Estimated reading time: 13 minutes
Or: The Universe’s Way of Teaching Me Writing Lessons Through Telecommunications Terrorism
If you want to know how to write dialogue that actually works, I suggest you do what the universe apparently wants me to do: live in a place where your neighbors occasionally shoot out critical infrastructure while discussing the finer points of game bird gastronomy.
This is not a metaphor. This is not creative embellishment. Yesterday, someone within a one-mile radius of my house shot out the internet. Not theoretically. Not “probably.” Actually, genuinely, catastrophically shot the fiber optic line that connected me to the civilized world. The service technician confirmed it. There was a bullet hole.
In the internet.
I now live in a place where “have you tried turning it off and on again?” is answered with “I tried, but someone shot it.”
This is my life now. This is what I get for thinking rural Virginia would be peaceful and inspiring for my writing career. Turns out it’s inspiring in the same way a dumpster fire is inspiring—technically it’s light and heat, but you’re probably not going to roast marshmallows over it.
But here’s the thing that’ll blow your mind harder than buckshot through telecommunications equipment: this disaster is the perfect example of how to write dialogue that reveals character, advances plot, and builds tension without boring your reader into a coma. Because somewhere out there, two people had a conversation that ended with me losing internet. And I’m betting that conversation looked something like this:
The Dialogue That Destroyed My WiFi
CLEM: Starling.
CLETUS: Nah, that’s a grackle.
CLEM: How you figure?
CLETUS: Tail’s too long. And it’s got that iridescent sheen. Starlings are more… spotty.
CLEM: Well, either way, they ain’t worth eatin’.
CRACK (gunshot)
thump
CLEM: See? Tough as boot leather. Even in a stew.
CLETUS: I dunno. Mama used to make a grackle potpie that weren’t half bad.
CLEM: That’s ’cause she used half a stick of butter and a can of cream-of-mushroom soup. You could make a tire edible with that recipe.
CLETUS: Fair point. Oh, look! A mournin’ dove.
CRACK (gunshot)
thump
CLETUS: Now that’s good eatin’ right there.
CLEM: Damn straight. Breast ’em out, wrap ’em in bacon, little jalapeño…
CLETUS: Mmm-hmm. Or you can go old-school. Pan-fry ’em with some onions and sage.
CLEM: You gettin’ fancy on me, Cletus?
CLETUS: It ain’t fancy. It’s just herbs.
CLEM: Herbs is fancy.
CLETUS: Then I reckon salt and pepper is fancy too.
CLEM: Well, it’s fancier than just shootin’ somethin’ and eatin’ it over a campfire.
CLETUS: We ain’t cavemen, Clem.
CLEM: Speak for yourself. Ooo. Robin.
CRACK (gunshot)
thump
CLETUS: Why’d you shoot a robin?
CLEM: Target practice.
CLETUS: You don’t eat robins.
CLEM: I know that.
CLETUS: So why—never mind. There’s a whole mess of sparrows up there on the next wire.
CLEM: Sparrows ain’t worth the ammunition.
CLETUS: That’s what I’m sayin’ about robins!
CLEM: Robins are bigger.
CLETUS: Barely.
CLEM: Still counts. Ooh, crow.
CLETUS: Don’t even think about it.
CLEM: What? I heard they taste like dark meat chicken.
CLETUS: You heard wrong. Crows taste like a bowlin’ shoe smells.
CLEM: How would you know?
CLETUS: Uncle Dale tried it once during the lean times. Said it was like eatin’ spite and motor oil.
CLEM: That’s poetic.
CLETUS: That’s accurate. There’s a reason ain’t nobody farms crows for meat, Clem.
CLEM: What about that fancy restaurant in Portland that serves—
CLETUS: That’s Portland. They eat things ironically.
long pause
CLEM: Goldfinch.
CLETUS: Too small.
CLEM: Bluejay.
CLETUS: Too mean. Probably taste bitter.
CLEM: Now who’s bein’ fancy?
CLETUS: That ain’t fancy, that’s just common sense. Mean animals taste mean. It’s science.
CLEM: Since when do you know science?
CLETUS: I know enough. There’s a whole flock of pigeons three wires down.
CLEM: Pigeons are rats with wings.
CLETUS: City pigeons, maybe. Country pigeons are just… doves that let themselves go.
CLEM: That’s disgustin’.
CLETUS: But am I wrong?
pause
CLEM: No. You ain’t wrong. I still ain’t eatin’ one, though.
CLETUS: Suit yourself. I’m takin’ the shot.
CRACK (gunshot)
thump
CLEM: …Cletus?
CLETUS: Yeah?
CLEM: That wire’s lookin’ mighty saggy.
CLETUS: It’ll hold.
CLEM: It’s sparkin’.
CLETUS: That’s just the sun hittin’ it.
CLEM: The sun don’t spark, Cletus.
CLETUS: Well, it’s flickerin’ or whatever—
CRACK (gunshot)
long pause
CLEM: …did you just shoot the wire?
CLETUS: Might have.
CLEM: It’s fallin’.
CLETUS: Yep.
CLEM: All the birds are flyin’ away.
CLETUS: I can see that.
CLEM: So… no dinner?
CLETUS: We could go to Arby’s.
CLEM: We can’t look nothin’ up on our iPads no more, Cletus. On account of you shot the goddamn internet line.
CLETUS: Oh. Right.
longer pause
CLETUS: Campfire and whatever we already shot?
CLEM: Campfire and whatever we already shot.
CLETUS: Even the robin?
CLEM: Especially the robin. Waste not, want not.
CLETUS: Now that’s caveman talk.
CLEM: Shut up and help me find where they fell.
Why Most Writers Fail at Dialogue (And Why Cletus Is Accidentally a Genius)
Most people think writing dialogue means transcribing how humans actually talk. These people are wrong, and I’m guessing they’ve never had to explain to their spouse why they can’t attend the Zoom meeting because someone in the county decided telecommunications infrastructure was a valid target.
Real human speech is boring. It’s full of “um” and “like” and people saying “you know what I mean?” seventeen times in a conversation about whether the milk smells weird. Real speech is the linguistic equivalent of watching paint dry while the paint complains about its day.
But good dialogue? Good creative writing dialogue is real speech’s charismatic cousin who shows up to parties and tells stories that make everyone forget they were about to leave. It sounds real, but it’s actually doing more heavy lifting than a forklift at a piano warehouse.
Look at Clem and Cletus. They’re not just talking about birds—they’re revealing their entire worldview, establishing their relationship dynamic, foreshadowing disaster, and building tension, all while debating whether crow tastes like spite or motor oil. (It’s both. Uncle Dale was very clear on this point.)
This is dialogue writing at its finest (because I wrote it): every line serves multiple purposes, like a Swiss Army knife made of words (For the record, never buy a Swiss Navy Knife.).
Character Development Through Catastrophically Poor Judgment
Here’s what kills me about how to write dialogue in most amateur fiction: the characters all sound the same. They’re interchangeable word-delivery systems with the personality of a parking meter and about as much depth.
Cletus, on the other hand, is a fully realized human disaster. He knows the difference between a grackle and a starling. Also, he understands the culinary applications of sage. Plus, he can wax philosophical about the moral superiority of pan-frying over campfire cooking. The man has standards.
He also thinks the sun can make wires spark.
This is the beautiful contradiction that makes characters feel real: specialized competence combined with catastrophic ignorance in other areas. Cletus is an ornithological savant and a physics catastrophe. He’s the Venn diagram of “knows things” and “shouldn’t be trusted with firearms,” and the overlap is “my internet is dead.”
When you’re learning dialogue writing techniques, this is your gold standard: make your characters knowledgeable idiots. Give them specific expertise and general stupidity. Let them be right about obscure facts and catastrophically wrong about obvious consequences.
Nobody’s interesting if they’re consistently smart or consistently dumb. But someone who can differentiate between city and country pigeons while simultaneously failing to understand that shooting near wires is problematic? That’s a character worth reading about.
The Secret Sauce: Escalation Through Mundane Conversation
Every creative writing dialogue instructor will tell you about “rising action” and “narrative tension.” They make it sound like you need explosions and car chases and someone discovering they’re actually the chosen one who has to save the magical realm of Whatever-the-Hell.
But watch what happens in our dialogue: we start with bird identification and end with telecommunications infrastructure failure. The escalation is organic, natural, and completely avoidable—which makes it perfect.
The tension builds through increasingly questionable targets, rising philosophical disagreement about fancy herbs, dwindling ammunition and judgment, ignored warning signs, inevitable disaster, and finally acceptance that they’re eating robin.
This is how to write dialogue that builds tension without your characters screaming “OH NO, THE TENSION IS BUILDING!” Every exchange adds another brick to the wall of impending disaster. By the time we get to “the sun don’t spark, Cletus,” we know—we just know—something terrible is about to happen.
And it does. To my internet. Thanks, Cletus.
Plot Development: When Dialogue Does All the Work So Description Can Take a Nap
Here’s a radical thought about writing realistic dialogue: what if you didn’t explain anything and just let your characters reveal the story through their terrible decisions?
Notice there’s zero exposition in this piece. No “Clem, whose weathered face bore the scars of forty-three years of hard rural living, adjusted his John Deere cap and contemplated the existential nature of bird hunting.” None of that overwritten garbage that clogs up prose like hair in a shower drain.
The entire narrative arc unfolds through what people say and the sound effects of their catastrophically poor aim. Set up through conversation. Character establishment through disagreement. Foreshadowing through throwaway lines. Conflict through escalation. Climax through consequence. Resolution through acceptance.
This is fiction dialogue doing what it’s supposed to do: telling the story so the narration doesn’t have to work so hard.
Rhythm and Pacing: The Music of Impending Doom
One thing most guides on writing dialogue skip entirely is rhythm. They treat dialogue like it’s just words on a page, when really it’s more like jazz—if jazz could accidentally destroy fiber optic cables.
Watch how the exchanges change speed as disaster approaches:
Early (slow, philosophical): “You gettin’ fancy on me, Cletus?” “It ain’t fancy. It’s just herbs.”
Middle (faster, more reactive): “Goldfinch.” “Too small.” “Bluejay.” “Too mean.”
Crisis (staccato, urgent): “It’s sparkin’.” “That’s just the sun.” “The sun don’t spark, Cletus.”
Post-disaster (long pauses, acceptance): “…did you just shoot the wire?” “Might have.”
This is creative writing dialogue at its finest (again, mine): the rhythm reflects the emotional state. Calm discussions allow for longer exchanges. Tension creates short, punchy dialogue. Disaster brings silence and reluctant admission.
If you’re learning dialogue-writing tips, this is crucial: vary your sentence length and exchange pace based on what’s happening emotionally. Don’t just transcribe conversation—orchestrate it like you’re conducting a symphony of poor decisions.
The Art of Subtext: What They’re Really Saying While Discussing Wild Poultry
Amateur writers think dialogue writing is about what characters say. Professional writers know it’s about what characters mean while saying something completely different.
Take “Herbs is fancy.” On the surface, Clem’s making an observation about seasoning. But what he’s really saying is: “You’re getting above your raising, brother, and I’m going to mock you for it because that’s how we show affection in this family.”
Or “We ain’t cavemen, Clem.” Cletus isn’t making an anthropological statement. He’s defending his culinary sophistication while standing next to a pile of dead birds he shot off a wire for dinner. The irony is so thick you could spread it on toast.
This is the secret to writing realistic dialogue: people rarely say exactly what they mean. They talk around it, hint at it, argue about peripheral issues while avoiding the real point.
When Clem says “We can’t look nothin’ up on our iPads no more,” he’s not primarily concerned about the iPads. He’s expressing the larger catastrophe while focusing on a specific, tangible loss. It’s easier to mourn your iPad than to confront the fact that your brother just shot out civilization.
Consequences: Why Your Characters Need to Suffer for Their Stupidity
Here’s where most fiction dialogue falls apart: there are no real consequences. Characters make terrible decisions, but the universe gives them a pass because the writer feels bad about punishing their creations.
Screw that. Make them suffer. Make them eat the robin.
The brilliance of this dialogue—and yes, I’m calling accidentally destroying my internet “brilliant” because I’m clearly experiencing Stockholm Syndrome with my rural neighbors—is that Cletus’s bad aim has immediate, tangible consequences. No internet. No Arby’s directions. No escape from their terrible choices.
When you’re mastering dialogue writing techniques, remember: consequences make dialogue matter. If characters can say anything without repercussions, why should readers care what they say? But if every exchange builds toward disaster—and disaster actually happens—suddenly every word carries weight.
What You Should Steal From This Debacle (Besides My Internet Signal)
If you want to know how to write dialogue that doesn’t suck, here’s what you steal from Clem and Cletus:
Give characters specific knowledge. Not “smart” or “dumb”—specifically knowledgeable about weird things. Cletus knows game birds but not physics. This makes him interesting instead of a generic redneck stereotype.
Let dialogue reveal plot. Don’t explain everything in narration. Trust your characters to show readers what’s happening through their conversations and catastrophically bad decisions.
Use rhythm intentionally. Speed up exchanges as tension builds. Slow down after disaster. Vary sentence length like you’re conducting an orchestra of idiots.
Build in subtext. What characters say should rarely be exactly what they mean. Let readers read between the lines while Cletus shoots between them.
Enforce consequences. If your character does something stupid, make them face results. No internet. No Arby’s. Only campfire robin and shame.
Contrast fancy with plain. Bacon-wrapped jalapeño doves vs. “ain’t worth the ammunition” creates comedy gold through juxtaposition.
The Final Lesson From My Dead Router
Learning how to write dialogue is like learning to shoot: you need to know your target, understand your environment, and recognize when you’re about to hit something important that will ruin everything (R.I.P. Dick Cheney).
The difference is, when you screw up writing dialogue, you can revise it. When you shoot out the internet, you’re composing angry blog posts on your phone while your desktop computer sits there like an expensive paperweight, mocking your life choices.
Good creative writing dialogue reveals character while advancing plot, while building tension, while making readers laugh at your characters’ terrible decisions. It’s juggling chainsaws while riding a unicycle while explaining why herbs aren’t fancy.
Bad dialogue just sits there explaining things like a boring dinner guest who won’t shut up about their timeshare in Branson.
Write dialogue that sounds like real people making real mistakes. Give them knowledge that makes them seem smart and judgment that proves they’re idiots. Let conversations escalate naturally from taxonomy to tragedy. And for the love of God, don’t explain everything—let your characters reveal it through their spectacular failures.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go sacrifice something to the internet gods and pray that whoever’s installing my new line has better neighbors than I do.
Or at least neighbors with worse aim.
Brian lives on a farm in Virginia where the internet is apparently optional, the wildlife is occasionally delicious, and the neighbors have what can charitably be called “adventurous aim.” His essay collection “The 10-Items-or-Less Apocalypse” explores similar scenarios where rural life intersects with modern conveniences, usually ending in either mild property damage or profound inconvenience. He’s been published, he’s been praised, and he’s been without internet for 27 hours because someone decided fiber optics looked like a starling. This is his life now.
Key Takeaways
- The author uses a humorous incident involving shot internet service to illustrate effective dialogue writing techniques.
- Realistic dialogue doesn’t just mirror speech; it reveals character and advances the plot while building tension.
- Characters should possess specific knowledge but also exhibit foolish behavior for depth and realism.
- Dialogue can escalate organically, reflecting character dynamics and creating a sense of impending disaster.
- Subtext and consequences in dialogue are crucial; characters should face the outcomes of their actions to keep readers engaged.
