You have already done the hard thing. You wrote a book. You finished it, survived the doubt, found a publisher or published it yourself, and held it in your hands. That is not nothing. It is, in fact, everything.

But if you are being honest with yourself, there are pages in that book you cannot reread without wincing. And if those pages involve two characters talking to each other, you are not alone.

Dialogue is one of the fastest ways to tell whether a writer understands storytelling or is still learning the craft. A reader may not consciously analyze every line of speech in a novel, short story, screenplay, or online serial, but they feel when dialogue works….and when it does not. At least I do!

This is not about being inexperienced writer or experienced writer. This is not about talent. It is about a set of specific, learnable habits that separate authors whose second, third or fourth book is better than their first from those who repeat the same patterns across every title.

1. Your Dialogue Is Doing Your Plot’s Job Instead of Its Own

The most common habit among authors in their early published work is using dialogue as a delivery mechanism, a way to move information from the author’s head into the reader’s hands.

Weak Example:

“As you know, James,” said Anne, “our father died three years ago and left us the shamba in Limuru, which we have been fighting over ever since.”

No one speaks like this. “As you know” is the tell, it means a character is explaining something to another character who already knows it, purely for the reader’s benefit. This is called an exposition dump, and readers feel the falseness of it immediately, even if they cannot name what is wrong.

Better Example:

Anne  set down her cup without drinking from it. “You have already spoken to the lawyer.”

James said nothing.

“I see.” She looked out the window toward the shamba. “So that is how we are doing this.”

Another  Weak Example:

“As you know, our father died ten years ago after operating his hardware business in Nakuru.”

Nobody talks like this. Nobody reminds siblings about shared history in full paragraphs.

Better Example:

“You became interested in the shop after Dad died.”
“Someone had to save it.”

The history emerges naturally.

The reader understands there is a disputed inheritance, a betrayal, a history but through subtext, tension, and what is not said. The author has not abandoned the information; they have hidden it inside character revelation, which is where it belongs.

2. All Your Characters Sound Like You

This is one of the clearest signs of an inexperienced writer.

Every character speaks with the same rhythm, same intelligence level, same vocabulary, same humor, same worldview. Readers may not consciously identify this issue, but they feel it.

A Kisumu fisherman should not sound like a Nairobi lawyer unless there is a specific reason. A Form Four student should not speak exactly like a retired professor. A wealthy Karen businessman should not speak like a struggling artist in Dandora.

Voice matters. And no, this does not mean stuffing dialogue with exaggerated accents or endless Sheng.

Voice is biography. It means understanding:

• educational background,
• emotional restraint,
• class,
• age,
• confidence,
• cultural environment,
• and personality.

Weak Example:

“I think we should reconsider the implications of this decision,” said Kamau.

“I agree. The consequences could be severe,” replied his grandmother.

A Kenyan grandmother, from any community, does not speak in measured, clause-heavy academic English. This dialogue tells us nothing about either of them.

Better Example: 

“Kamau.” His grandmother’s voice came from the corner where she was peeling potatoes. She did not look up. “A man who borrows fire from his neighbour every morning will one day find the neighbour’s door closed.”

Kamau sat with that for a long time.

She does not say “this is a bad idea.” She says it the way she would, through proverb, through indirection, through the weight of a life that has seen the consequences of foolish decisions. Her voice is distinctly, irreducibly hers.

Another Weak Example:

“I disagree with your perspective.”

Everyone sounds polished and identicla.

Better Example: 

“Hiyo story yako haisound right.”
“That’s because you only believe things after they fail.”

Two distinct voices. Two personalities.

What to do:  For each major character in your next manuscript, write a private character note. Not for the reader, just for yourself. Which language does this character think in first? What do they avoid saying directly? What words do they reach for under stress? Do they interrupt, or hold their silence? Are they comfortable in conflict, or do they deflect? Carry those answers into every line they speak.

3. You Are Still Using Adverbs to Rescue Weak Lines

Here is where the author tells the reader how to receive a line rather than trusting the line itself.

Weak Example:|

“I never want to see you again,” she said angrily.

“Please forgive me,” he said desperately.

“I don’t know what to think,” she said confusedly.

Every adverb here is a confession. It means the dialogue itself has not done its job, and the author knows it, so they have added an explanation. The reader feels managed rather than moved

Better Example: 

“I never want to see you again.” He reached for her arm. She stepped back, not dramatically, just far enough.

“Please.” His voice had gone low, the way it did when he was afraid. “Zawadi, please.”

The word “please” repeated, the name dropped, the physical distance created…these carry the desperation that “desperately” was failing to convey, at ten times the power.

What to do for your next revision: Search your manuscript for -ly words attached to dialogue tags. Each one is a flag. Ask whether the emotion is already in the words themselves. Usually it is not, which means the line needs to be rewritten, not propped up.

Use said and asked most of the time. They are invisible; readers do not notice them. Reserve action beats; a gesture, a pause, a small physical detail — for moments that genuinely need it. The adverb is almost never the answer.

4. Your Characters Speak Too Cleanly

Real conversation is not polite. People interrupt. They trail off and do not finish. They answer a question with a different question. They talk past each other. They say mhh and sawa and si you know and aaaah, bana. They leave sentences hanging in the air and move on.

Weak Example:

“Did you attend the meeting yesterday?” asked Jackson

“No, I was unable to attend due to a prior commitment,” replied Rehema

“That is unfortunate. There were important decisions made,” said Jackson

This is not how two colleagues in Nairobi speak to each other. No one says “due to a prior commitment” out loud.

Better Example:

“Mbona hukuwa jana?”

Rehema shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes. “Something came up.”

“Something.” Jackson nodded slowly. “Right.”

The incompleteness is the point. The evasion is the scene. What is not said tells us everything.

5. You State Your Conflict Instead of Building It

Weak Example: 

“I am very angry at you for not coming home to visit mother before she died,” said Rehema.

“I feel guilty about that and I am sorry,” replied her brother Yusuf.

This is conflict reported from the outside. The reader understands it intellectually and feels nothing.

Better Example:

Rehema was the one who opened the door. She looked at him for a long moment, at his suitcase, his city shoes, the way he had cut his hair differently.

“She asked about you,” Rehema said. “Every day, near the end.”

She walked back inside without waiting for his answer.

The accusation is never made. The guilt lands harder because of it.

6. Your Dialogue Tags Have Become a Tic

Dialogue tags, she said, he asked, are functional punctuation, not stylistic features. Their placement shapes rhythm in ways authors often do not consciously notice but readers always feel.

Weak Example:

Kamau said, “We need to leave now.”

Wambui replied, “But we haven’t finished.”

Kamau said, “There is no time.”

Better Example: 

“We need to leave.” Kamau was already at the door.

“We haven’t finished—”

“There is no time.”

The third line carries no tag at all. By now the reader knows who is speaking. The author has trusted them, and that trust creates pace. When a conversation moves fast, let it move, drop the tags and let the rhythm carry the weight. When a conversation needs weight and slowness, use action beats to slow the reader down: a character picks something up, sets something down, looks away.

Another Weak Example:

“Where were you?” James asked.
“Town,” Mercy replied.
“At midnight?” James asked.
“I’m an adult,” Mercy responded.
“You switched off your phone,” James said.

The reader starts seeing the tags more than the emotion.

Experienced writers understand that once two speakers are established, many tags can disappear.

Better Example:

“Where were you?”
“Town.”
“At midnight?”
“I’m an adult.”
“You switched off your phone.”

The conversation now moves faster and feels cleaner.

The Practise

Now, go back to your published work. Find a page of dialogue and read it aloud. Not in your head, aloud, the way you would read it to someone in a room with you.

Where does it feel false? Where does it feel true? Where do two characters sound like the same person? Where does someone say something no human being would ever actually say?

Now find a conversation that moved you from someone else’s published work, and read that aloud too. Ask what they did that you did not. Not to imitate, but to understand the mechanism.

Then write a new scene: two characters, a conflict neither of them will name directly, a history the reader must infer from what goes unsaid.

That practice, done honestly and repeatedly, is how the gap closes.

Publishing a book means you found your voice. Writing a better second one means learning to find everyone else’s.