Realistic dialogue is a paradox: it must sound like real speech while being nothing like a transcript of it. Real conversations are full of ums, repetitions, and dull logistics; fictional dialogue keeps the rhythm and flavour of speech while cutting everything that does not reveal character or advance the scene.

The first rule is subtext. People rarely say exactly what they mean, especially about feelings. A character who says 'Do what you want' usually means the opposite, and a character who changes the subject is telling you something important. Write the literal line, then ask what the character actually means, and make sure the gap between the two is visible to the reader.

Give each character a distinct voice. Voice comes from vocabulary, sentence length, and habits: one character speaks in short, clipped sentences, another rambles and qualifies everything, a third answers questions with questions. Read your dialogue aloud with the names covered; if you cannot tell who is speaking, the voices need more distinction.

Cut the greetings and goodbyes unless they matter. Scenes do not need 'hello, how are you, I'm fine, good, anyway' before the real conversation starts; enter the scene late and leave early. Start at the moment of tension, and end the exchange as soon as its purpose is served, rather than letting characters wind down politely for a paragraph.

Use dialogue tags sparingly. 'Said' is nearly invisible and almost always enough; adverbs like 'she said angrily' usually duplicate what the line itself should show. Action beats, a character pouring coffee or turning away, do the work of tags while also giving the reader something to see. Reserve unusual tags for moments when they genuinely add meaning.

Interruptions, overlaps, and unfinished sentences create realism, but use them like seasoning. A character who trails off when a topic gets uncomfortable, or who is cut off mid-sentence, feels alive; a page full of dashes and fragments feels chaotic. One well-placed interruption per exchange is usually plenty.

Read dialogue aloud, always. Your ear catches clunky phrasing, repeated words, and lines no human would say far faster than your eye does. If a line makes you cringe when spoken, rewrite it until it sounds like something a person, not a writer, would say. That single habit improves dialogue more than any rulebook.

Practise dialogue by eavesdropping with purpose, not by copying what you hear. Listen to how real people interrupt each other, trail off, answer a different question than the one asked, and use filler words sparingly at moments of hesitation. Notice how much meaning travels through tone and context rather than words. Then write a scene using only those observed rhythms, but cut the dull parts ruthlessly. The result sounds real because its rhythms are real, while its content stays purposeful because you chose every line.

Dialogue also reveals power and relationship. Who asks the questions, who interrupts, who changes the subject, and who gets the last word all show the balance between two characters without a word of narration. In your next scene, check whether the character with more power actually sounds like it, and whether a character who is hiding something sounds evasive in a way readers can feel. When dialogue carries relationship dynamics as well as information, it does double work, and scenes become far more engaging without becoming longer. As a last exercise, take a page of your own dialogue and delete every third line, then read what remains: if the scene still makes sense and feels tighter, you have found the filler to cut permanently, and if something essential vanished, you have learned exactly which lines carry real weight in your conversations.