"I need to tell you something," she said, then spent the next five minutes talking about the weather, her cat, and everything except what she needed to say. That's exactly how real people talk—and why so much written dialogue sounds like aliens pretending to be human.

We've all read those scripts where characters speak in perfect sentences, answer every question directly, and never stumble over a single word. It's efficient, clear, and completely unnatural. Real conversation is messy, indirect, and full of beautiful imperfections that reveal more about characters than any amount of exposition ever could.

"Did you take the money?" In bad dialogue, the response is either "Yes, I took it" or "No, I didn't." In real life—and good fiction—the answer might be "Mom always liked you better" or "The rent was due" or even "Nice weather we're having." These non-answers tell us everything.

Think about the last argument you had. Did anyone actually answer the questions being asked? More likely, you both talked past each other, responding to what you thought the other person meant, or deflecting to safer ground. Characters who always answer directly are information delivery systems, not people. The magic happens in the gaps between question and response.

Hitchcock understood this perfectly. Watch any interrogation scene in his films—the suspect never just confesses. They change subjects, ask their own questions, or give answers that technically respond but reveal nothing. Each evasion builds tension while showing us their guilt, fear, or calculation. When someone finally gives a straight answer, it hits like thunder because we've been conditioned to expect deflection.

Every person you know has verbal fingerprints—little speech patterns that make them instantly recognizable even in a text message. Maybe your brother starts half his sentences with "Look," or your best friend drops the G from every -ing word. These patterns aren't random; they're expressions of personality, background, and emotional state.

The trick is finding signatures that feel natural without becoming caricatures. Instead of giving someone a catchphrase they repeat endlessly (looking at you, "Bazinga!"), notice how real people's speech changes with context. A nervous character might speak in fragments when stressed but become eloquent when discussing their passion. A confident person might use more declarative statements while an anxious one hedges with "maybe" and "I think."

Elmore Leonard was the master of this. His criminals didn't just speak differently from his cops—each criminal had their own rhythm based on education, region, and self-image. One might use business jargon to feel important, another might never finish a thought, constantly revising mid-sentence. After a few pages, you could identify speakers without any tags at all.

"I was thinking we could—" "Pizza?" "I was going to say Chinese, but—" "We had Chinese yesterday." This overlap, this stepping on each other's words, is how excited people actually communicate. Yet most dialogue reads like a formal debate where everyone waits their turn.

Interruptions aren't just about pacing; they're about power dynamics and emotional urgency. Who cuts off whom? Who gets to finish their thoughts? Watch how dominant characters interrupt while submissive ones get interrupted. Notice how lovers complete each other's sentences while strangers politely wait. These patterns create subtext without a single word of description.

The em dash becomes your best friend here—that beautiful punctuation mark that shows thoughts cut short, redirected, or abandoned. Trail off with ellipses when confidence fails... Jump in with new speakers mid-sentence. Let arguments spiral into simultaneous talking where neither person listens. Just like in real life, the messiest conversations often reveal the most truth because people stop managing their words and start feeling them.

Next time you're in a coffee shop, close your eyes and just listen. You'll hear all the techniques we've explored—the deflections, the verbal tics, the constant interruptions. Real dialogue is jazz, not classical music. It improvises, riffs, and sometimes goes completely off the rails.

Your characters deserve conversations that crackle with the same messy vitality. Let them talk past each other, develop weird speech habits, and step on each other's lines. Because dialogue that sounds too perfect doesn't sound perfect at all—it sounds like robots pretending to be human.