By Sabyasachi Roy
Writing dialogue can feel like a balancing act. If you use too much, you run the risk of overloading the reader. Too little leaves them perplexed. Finding the sweet spot where something magical occurs is difficult, and frequently it all comes down to what you choose not to say.
Subtext—those delicious layers of meaning hiding beneath the surface of dialogue, the blanks, those depths—is what makes great writing sing. It’s the pause that stretches just a moment too long before a confession, turning anticipation into discomfort. It’s the offhand remark tossed out casually, yet tinged with resentment so sharp it cuts deeper than intended. Or it’s the overly cheerful tone desperately trying to mask simmering rage, and we call it art.
Think of when you are reading a story or watching a movie where two characters are technically talking about the weather but are actually on the brink of a breakup. This moment’s two layers are what makes it so magical. The banal subject lulls us into comfort on the surface, yet beneath it all is tension, hesitancy, and unsaid emotion. The audience leans in and reads between the lines to understand the emotional undercurrents as the weather turns into a stand-in for their failing relationship. It speaks to us because it captures the unadulterated, multifaceted nature of communication and reflects talks in real life where our words are not always what we intend. Voilà! And congrats—you’ve witnessed subtext in action.
What’s Left Unsaid
I remember the first time I read Ernest Hemingway’s Hills Like White Elephants. I was totally convinced I’d missed something. “Wait, they’re just talking about drinks and hills?” I asked. My professor smirked.
The story’s brilliance lies in what’s missing and that’s where the beauty lies. The word “abortion” is never uttered in the conversation of the couple yet every line drips with tension about their unspoken disagreement. Hemingway makes what isn’t said an integral part of the conversation.
Here’s a slice:
“It’s really an awfully simple operation, Jig,” the man said. “It’s not really an operation at all.”
Awfully simple? Not really an operation? Yeah, sure. His casual tone screams of someone desperately trying to downplay the gravity of the situation. Jig’s responses, clipped and weary, tell us she’s not buying it. The result? A masterclass in how subtext can make a simple chat feel like a life-altering argument.
Emotional Landmines in Every Word
Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Maladies works a similar kind of magic because there are layering dialogues with unspoken longing and often it is backed by unmet expectations. This can be observed when Mr. Kapasi, a tour guide, develops a crush on Mrs. Das. She is a tourist whose marriage is clearly on the rocks. Their conversation is polite on the surface, but beneath it, you can feel Mr. Kapasi’s yearning bumping against Mrs. Das’s indifference. But do you feel it? What creates the feeling?
While the conversation between Mr. Kapasi and Mrs. Das may seem polite and mundane on the surface, Lahiri uses subtle cues in their dialogue to reveal their inner emotions. The fact that Lahiri has already established Mr. Kapasi as a man whose life lacks excitement and meaning, for example, and that his obsession with Mrs. Das is not just about attraction—it is tied to his longing for something more fulfilling.
On the other hand, Mrs. Das, burdened with her own disappointments and resentment, views Mr. Kapasi as merely a convenient listener for her confession. These conflicting emotional needs create tension. Lahiri frequently describes gestures, looks, and silences that convey more than words. For example, the way Mr. Kapasi observes Mrs. Das or the indifference in her tone when she addresses him adds layers to the interaction.
Readers pick up on these non-verbal signals, which evoke feelings of yearning and indifference. Lahiri’s restrained style leaves gaps for readers to fill in with their own emotional interpretations. The reader is prompted to sympathize with Mr. Kapasi’s desire and experience the pain of Mrs. Das’s apathy by the contrast between his optimistic thoughts and her cold demeanor. In the end, the “feeling” results from Lahiri’s deft use of word choice and silence, which lets the emotional tension simmer just below the surface. The result? A scene that’s simultaneously heartbreaking and awkwardly relatable.
How to Play the Subtext Game
This is how great authors play it and now, let’s get down to brass tacks. How do you, as a writer, try composing your dialogue with subtext, making it certain that it does not turn into a riddle?
1. Think Like a Poker Player
The subtext is your characters’ ace up their sleeve—it’s what they don’t say that sells the scene. Are they deflecting with a bad joke? Babbling like they’ve had too much caffeine? Or maybe they’re doing the verbal equivalent of hiding behind a couch. You have hit subtext gold if their body language and words are struggling to separate. How? I will give you a quick explanation. Readers or viewers can deduce deeper emotional meaning beyond stated words when body language and words are discordant (for example, when someone says “I am fine” but frowns). This gap highlights subtext.
Let’s talk about Pride and Prejudice. When Mr. Darcy first proposes to Elizabeth Bennet (you know, the “against my better judgment” fiasco), it’s a disaster. He’s stiff, proud, and clearly dying inside, but his words? Pure condescension. Elizabeth’s biting rejection does the talking, but watch her body language: icy calm, chin up, daggers in her eyes. While Elizabeth’s body language adds layers to her feelings and amplifies the emotional intensity of her words of rejection, her body language seems to be in sync with her verbal rejection at this moment. Her piercing gaze and stiff posture contrast with her measured tone, creating a visual contrast that intensifies the impact of her rejection.
The physical cues heighten the emotional weight, making her response more forceful and memorable than just her words alone. This is a scene where tension is created on the foundation of what they say and what they don’t. Darcy says, “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” However, what we really hear is, “I’m too awkward to deal with my feelings.”
2. Use Objects as Proxies
Emotions that characters may be too reluctant to convey explicitly can be subtly represented via objects. A flowerpot, book, or even a mug can express more than simply words.
Sethe’s shabby, broken rocking chair in Toni Morrison’s Beloved becomes more than simply a piece of furniture; it represents her trauma, her past, and her quest for peace. The chair physically represents her emotional scars and the weight of her memories, holding the subtext of her unspoken pain and the sacrifices made for her family’s freedom. Through this simple object, Morrison captures the depth of Sethe’s emotional turmoil and resilience.
In some cases it can serve as a symbolic act rather than a tangible object.
Think of The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. Esther Greenwood’s compulsive clothing rearranging reflects more than just neatness—it symbolizes her need for control in a world where she feels powerless. As if her sanity depended on it, which in that instant it kind of did, she arranges, folds, and smoothes every piece.
Things are cunning like that. They are props with baggage, not just props. Let’s face it, have we not all spent too much time staring at a coffee cup and concluded that it symbolizes our existential crisis? Or is that just me?
3. Let Silence Speak
Not every great line has to be, well, a line. Silence can scream louder than words when used right. Think of Jordan Peele’s Get Out. There’s a scene where Rose, the girlfriend, refuses to hand over her car keys. Her prolonged quiet has the power to quickly transform her from a helpful companion into an obvious villain. Sometimes the greatest way to increase the stakes is to keep quiet.
Silence from a character frequently leads to suspense and uncertainty, requiring the viewer or other characters to fill in the narrative or emotional voids. The underlying tension may be heightened by silence, which might serve as a pause. When a character is supposed to talk, their silence frequently conveys hidden knowledge, unresolved feelings, or impending conflict. This increases the intensity of the event by forcing the audience to consider what is being kept unsaid.
Silence can also shift the power dynamics between characters. When someone refuses to speak or remains silent, it can challenge the other character’s assumptions or control, making them question what’s happening or what will happen next. A character’s silence can often carries emotional weight too.
So, silence may be a potent weapon for advancing a tale through what is not stated directly, creating emotional tension, and conveying subtext.
A Personal Fiasco with Subtext
Let me tell you about the time I tried to write subtext and failed spectacularly. I had two characters—best friends—arguing about who forgot to bring snacks for a road trip. In my head, the scene was bursting with unspoken resentment about a deeper betrayal. On paper? It was two pages of petty whining about granola bars.
The problem? I didn’t trust my readers to pick up on the subtext, so I overexplained it in the narration. “Joe glared, his anger really about Sarah’s decision to ghost him after that party.” Subtlety? Zero. Lesson learned: trust your audience. Actually, and believe me, they’re smarter than you think.
Striking the Balance
Subtext isn’t just a literary seasoning you sprinkle for effect—it’s more like cooking with chili. Too much, and you’ve got readers sweating bullets. Too little, and it’s bland oatmeal, not dialogue. The sweet spot? A little heat that lingers, makes you think about it later.
Take The Great Gatsby. When Daisy Buchanan says, “I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool,” it’s not just some offhand jab at life. It’s a sly grenade wrapped in glitter, throwing shade at the warped values of the Jazz Age. F. Scott Fitzgerald didn’t exactly hand us a PowerPoint on societal misogyny here; he trusted us to connect the dots.
And that’s the magic: a line sharp enough to wound, but layered enough to keep you bleeding for a while. It’s like life’s tiny moments of clarity—except in books, and with better lighting.
And honestly, isn’t that what we’re all aiming for? Writing that cuts and lingers, humor that smirks but doesn’t grin too wide. If your dialogue is shouting its meaning, it’s probably time to reel it back. Think less neon billboards and more dimly lit street signs. Let readers squint a little—it keeps things interesting.
Wrapping Up: Subtextually, Of Course
In all honesty, it’s not about writing overly complex, subtext-rich dialogue. Rather, it’s about being real. In life, we rarely say exactly what we mean. We avoid, divert, and let our behavior—or lack thereof—speak for us. That is reflected in great storytelling.
Think about what your characters are not saying the next time they speak. But what is seething underneath? And without spilling the pot, how do you get it to bubble over?
If all else fails, keep in mind that a quick glance or a simple touch can convey greater significance than letters ever could. Subtext is what makes moments resonate long after the page is turned.
Bio: Sabyasachi Roy is primarily a Bengali poet from West Bengal, India. Writes in English from time to time. His poetry has been published in Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review, FourWsixteen, Linq, Quintessence, Voicesnet, Dicey Brown, Mindfire Renewed, The Potomac, 13th Warrior, and several print and online magazines.
