to take their books through all the types of editing. That doesn’t mean hiring third party professionals for each stage. Writing groups, self-study courses, how-to books, and self-publishing organizations are all great sources of editorial support.
If you decide to work with a professional, invest in one who can help you where you’re weakest. You might be a great structural self-editor but prone to overwriting. Or you might have nailed line craft but need help with story development.
And pay attention to the order of play when it comes to revision. Fixing plot holes at proofreading stage might damage previous rounds of editing. That’s a waste of time and money that every writer wants to avoid!
If you decide to work with a professional, invest in one who can help you where you’re weakest. You might be a great structural self-editor but prone to overwriting. Or you might have nailed line craft but need help with story development.
And pay attention to the order of play when it comes to revision. Fixing plot holes at proofreading stage might damage previous rounds of editing. That’s a waste of time and money that every writer wants to avoid!
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
The impact of ‘before’ and ‘after’ in fiction writing: Tacit and explicit chronology of action
17/2/2020
Learn about tacit and explicit chronologies of action, and how to assess which style of writing is more immersive and why.
The problem with ‘before’ and ‘after’
When the order of characters’ movements is told with the words ‘before’ and ‘after’, there’s a risk that readers will focus on timeline rather than story. That distraction can reduce engagement and dumb down the writing.
Here’s what to look out for and how to fix the problem.
Here’s what to look out for and how to fix the problem.
Why writers include ‘before’ and ‘after’
The inclusion of ‘before’ and ‘after’ to tell the order of play is not an indication of poor grammar – not at all. There’s nothing grammatically wrong with these constructions.
More usually, it’s an indication of insecurity. The author hasn’t learned to trust the power of their words on the page, or the ability of their readers to perceive the meaning behind those words.
It’s also why writers sometimes use several adjectives with similar meanings rather than one strong one, or an adverbial phrase to fortify a weak verb.
Some authors also fear that their writing will come across as too ‘plain’ or ‘simple’. Chronological nudges are an attempt to ornament the prose.
More usually, it’s an indication of insecurity. The author hasn’t learned to trust the power of their words on the page, or the ability of their readers to perceive the meaning behind those words.
It’s also why writers sometimes use several adjectives with similar meanings rather than one strong one, or an adverbial phrase to fortify a weak verb.
Some authors also fear that their writing will come across as too ‘plain’ or ‘simple’. Chronological nudges are an attempt to ornament the prose.
Tacit chronology of action
The things that we do occur in a sequence; they have a chronology. This is as much the case in real life as it is on the screen, in an audiobook and in the pages of a novel. That chronology is tacit – we don’t need to explain it because it’s understood.
Take a look at this excerpt from The Devil’s Dice by Roz Watkins (p. 79, HQ, 2019):
Take a look at this excerpt from The Devil’s Dice by Roz Watkins (p. 79, HQ, 2019):
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I shuddered, put the laptop down and manoeuvred Hamlet onto my knee. I leant and breathed in his subtle, nutty cat smell.
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Watkins doesn’t tell us explicitly that the shuddering occurred before the laptop was put down, or that the laptop was moved before the character shifted the cat onto their knee. And yet we know. The sequence of events is implied by the order in which she places each clause. It’s tacit.
And that’s the thing with strong line craft – it allows the reader to immerse themselves in the chronology of action by showing us, clause by clause, what’s transpiring, instead of tapping us on the shoulder and telling us.
- First thing that happens: shudders
- Next thing that happens: moves laptop
- Next thing that happens: manoeuvres cat
- Next thing that happens: leans
- Next thing that happens: inhales cat odour
And that’s the thing with strong line craft – it allows the reader to immerse themselves in the chronology of action by showing us, clause by clause, what’s transpiring, instead of tapping us on the shoulder and telling us.
Explicit chronology of action
Let’s recast the Watkins excerpt with some explicit taps on the shoulder:
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I shuddered before putting the laptop down, then manoeuvred Hamlet onto my knee. After leaning in, I breathed in his subtle, nutty cat smell.
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I see this use of timeline nudges frequently in the fiction writing of less experienced authors, and it’s problematic when overused. Here’s why.
1. Some readers might feel patronized
Not every reader will notice the use of chronology nudges. But some will, and since no author wants to alienate a chunk of their readership, why push the story over a cliff when we can work out the sequence of events from the order of the words?
Telling readers that X was done before doing Y, or after doing Z, is akin to saying: ‘Hey, just in case you’re not clever enough, let me spell it out for you.’
It’s a dumbing-down that readers in the know won’t appreciate.
2. The inclusion is unnecessary
If you’re still not convinced, ask yourself whether the inclusion of ‘before’ or ‘after’ as timeline nudges is necessary. It often isn’t.
If a character’s shuddering occurs at the beginning of a sentence, the reader will assume that shuddering is what’s happening right now. If a new action follows that shuddering, the reader will assume that – just like in real life – the moment has passed and something else is happening in the new now of the novel.
3. The reader is focused on the wrong thing
When writers create immersive fiction, the reader feels as if they are in the moment – this is happening, now that, now the other.
‘Before’ and ‘after’ are distractions that focus the reader on when rather than what’s happening. The former is telling; the latter is showing.
4. There are more words than are necessary
Not enough words leaves readers hungry for clarity. Too many gives them indigestion. The artistry comes in the form of balance.
As long as the sequence of events can be understood by the reader, consider whether timeline nudges such as ‘before’ and ‘after’ are cluttering your prose.
1. Some readers might feel patronized
Not every reader will notice the use of chronology nudges. But some will, and since no author wants to alienate a chunk of their readership, why push the story over a cliff when we can work out the sequence of events from the order of the words?
Telling readers that X was done before doing Y, or after doing Z, is akin to saying: ‘Hey, just in case you’re not clever enough, let me spell it out for you.’
It’s a dumbing-down that readers in the know won’t appreciate.
2. The inclusion is unnecessary
If you’re still not convinced, ask yourself whether the inclusion of ‘before’ or ‘after’ as timeline nudges is necessary. It often isn’t.
If a character’s shuddering occurs at the beginning of a sentence, the reader will assume that shuddering is what’s happening right now. If a new action follows that shuddering, the reader will assume that – just like in real life – the moment has passed and something else is happening in the new now of the novel.
3. The reader is focused on the wrong thing
When writers create immersive fiction, the reader feels as if they are in the moment – this is happening, now that, now the other.
‘Before’ and ‘after’ are distractions that focus the reader on when rather than what’s happening. The former is telling; the latter is showing.
4. There are more words than are necessary
Not enough words leaves readers hungry for clarity. Too many gives them indigestion. The artistry comes in the form of balance.
As long as the sequence of events can be understood by the reader, consider whether timeline nudges such as ‘before’ and ‘after’ are cluttering your prose.
The power of tacit chronology – more examples
Take a look at these pairs of narrative text, each of which has a shown tacit chronology and an alternative told explicit sequence. Which versions are more suspenseful? Which are most immediate? Which flow better when you read them out loud?
I’ve used examples from published fiction for the tacit versions, and taken a little artistic licence – altering them in ways their authors never intended – for the explicit chronologies.
I’ve used examples from published fiction for the tacit versions, and taken a little artistic licence – altering them in ways their authors never intended – for the explicit chronologies.
The Chalk Man, C. J. Tudor, Penguin, 2018, p. 92
- Original (shown prose, tacit chronology):
I took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen. - Altered (told prose, explicit chronology):
I took a deep breath before walking into the kitchen.
In the original version, the ‘and’ between the initial breath and the walk into the kitchen is a fine example of the power of a conjunction. It’s almost invisible, which gives us the space to take that breath with the viewpoint character. And having taken it, we’re ready to go into the kitchen with them.
In the edited version, ‘before’ pulls us away from that moment. The tension has fallen out of the sentence.
In the edited version, ‘before’ pulls us away from that moment. The tension has fallen out of the sentence.
The Dream Archipelago, Christopher Priest, Gollancz, 2009, p. 201
- Original (shown prose, tacit chronology):
Parren was lighting a cigar from one of the candles on the table. He leaned back with a smile and blew smoke into the air. - Altered (told prose, explicit chronology):
Parren was lighting a cigar from one of the candles on the table. After leaning back with a smile, he blew smoke into the air.
In the original version, it’s as if we’re in the room, watching the man as he smiles and leans back. There is space for that action to have its moment. Then he blows the smoke – that’s the new moment; we’ve left the other behind.
In the edited version, ‘after’ shoves us past the leaning back and smiling before we’ve had a chance to savour it. It’s already gone, even though we’re still reading about it.
In the edited version, ‘after’ shoves us past the leaning back and smiling before we’ve had a chance to savour it. It’s already gone, even though we’re still reading about it.
Jurassic Park, Michael Crichton, Arrow, 2006, Prologue from Kindle edition
- Original (shown prose, tacit chronology):
... the helicopter settled onto the wet sand of the beach. Uniformed men jumped out and flung open the big side door. - Altered (told prose, explicit chronology):
... the helicopter settled onto the wet sand of the beach. Uniformed men jumped out before flinging open the big side door.
In the original version, Crichton shows us the action. Perhaps, like me, you can hear the chunter of the helicopter blades in the air. Who’s in this helicopter? Men in uniform. They jump out. What will happen next? We’re shown: they fling open the door. There’s a sense of order, of clandestine and militaristic precision.
In the edited version, ‘before’ saps the suspense from the final sentence. We’re focused on the timeline rather than the action.
In the edited version, ‘before’ saps the suspense from the final sentence. We’re focused on the timeline rather than the action.
Summing up
To wrap up, here's a summary of the impact of tacit and explicit chronology on prose.
Tacit chronology
Explicit chronology
Tacit chronology
- Embraces the logic of standard sentence structure
- Allows readers to be in the now of the novel
- Shows us the story as it unfolds
- Trims the fat
Explicit chronology
- Assumes readers don’t understand the word order
- Pushes readers into an external time and space
- Tells us the timeline of movement
- Clutters the prose
Take a look at your narrative. If ‘before’ and ‘after’ are telling rather than showing, recast gently and reread out loud. Is the order of play still clear? Is the prose more immersive? If so, there’ll be fewer words but what’s there will be all the richer.
And if you’re worried that your prose will be too plain, think again. Immersive writing allows the reader to decorate the story with their own imagination.
And if you’re worried that your prose will be too plain, think again. Immersive writing allows the reader to decorate the story with their own imagination.
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
Flat chapter finales are a fast track to reader disappointment. Here’s how to nail those last few lines so that readers can’t wait to turn the page.
Suspense makes readers turn the page
Readers turn the page to find answers to questions. Why did that happen? Who’s responsible? What will happen next?
Unanswered questions at the end of chapters place us in a state of suspense. We’ll try to predict the answers based on the information we’ve been given.
We might be proved right. I thought so!
We might be proved wrong. I didn’t see that coming!
Either way, as long as there’s suspense, we’ll turn the page. Here are some ideas, with examples from published fiction, about how to do it, so that even predictable outcomes are structured line by line such that readers are itching with anticipation.
Unanswered questions at the end of chapters place us in a state of suspense. We’ll try to predict the answers based on the information we’ve been given.
We might be proved right. I thought so!
We might be proved wrong. I didn’t see that coming!
Either way, as long as there’s suspense, we’ll turn the page. Here are some ideas, with examples from published fiction, about how to do it, so that even predictable outcomes are structured line by line such that readers are itching with anticipation.
1. Wrap up the chapter in the middle of something interesting
There are two people in a bedroom. They’ve survived a harrowing encounter. And there’s oodles of sexual tension between them.
A less confident writer might wrap up the chapter as follows:
A less confident writer might wrap up the chapter as follows:
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‘I’m sorry I shot you,’ she said, and slipped into the bed. ‘But I did it to save your life.’
Mark pulled off his tie and began to undo the buttons on his shirt. They made love, then ordered food and drink – two omelettes and fries and a bottle of champagne – and, after they’d eaten, and drunk, they made love again. [CHAPTER ENDS] |
The problem here is that the suspense dissipates. Mark begins to undress but we don’t bother to wonder what will happen next – whether he and the woman will have sex, or try to but be interrupted, or do the deed and grab some food. We don’t need to – we’re told.
Fear not! This is actually a tweaked version of an excerpt from Solo by William Boyd, Vintage, 2014 (pp. 259–60). Boyd is cannier. This is what it really looks like:
Fear not! This is actually a tweaked version of an excerpt from Solo by William Boyd, Vintage, 2014 (pp. 259–60). Boyd is cannier. This is what it really looks like:
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‘I’m sorry I shot you,’ she said, and slipped into the bed. ‘But I did it to save your life.’
Bond pulled off his tie and began to undo the buttons on his shirt. [CHAPTER ENDS] Bond and Blessing made love, then ordered food and drink – two omelettes and fries and a bottle of champagne – and, after they’d eaten, and drunk, they made love again. |
In the real version, we do ask those questions. The artistry lies in the fact that we have to turn the page to find the answers and relieve our suspense.
They’re given in the next chapter. A sex scene follows. It’s an interlude – a chance to breathe, for them and us – before Bond leaves and sets up a diversion that will confuse the CIA’s surveillance of him.
They’re given in the next chapter. A sex scene follows. It’s an interlude – a chance to breathe, for them and us – before Bond leaves and sets up a diversion that will confuse the CIA’s surveillance of him.
2. Wrap up the chapter with foreshadowing
Chapter endings that tell of incoming storms are powerful. When they’re short and taut, even better! Take a look at this super example from p. 210 of Clare Mackintosh’s Let Me Lie (Sphere, 2019):
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I lean my back against the stained-glass panel. I wonder if she’ll knock and ring, as she did this morning. There’s a moment’s pause, then I hear her footsteps on the steps, on the gravel. Silence.
My mind whirs. My father was a violent man. So cruel to Mum that she faked her own death to escape him. And now he’s coming for me. [CHAPTER ENDS] |
That final line is like a punch in the gut. It begs us to ask: When will he come? What will he do? And how will she protect herself? It’s six words of masterful suspense.
3. Wrap up the chapter with emotional reflection
In the The Man with No Face by Peter May (Riverrun, 1981), the protagonist, a journalist called Neil Bannerman, walks into a restaurant and alerts a minister that he has evidence about a government cover-up. That’s the juicy bit.
Bannerman then exits, leaving the minister to mull over the revelation. That’s the mundane bit and May needs a way to close the chapter with a pop. Emotional reflection is the tool of choice.
Here’s the excerpt from p. 233:
Bannerman then exits, leaving the minister to mull over the revelation. That’s the mundane bit and May needs a way to close the chapter with a pop. Emotional reflection is the tool of choice.
Here’s the excerpt from p. 233:
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Before stepping outside once more into the snow he glanced back towards the bar. Everyone in there knew something had passed between Bannerman and the Minister, though no one knew what. In the competitive world of newspapers, the cardinal sin was not knowing what the story was. None of those pressmen would enjoy their meal tonight. Nor would the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.
[CHAPTER ENDS] |
The journos and minister won’t be enjoying their meal but this isn’t an exercise in gastronomy. The end-of-chapter suspense comes in the form of questions: Will there be consequences for Bannerman? How will those play out? Will the minister get his just deserts?
4. Wrap up the chapter with a surprise interruption
Another way of wrapping up a chapter when the big stuff has already played out is to introduce some sort of surprise interruption. Perhaps there’s a knock on the door from an unexpected visitor, or an odour that forces the viewpoint character to direct their attention elsewhere.
Here’s another excerpt from Let Me Lie (p. 226). Murray, the viewpoint character, has just had a telephone call with Anna, during which he told her that her parents had indeed been murdered. She becomes emotional and commands him to drop the investigation, despite her bringing the case to him in the first place.
Here’s another excerpt from Let Me Lie (p. 226). Murray, the viewpoint character, has just had a telephone call with Anna, during which he told her that her parents had indeed been murdered. She becomes emotional and commands him to drop the investigation, despite her bringing the case to him in the first place.
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The tightness in Murray’s chest returned, and he swallowed the ridiculous urge to cry. He stood without moving, the phone in his hand, and it was only when the smoke alarm pierced through the still air that he realised his supper was burning.
[CHAPTER ENDS] |
What would ordinarily be a domestic mundanity serves to show his mood; his shock is so immersive that he’s forgotten everything around him until the alarm goes off.
We leave the chapter imagining the shrill noise, the odour of burnt food, the smoke in the kitchen, and wondering what on earth has happened to make Anna change her mind.
We leave the chapter imagining the shrill noise, the odour of burnt food, the smoke in the kitchen, and wondering what on earth has happened to make Anna change her mind.
5. Wrap up the chapter with a shocking last line
There’s nothing better than a final line that the reader doesn’t see coming. Here’s a magnificent example from David Baldacci’s True Blue (Kindle edition, Macmillan, 2009).
In Chapter 4, we meet Roy, a young lawyer. He finishes a game of basketball and slopes back to the office where, we learn, he earns a healthy pay cheque by plea-bargaining on behalf of mostly guilty defendants.
In Chapter 4, we meet Roy, a young lawyer. He finishes a game of basketball and slopes back to the office where, we learn, he earns a healthy pay cheque by plea-bargaining on behalf of mostly guilty defendants.
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After getting some work lined up for his secretary when she came in, he needed some coffee. It was right at eight o’clock as he walked down the hall to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The kitchen staff kept the coffee in there so it would stay fresher longer.
Roy didn’t get the coffee. Instead he caught the woman’s body as it tumbled out of the fridge. [CHAPTER ENDS] |
Baldacci sets up the whole chapter as just another day at the office. We should know better than to be lulled into this false sense of security, but Baldacci’s narrative is strong enough from the start to convince us this might go in another direction.
Maybe Roy is crooked. Perhaps he’s about to be fired. Maybe he’s going to get a phone call telling him he has to go to court and represent someone he’d rather not. What we don’t expect is the wallop when a body falls out of the fridge.
And now we have a ton of suspenseful questions. Who is she? How did she get in the fridge? Why was she killed? To find out, we’ll have to turn the page.
Maybe Roy is crooked. Perhaps he’s about to be fired. Maybe he’s going to get a phone call telling him he has to go to court and represent someone he’d rather not. What we don’t expect is the wallop when a body falls out of the fridge.
And now we have a ton of suspenseful questions. Who is she? How did she get in the fridge? Why was she killed? To find out, we’ll have to turn the page.
6. Wrap up the chapter with dialogue that demands answers
One great line of dialogue can close a chapter beautifully. No action beats, no narrative, no response – just the spoken word. It works as an outro when the speech leaves us with questions, and therefore in suspense.
Here's an example from New Tricks by David Rosenfelt (2009, Grand Central Publishing, pp. 215–16):
Here's an example from New Tricks by David Rosenfelt (2009, Grand Central Publishing, pp. 215–16):
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When I let her off the stand, Richard stands for what I assume will be a redirect examination.
Instead he says, “Your Honor, may we have a discussion in chambers?” [CHAPTER ENDS] “Your Honor, we believe we have located the murder weapon. I was informed of it moments ago.” |
The dialogue forces us to wonder: Why has Richard not carried out the redirect? Has some new evidence come to light? How will this affect the case?
Rosenfelt doesn’t dampen the suspense by cluttering his prose with the detail of what came next – maybe people in the courtroom looked surprised or confused; perhaps there was an objection, and the judge banged their gavel and announced a recess.
Instead, all that stuff is left unwritten – we just imagine it. It’s one line of dialogue and the chapter’s done.
Rosenfelt doesn’t dampen the suspense by cluttering his prose with the detail of what came next – maybe people in the courtroom looked surprised or confused; perhaps there was an objection, and the judge banged their gavel and announced a recess.
Instead, all that stuff is left unwritten – we just imagine it. It’s one line of dialogue and the chapter’s done.
7. Wrap up the chapter in the middle of one character’s speech
Here’s Rosenfelt again in Dog Tags (Grand Central Publishing, 2010, pp. 28–9). Unlike in the example above where there’s a natural chapter break because of a shift from the courtroom to the chambers, this time he inserts the chapter break in the middle of one person’s speech.
Less confident authors might shy away from this, but it can work – if it’s an appropriate suspense point that leaves the reader reeling with questions.
Less confident authors might shy away from this, but it can work – if it’s an appropriate suspense point that leaves the reader reeling with questions.
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“He wants me to take his dog?” I ask, my relief probably showing through. Willie and I have already placed hundreds of dogs through our foundation, and adding one is no hardship at all.
“No. He wants you to defend his dog.” “From what?” “The government.” [CHAPTER ENDS] “He’s like a celebrity here, Andy.” Fred Brandenbeger is talking about Milo, who has been placed in the Passaic County Animal Shelter. |
That final line is a shock, for lawyer Andy Carpenter and us. Why would a dog need a lawyer? How can such an absurd conversation be happening? We learn the answers to these questions in the next chapter, and that’s exactly where they should be because ‘The government’ is the suspense point that grabs us by the scruff of the neck and demands we keep reading.
Do you know when it’s closing time?
Like artists who can’t put down a paintbrush, less confident writers sometimes lack the courage to end with one line that evokes questions rather than solutions.
Yet that’s what the authors in all the examples above have done, and that’s why their outros are suspenseful and page-turning.
If your chapters have a saggy bottom, maybe you haven’t identified closing time. I line edit for an author who writes knockout chapter endings … he just places them 10 lines further up the page than they should be to create a suspenseful finale!
When you find yourself stuck, look up the page to find the point that will make the reader think How’s that going to play out? or Why did she do that? or That was a surprise! or Ha! You deserved that. … those few lines that will kick them up the backside and push them forward.
If those lines are already there, think about whether they should be moved to the end of the chapter, or whether the prose after them should be shifted (or even deleted).
If they’re not there, write them.
Think about the very last sentence in your chapter too. How long is it? Your writing style and genre might dictate the style of your final lines but notice how lean the word count is in most of the examples above. The brevity acts like a command: Read me. Pay attention. Turn the page.
Yet that’s what the authors in all the examples above have done, and that’s why their outros are suspenseful and page-turning.
If your chapters have a saggy bottom, maybe you haven’t identified closing time. I line edit for an author who writes knockout chapter endings … he just places them 10 lines further up the page than they should be to create a suspenseful finale!
When you find yourself stuck, look up the page to find the point that will make the reader think How’s that going to play out? or Why did she do that? or That was a surprise! or Ha! You deserved that. … those few lines that will kick them up the backside and push them forward.
If those lines are already there, think about whether they should be moved to the end of the chapter, or whether the prose after them should be shifted (or even deleted).
If they’re not there, write them.
Think about the very last sentence in your chapter too. How long is it? Your writing style and genre might dictate the style of your final lines but notice how lean the word count is in most of the examples above. The brevity acts like a command: Read me. Pay attention. Turn the page.
Summing up
Every chapter should end with a pop, regardless of genre. Those last few lines are what the reader remembers before they pause. An otherwise beautifully crafted chapter can be ruined if it flops at the finishing line.
Find the suspense point – the lines that make readers ask questions – and use them to wrap up your chapter. And pay attention to the very last sentence. Sometimes less is more.
Find the suspense point – the lines that make readers ask questions – and use them to wrap up your chapter. And pay attention to the very last sentence. Sometimes less is more.
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.
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
If your character's intention to act is trumping their action, a small recast could be in order. This article shows you how ‘to’ can affect immediacy and plausibility in certain circumstances.
The intention to act
Take a look at these sentences:
What’s noticeable in these examples is that the character does X in order to achieve Y. Let’s be clear – there’s nothing wrong with any of the sentences in terms of either grammar or syntax. A proofreader wouldn’t touch them. A line editor, however, would take a closer look.
In all three cases the narrator is describing the intention to act, rather than the act itself. And that can be problematic for a couple of reasons.
- Jan reached up to switch on the light. The attic was empty. Almost.
- Andrew picked up the phone to call Carla. She answered on the third ring.
- I get out of the car to walk towards the caravan. The curtains are open so I peek through the plastic window. No one’s home.
What’s noticeable in these examples is that the character does X in order to achieve Y. Let’s be clear – there’s nothing wrong with any of the sentences in terms of either grammar or syntax. A proofreader wouldn’t touch them. A line editor, however, would take a closer look.
In all three cases the narrator is describing the intention to act, rather than the act itself. And that can be problematic for a couple of reasons.
- The action is where our attention is supposed to be. That’s how we move through the story at the same pace as the viewpoint character. When intention creeps in instead, the narrative distance – how close the reader feels to the story and the viewpoint character’s place within it at a given moment – widens. The narrative is less immediate.
- We need the action if the prose is to retain its plausibility. It’s essentially a question of logic and whether the infinitive form of the verb allows us to move from A to B.
Removing ‘to’
Now look at what happens when we remove the ‘to’, introduce a conjunction and tweak the conjugation.
In (1), now we’re moving through the story with Jan. She acts and we go with her. We feel closer to her, as if we are her. In the unedited example, she discovers the empty attic and yet the light never got switched on – all we had was her intention to do it. The ‘and’ fixes that problem.
In (2), Andrew picked up a phone and made a call. We’re doing those things with him. And Carla can now answer on the third ring because Andrew made a call, rather than just picking up the phone with the intention of getting in touch with her.
In (3), readers are focused on my journey to the caravan, not the reason why I get out of the car (to walk over to the caravan). And now that I do walking rather than just car-exiting, I can get to that caravan and peek through the window.
- Jan reached up and switched on the light. The attic was empty. Almost.
- Andrew picked up the phone and called Carla. She answered on the third ring.
- I get out of the car and walk over to the caravan. The curtains are open so I peek through the plastic window. No one’s home.
In (1), now we’re moving through the story with Jan. She acts and we go with her. We feel closer to her, as if we are her. In the unedited example, she discovers the empty attic and yet the light never got switched on – all we had was her intention to do it. The ‘and’ fixes that problem.
In (2), Andrew picked up a phone and made a call. We’re doing those things with him. And Carla can now answer on the third ring because Andrew made a call, rather than just picking up the phone with the intention of getting in touch with her.
In (3), readers are focused on my journey to the caravan, not the reason why I get out of the car (to walk over to the caravan). And now that I do walking rather than just car-exiting, I can get to that caravan and peek through the window.
Shown prose versus told prose – which to choose
This problematic use of infinitives can be framed in terms of showing and telling. There’s room for both in any story, but, as always, context is everything.
Here are three points to bear in mind when deciding whether to ditch your ‘to’ and recast.
Conjunctions aren’t the only option. There are other ways of fixing told motivation-based prose where action is what the author really wants to convey. Let’s revisit one of our earlier examples. Each recast has a slightly different mood, but the ‘to’ has been ditched.
Here are three points to bear in mind when deciding whether to ditch your ‘to’ and recast.
- An infinitive tells us why. A conjunction + verb shows us how.
- An infinitive holds us still – it’s motivation-based. A conjunction + verb shows us movement – it’s action-based.
- An infinitive tells us about what’s impending. A conjunction + verb shows us what’s happening in the now.
Conjunctions aren’t the only option. There are other ways of fixing told motivation-based prose where action is what the author really wants to convey. Let’s revisit one of our earlier examples. Each recast has a slightly different mood, but the ‘to’ has been ditched.
- I get out of the car and walk over to the caravan. The curtains are open so I peek through the plastic window. No one’s home.
- I get out of the car, walk over to the caravan, peek through the plastic window. The curtains are open. No one’s home.
- I get out of the car. Walk over to the caravan. The curtains are open so I peek through the plastic window. No one’s home.
Red flags – words and phrases to watch out for
What we mustn’t do is hunt out every example of an infinitive verb form and hit the DELETE button. That would be catastrophic. Instead, during the revision process, check what the following words and phrases are doing to your prose.
Are they showing motivation or impending action? Is that what you want? And will the logic hold up?
- in an attempt to [verb]
- in order to [verb]
- so as to [verb]
- to [verb]
Are they showing motivation or impending action? Is that what you want? And will the logic hold up?
‘To’ and viewpoint drops
Infinitives can also interfere with point of view. In this case, it’s not immediacy at stake but what it’s possible for the viewpoint character to know.
Take a look at these examples:
In (1), I’m the viewpoint character. All is well until I meet the dog. It bares its teeth. We’re still good. But then the infinitive slips in, and with it I’m now privy to the dog’s intention – to bite. It’s a step too far. Perhaps the dog’s been trained to snarl. Maybe it’s more a warning than an impending attack.
The scene could demand I get bitten or escape intact. Either way, what matters is that we’re not in the dog’s head so we can’t know its intention. A recast that shows what happens, rather than telling what might, is in order.
In (2), Denise is the viewpoint character. We have access to her thoughts via the free indirect discourse: The guy was a pain ... That Matty grabbed the side of the boat is fine. In fact, it’s a solid example of shown prose because although we don’t have access to his intentions or motivations (because we’re not in his head) we can make a good guess at what they are from his observable action – grabbing the side of the boat.
The infinitive tells us why he grabbed the side of the boat. And that’s a problem because we can’t know; we’re not in his head. All we can do is see through Denise’s eyes. Yes, it’s likely that he’s steadying himself, but why not let the reader do the work? His actions are enough to show them.
A recast might go like this:
Or this more staccato version:
Take a look at these examples:
- I jump over the wall and land on the soft verge. Dan’s German shepherd greets me. The dog bares its teeth, preparing to bite.
- Matty. The guy was a pain, had done nothing but hold her back all day. Denise shoved him hard in the back. He grabbed the side of the boat to steady himself.
In (1), I’m the viewpoint character. All is well until I meet the dog. It bares its teeth. We’re still good. But then the infinitive slips in, and with it I’m now privy to the dog’s intention – to bite. It’s a step too far. Perhaps the dog’s been trained to snarl. Maybe it’s more a warning than an impending attack.
The scene could demand I get bitten or escape intact. Either way, what matters is that we’re not in the dog’s head so we can’t know its intention. A recast that shows what happens, rather than telling what might, is in order.
- The painful version: The dog bares its teeth, leaps forward and clamps its jaw around my arm, puncturing the skin.
- The injury-free version: I jump over the wall and land on the soft verge. Dan’s German shepherd greets me. The dog bares its teeth and I freeze. It backs off, so I give it a wide berth and trot down the road.
In (2), Denise is the viewpoint character. We have access to her thoughts via the free indirect discourse: The guy was a pain ... That Matty grabbed the side of the boat is fine. In fact, it’s a solid example of shown prose because although we don’t have access to his intentions or motivations (because we’re not in his head) we can make a good guess at what they are from his observable action – grabbing the side of the boat.
The infinitive tells us why he grabbed the side of the boat. And that’s a problem because we can’t know; we’re not in his head. All we can do is see through Denise’s eyes. Yes, it’s likely that he’s steadying himself, but why not let the reader do the work? His actions are enough to show them.
A recast might go like this:
- Matty. The guy was a pain, had done nothing but hold her back all day. Denise shoved him hard in the back and he grabbed the side of the boat.
Or this more staccato version:
- Matty. The guy was a pain, had done nothing but hold her back all day. Denise shoved him hard in the back. He grabbed the side of the boat.
When intention is the intention!
There are times when the infinitive form of a verb is a good choice because intention, purpose or desire is exactly what the author wants to convey, not the action itself.
Here’s an excerpt from Nuala Ellwood’s Day of the Accident (Penguin, 2019, p. 94). The viewpoint character intends to talk but the action never happens. We’re supposed to focus on the intention, so the infinitives – to speak, to defend myself – work.
Here’s an excerpt from Nuala Ellwood’s Day of the Accident (Penguin, 2019, p. 94). The viewpoint character intends to talk but the action never happens. We’re supposed to focus on the intention, so the infinitives – to speak, to defend myself – work.
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Her eyes flash with hatred. I go to speak, to defend myself, but no words will come. Instead I let Sonia guide me away, Barbara’s venom ringing in my ears.
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Here are some additional (made-up) examples of where motivation is the order of the day. The character does X for the purpose of achieving Y, and the infinitive is effective.
- I take deep breaths to calm myself.
- He’d worked his backside off with this parole officer to stay out of trouble.
- Arthur went to pull Excalibur from the stone but Merlin’s scream stopped him in his tracks.
- I’ve made a decision. I’ll fill up her petrol tank with diesel to trash the engine. That’ll teach her.
Summing up
If you want your characters to act, show those actions in your prose rather than telling readers about intention. Replace the infinitives with a conjunction and modify how the verb’s conjugated. Or, for a more staccato feel, try commas, or closing the sentence with a full point and starting a new one.
If it’s motivation you want, a ‘to’ plus a verb has the right to stand.
If it’s motivation you want, a ‘to’ plus a verb has the right to stand.
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
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