November 2025

He says. She says. And the reader, for their part, doesn't hear them.

Not so long ago, my characters used to talk to each other a great deal. Words are life, I thought — a dialogue, or even a monologue — I do talk to myself now and then —, would surely bring some « life » to my scene.

—I love you, he said.
—So do I, she said.

Two lines and there you are, job done. Then, thinking the whole thing a touch dry, I told myself that dressing it up with more communicative tags couldn't hurt.

—I love you, he said.
—So do I, she replied.

I had the impression I'd written a great scene, oozing with feelings. In fact, I'd drafted the minutes of a scene performed for an audience of one, in which the emotion had been left out entirely. Not being a complete fool, even if a novice as a writer, I felt something was wrong.

Felt. From the verb to feel. As in feeling.

I moved up a gear — in my head, at least. I told myself : since the emotion was missing, I'd simply add it. A well-placed adverb where needed, and the matter would be sorted in two shakes of a lamb's tail.

—I love you, he said sadly.
—So do I, she replied, moved.

There, now you could hear the emotion, couldn't you? Thanks to two adverbs? Yeah, sure. However many times I read it back, it did not send me over the moon. For lines whose only purpose was to move the story along, say would do well enough; but there were moments when the reader needed to be swept away by what the character was half-confessing. They needed to be with them, holding their hand.

They needed to feel it. There, the word again.

How does one take it further? How does one make it land? Here we reach a line that must be crossed. To convey emotion — and this is only my own view —, one must accept being moved oneself, as the author. If one sits stony-faced before the page, there's roughly a nil per cent chance it will touch the reader, however many onions we ask them to peel beforehand.

What comes after? What will move the reader more than the words « I love you »? Because « I love you » carries quite a lot of weight. One doesn't say it to just anyone strolling along. Right then — off with the safety net, here I go.

He had averted his face for a second, then fell to devouring her with his eyes, quite openly. She held his gaze, the faintest smile at her lips. His breath grew rougher. Hers caught.

I don't know if the verb exists, but go on, let's be bold — I'll coin it: I sensorised the moment. I'm sure I'll be understood. The body speaks, the eyes speak... there are no words, and still one hears everything. Blow, bugle, blow. All that's missing is you, the romantic piano and the harp. In fact, no : listen closely. One very nearly hears them.