How to Write Dialogue That Feels Real

Dialogue is one of the most powerful tools in a writer’s kit.

Done well, it draws the reader in, reveals character, and carries story forward without wasting a word. Done poorly, it clangs on the page. It’s either wooden or it tries too hard to mimic real speech.

Real-life conversations are messy: people repeat themselves, start and stop, interrupt, and rarely speak in polished sentences. Good dialogue isn’t a transcription of speech — it’s a crafted illusion. Readers should feel as if they’re eavesdropping on something real, while in fact they’re being guided by your hand.

The best way to understand how to strike this balance is to look at the masters. Writers like Jane Austen, Ernest Hemingway, Toni Morrison, Raymond Chandler, and Margaret Atwood show us what dialogue can achieve — and how.

Jane Austen: Subtext and Social Fencing

Jane Austen’s dialogue sparkles because it’s rarely just about what’s said on the surface. In Pride and Prejudice, the verbal sparring between Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy is a duel of wit and restraint.

“From this moment I will improve myself. I will not be proud or conceited. I will not be selfish.” (Pride and Prejudice)

Darcy never directly says “I was wrong” or “I love you.” Instead, Austen layers his admissions in socially acceptable phrasing. Likewise, Elizabeth’s famous rejection — “You are the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry” — is civil, but the sting is unmistakable.

Takeaway for writers: Dialogue doesn’t have to be direct. Sometimes the strongest impact comes when characters don’t say exactly what they mean. Subtext — what lies beneath the words — can reveal far more about tension, pride, and attraction than explicit statements ever could.

Ernest Hemingway: What Isn’t Said

Hemingway built an entire style — his famous “iceberg theory” — on the idea that what’s left unsaid matters more than what’s on the page. Nowhere is this more visible than in his dialogue.

In Hills Like White Elephants, a man and a woman sit at a train station, circling around the subject of abortion.

“It’s really an awfully simple operation, Jig,” the man said.
“Then what will we do afterward?”
“We’ll be fine afterward. Just like we were before.”

Notice what they don’t say: the word abortion never appears. The characters dodge, reassure, and deflect — and the weight of the story rests in the silence.

Takeaway for writers: Don’t feel pressured to put everything on the page. Allow dialogue to circle, evade, or contradict itself. Readers are skilled at picking up what isn’t said — and that’s where the emotional power lies.

Toni Morrison: Rhythm, Cadence, and Emotional Truth

In Beloved, Morrison’s dialogue shows how voice and rhythm can reveal history and emotion more forcefully than exposition. Her characters’ speech is steeped in cultural resonance, repetition, and lyrical cadence.

“She my daughter. She mine.” (Beloved)

The clipped structure and deliberate grammar choices reveal anguish and claim in a way that standard English (“She is my daughter, she belongs to me”) never could. Morrison allows character voice — not grammatical correctness — to lead the way.

Takeaway for writers: Dialogue doesn’t have to obey textbook grammar. Let rhythm, diction, and even broken syntax carry emotional weight. A character’s way of speaking can embody their history, community, and identity.

Raymond Chandler: Character in Every Line

Detective fiction thrives on dialogue, and Chandler’s Philip Marlowe novels prove how a voice can be established in just a handful of words. Marlowe’s toughness, wit, and weary morality come through not in description, but in how he speaks.

“If I weren’t hard, I wouldn’t be alive. If I couldn’t ever be gentle, I wouldn’t deserve to be alive.” (The Big Sleep)

Instead of telling us Marlowe is tough with a soft streak, Chandler lets him declare it in dialogue. The line is memorable, quotable, and utterly true to the character.

Takeaway for writers: Dialogue should sound like the character speaking it, not like the author. Vocabulary, sentence rhythm, and tone should differ from one character to the next, even when they’re delivering the same information.

Margaret Atwood: Ritual and Irony

In The Handmaid’s Tale, Atwood shows how even the simplest exchanges can carry enormous weight. The greetings between handmaids are ritualized, stripped of individuality, and dripping with irony.

“Blessed be the fruit,” she says.
“May the Lord open,” I answer.

On the surface, it’s polite religious formula. Beneath, it’s a marker of surveillance, conformity, and oppression. A few words of dialogue become a whole system of worldbuilding.

Takeaway for writers: Think about how language reflects culture, power, or history. Dialogue can do more than carry character — it can show us the world itself.

F. Scott Fitzgerald: Dialogue as Social Performance

In The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald captures the emptiness of Jazz Age excess through dialogue that sparkles with wit but often masks despair.

“I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.” (The Great Gatsby)

The contradiction here is the point — it tells us about the character’s view of the world while delivering an unforgettable line.

Takeaway for writers: Sometimes dialogue works best when it’s performative — when characters say things to be overheard, to impress, or to conceal.

Putting It All Together

Looking across these examples, a few truths stand out:

• Subtext matters. (Austen, Hemingway)

• Rhythm and grammar-bending can deepen voice. (Morrison)

• Voice must be distinct and character-driven. (Chandler)

• Dialogue can serve worldbuilding as well as story. (Atwood)

• Speech is performance, not transcription. (Fitzgerald)

Dialogue isn’t just a way for characters to talk — it’s a way for readers to understand power, history, desire, and conflict.

Conclusion

Real speech is messy. Good dialogue is not. It’s shaped, purposeful, and alive with subtext. The best authors know that what characters don’t say can be just as powerful as what they do. They bend rhythm, drop grammar, sharpen wit, and sometimes hide meaning in plain sight.

As Hemingway proved, silence can roar. As Austen showed, civility can cut. As Morrison taught, voice can carry entire histories. As Chandler insisted, a single line can embody a man. And as Atwood reminds us, sometimes ritual words are the most chilling of all.

When you write dialogue, don’t aim for accuracy. Aim for truth. Not the truth of everyday chatter, but the deeper truth of character, story, and world.