KATHMANDU: “Joon ta gharko yeutai aangan-ma jhareko thiyo, khai kina kina kotha sabai ujyalo huna sakena.”

From my latest novel, Ijoriya, this one-liner has drawn warm appreciation. Several readers have even sent it to my social media inbox, saying it lingered with them long after reading.

In English, it roughly translates to “Though the courtyard shimmered in moonlight, yet strangely, the rooms within remained untouched by its glow.”

That lingering quality is precisely what powerful dialogue does.

Whether in cinema or fiction, it is often the lines, not the scenes, that stay with people. A well-crafted line can outlive the story itself. That is why, as a writer, I give dialogue a central place in my work.

As both a writer and a reader, I believe dialogue is what breathes life into a story. It makes a narrative engaging, fluid, and accessible. More importantly, it shapes characters. What a character says, how much they say, and the way they express themselves all contribute to their identity. In that sense, dialogue becomes a mirror of character.

A story built only on narration can feel heavy, even exhausting. Dialogue offers rhythm and relief. It breaks monotony and draws the reader closer into the world of the characters.

At the same time, not every story demands the same degree of dialogue. Its use depends on the subject, tone, and structure of the narrative. Some stories thrive with minimal spoken exchange.

Personally, I am drawn to dialogues that resist predictability. I prefer lines that surprise, that carry a poetic quality, or unfold like riddles. They should feel distinct from everyday speech, elevating the narrative rather than merely replicating reality.

In stories with only one or two characters, dialogue often gives way to introspection or ‘soliloquy.’ In such cases, gestures, silences, and actions carry the narrative forward more effectively than words.

Personally, I am drawn to dialogues that resist predictability. I prefer lines that surprise, that carry a poetic quality, or unfold like riddles.

During the writing process, I pay close attention to the placement, quantity, and texture of dialogue. It is one of the most enjoyable aspects of writing. In screenwriting, especially, dialogue takes on even greater significance, often becoming the backbone of the narrative.

Interestingly, I do not think much about dialogue before I begin writing fiction. Nor do I prepare for it in advance. It is during rewriting that dialogue finds its true form. When the story begins to flow organically, the dialogue emerges naturally, shaped by the characters’ geography, their time, and their psychology.

For instance, when portraying the Terai region, research itself begins to shape an internal understanding of its people and environment. Similarly, writing a story set 100 years ago requires familiarity with the historical context and the lives of that era. Before writing, one must reflect deeply on the emotional and psychological state of the characters, the crises they face, and the world they inhabit.

In shaping dialogue, I often return to real conversations as my primary source. The exchanges I have with people become the raw material of my fiction. I pay close attention to the words they choose, their perspectives, the way they express emotions, and how they interpret feelings like anger or love. Even the proverbs and idioms they lean on reveal layers of their identity.

To understand a character, one must first understand society. A compelling character does not emerge in isolation but is shaped through encounters with dozens of individuals. Their voices, their stories, and their rhythms linger in memory and resurface during the writing process. Those accumulated conversations help open new directions of thought. And when something feels incomplete, I return to the field, observing and listening again to refine what was missing.

One of the most common pitfalls in fiction is the writer’s tendency to overpower their characters. No matter where a character comes from, the writer’s voice often takes over. This, perhaps, is the greatest challenge. A writer must learn to bend toward the character, not the other way around. Too often, characters, whether children or villagers with little formal education, are burdened with heavy philosophical or psychological weight. This not only feels unnatural but also weakens the credibility of the story.

There are moments in writing when the author may feel deeply emotional, yet the character may not. Even so, the temptation to transfer that emotion onto the character can be strong. Resisting that impulse is essential. Fiction should not manipulate readers by forcing emotion upon them. When the writer and the character become inseparable, the essence of the story suffers. A character must be understood in full, with their background, context, and inner world carefully considered.

“I know, nothing is gained by crying. If tears could grant what we desire, the world would have long since drowned in them.”

To truly grasp a single character, one must engage closely with many similar lives. Without that immersion, a story risks feeling artificial. But once the pulse of a character is understood, the creative flow becomes almost effortless. It is as if the story begins to write itself.

I have also found that insufficient research makes writing uncomfortable. Depth of study, on the other hand, simplifies even the most complex themes. Preparation allows clarity.

At its core, dialogue is language. If there is grace and fluidity in the language, the dialogue will naturally carry that quality. But if the writing itself lacks strength, dialogue cannot compensate for it. Crafting effective dialogue is, therefore, far from easy.

Language should strike a balance. It should not overwhelm like a monsoon flood, nor should it feel like an impossible cliff to climb. Instead, it should move with ease and precision, almost as if guided effortlessly by the writer’s fingers. This fluency comes with extensive reading and disciplined practice. Above all, it requires a deep, genuine love for language.

No piece of writing should be considered final in its first form. The true strength of writing lies in rewriting. Each revision brings refinement. Each correction strengthens the whole. In my process, I often dedicate one or two full stages of rewriting solely to dialogue. What feels weak in the first draft often transforms during revision, giving rise to striking, memorable one-liners.

“Thaha chha, royera paune kehi chhaina. Royera chaheko kura paine bhaye sansar aanshuma uhilyai dubisakthyo.”
This roughly translates to: “I know, nothing is gained by crying. If tears could grant what we desire, the world would have long since drowned in them.”

Lines like these endure because they echo something deeply familiar yet express it in a way that feels newly discovered.

Another widely shared one-liner comes from my personal favorite, Priya Sufi:

“Shirani jatisukai naram lagaun bijhaunu chha bhane sapanale pani bijhau-chha yaha, jati okhati khaun dukhaunu chha bhane hawale pani dukhau-chha yaha.”
This roughly translates to: “No matter how soft the pillow, if pain is destined, even dreams will wound you; no matter how much medicine you take, if suffering persists, even the wind will hurt.”

Such lines often resonate because they move beyond literal meaning and enter a more reflective, almost philosophical space.

At times, I craft these one-liners deliberately, placing them with intention. At other times, they arrive on their own, carried by the natural rhythm of the writing.

“No matter how soft the pillow, if pain is destined, even dreams will wound you; no matter how much medicine you take, if suffering persists, even the wind will hurt.”

In my experience, fiction rarely follows a fixed plan. The idea of writing with rigid intentions such as “I will do this” or “I will do that” seldom holds. More often than not, the exact opposite unfolds. Before writing begins, there is always a loose outline hanging somewhere in the mind. But as words take shape, those plans begin to fall apart.

And in that unraveling lies the real excitement. Writing has a way of surprising the writer. It moves in directions one does not anticipate, creating a quiet thrill in the process. Without that unpredictability, writing would risk becoming mechanical, even tedious.

The stories in all my books have ultimately turned out different from what I first imagined. The characters I begin with rarely remain the same. In many instances, I do not even need to give them dialogue. The situation becomes so clear that even in silence, the reader can grasp what is unfolding. At times, it feels as though the writer is merely a medium, carrying voices that already exist.

That said, a writer is also someone driven by the urge to experiment. There are moments when the craft calls for something unexpected, something poetic or symbolic. Dialogue, in such instances, becomes a space for creative play. It offers the writer an opportunity to shape language in striking ways, and I make the most of that freedom when it arises.

I am particularly drawn to monologues and soliloquies. Even when I do use dialogue, I write with the intention that each line should leave an impression.

In recent times, however, I have found myself using less dialogue in fiction. I turn to it only when narration cannot fully carry the weight of what needs to be said or when a moment feels more alive through spoken words. As a reader, too, I often find that stories with restrained dialogue tend to carry greater depth.

I am particularly drawn to monologues and soliloquies. Even when I do use dialogue, I write with the intention that each line should leave an impression. That does not mean every line must be unconventional or stylized.

In fact, simplicity often holds its own power. At times, everyday conversation can feel more authentic and beautiful than anything artificially embellished. Forced experimentation, in the name of creativity, can just as easily distort the narrative.

Ultimately, the craft lies in balance. A writer must know where to place dialogue, where to hold back, and how much is enough. Used with precision, dialogue can guide a story with clarity and control. Used carelessly, it can just as easily derail it.