On Dialogue: The Art of What's Left Unsaid

I recently listened to an interview with my favorite screenwriter of all time, Eric Roth, and he pointed out something that blew my mind. This is a basic principle for screenwriters, yet one worth deep reflection. It's about dialogue. The idea: bad dialogue is expositional, great dialogue is subtextual.

So true. Let's explore this.

Bad dialogue says what it means. Good dialogue hides what it means. I now work with this principle: "If there's nothing under the surface, it's not real."

As I muse on this, I see countless examples at play, and it's easy to see why it works. But first, what exactly does this look like? Let's examine these examples:

THE GODFATHER

"I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse."

This isn't about offers. It's about power. Threat. Control. The subtext: "If he doesn't say yes, I'll ruin him or kill him."

It would be lame if Vito Corleone just said "Do what I say or I'll kill you." That kind of on-the-nose dialogue leaves little to the imagination. And it pushes the audience out of the equation. There's no room for the audience to think for themselves, to solve the puzzle, to connect the dots.

Now, this doesn't need to be high-level math here. We all know exactly what he's trying to communicate when he says this, but there's abundant room for imagination about what exactly he means.

It reminds me of music. Quincy Jones had this great quote—he always said "leave a little space in the groove for God." He knew you didn't want to fill up the whole thing with endless notes. This concept translates across mediums. It's in every art form, I imagine. What you leave out is just as important as what you put in.

And with dialogue, it's clear to me: the high-level pros are great at what they leave out, how they write characters that conceal. They are dramatizing (something Roth talks about a lot)—they are not delivering TED talks.

FORREST GUMP (by Eric Roth)

Picture this scene: Jenny stands on the edge of a bridge in the night, looking down at the dark water below. She's been drinking, she's desperate, and Forrest has followed her there, worried. The wind whips her hair as she teeters dangerously close to the edge. Then she turns to Forrest and asks:

"Do you think I can fly off this bridge?"

She's not asking about flying.

The subtext: "I'm broken. I want to escape. Maybe I want to die." Frankly it sounds like she is thinking of killing herself right then and there. But she's not out right saying it.

Wow. I mean, come on. If she had just said "Forrest, I want to die," that's clear and on the nose—it's just too literal to captivate. "Do you think I can fly?" In this context, it's layered. There are a hundred ideas that come to mind about what exactly she means, while all the while we know exactly what she's implying. It's dangerously good. That's the kind of dialogue we want out here on these LA streets.

The Core Principle

To rehash:

• Bad dialogue: Says what it means.

• Good dialogue: Hides what it means.

  
  

The principle: "If there's nothing under the surface, it's not real."

Why This Works

The dynamic, the music, is in this concept: The tension between what's said and what's felt is where drama lives.

When dialogue has no subtext, no contradiction, no hidden desire, it dies on the page. It feels flat, fake, and forced—because the audience is basically having their work done for them, and so they tune out.

The audience's brains and hearts must be engaged for the gravity of the picture to hold. The groove happens in this dynamic. Let the audience feel, dear writer. Let them feel it. Don't take that away from them. Enjoy that music.

Masters of the Craft

All that being said, I leave you with these quotes from the masters:

Ernest Hemingway: "If a writer of prose knows enough of what he is writing about, he may omit things that he knows... The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water."

Robert Towne (Chinatown): "You reveal character through behavior, not exposition. You let the audience figure out what's going on."

Eric Roth: "Good writing is subtextual. Bad writing is expositional."

Happy writing.

The Curiosity Hook Principal

Or: How to Make Sure Your Audience Never Puts the Script Down

By Andrew Charles Southern

There’s this feeling I chase when I write. You probably know it too—when you’re watching a movie or reading a book and suddenly… something tightens. You lean forward. A question rises in your gut, and you need to know what happens next.

That, my friends, is the juice.

And I’ve come to realize: that feeling is not an accident. It’s a craft. And it can be coded. So here’s the rule I’m now living by as I revise In the Key of Freedom—and every script from here on out:

The Curiosity Hook Principal

“At every stage of the story, I must feel the pull to keep reading—not out of politeness, but out of real, burning curiosity. If that energy dips, something needs to change.”

It sounds simple. But it will sharpen your instincts like a blade. This rule doesn’t care how clever your premise is, or how poetic your prose reads. It asks one thing:

Am I still hooked?

Not intellectually. Emotionally.

Not entertained. Compelled.

Not “this is nice.” “I cannot stop reading.”

If that pull isn’t there, the script stalls. It drifts. And drifting is death.

So What Is Curiosity in Story Terms?

It’s when the audience finds themselves silently asking:

• “What’s going to happen?”

• “How will she respond to this?”

• “Is he lying?”

• “Why did that moment feel off?”

• “Can this possibly end well?”

• “What’s the truth at the center of this person’s soul, and when will we see it revealed?”

Curiosity is tension braided with humanity. It’s not about explosions. It’s about the unknown.

How I Use This While Rewriting

When I re-read a scene now, I stop and ask:

• What is the question being asked right now? (Not out loud—felt.)

• What am I pulled toward? Mystery? Conflict? Longing?

• Is the air charged—or is this just filler?

If I can’t identify the emotional engine pulling the scene forward, I flag it. That’s dead air. And dead air kills scripts.

How to Bake It In From the Start

Don’t just start with a situation. Start with a soul at a crossroads.

• “Why is this girl so closed off?”

• “What’s this guy hiding behind all that charm?”

Then code unspoken questions into each act:

• Act 1: “Will she escape her old life?”

• Act 2: “Is he really changing—or just faking it?”

• Act 3: “Will they become who they were meant to be?”

And here’s the trick—never resolve without reloading.

Answer one question? Good. Now immediately open another. That’s how you keep the gravitational pull alive, all the way through to the final page.

Narrative Gravity

That’s the term I’ve come to love. Not structure. Not plot mechanics.

Narrative gravity.

A story that pulls us forward. Scene by scene. Beat by beat.Line by line.

So smooth they don’t notice the current. So charged they can’t swim against it.

That’s what we’re building. That’s the game.

Line I’ve Taped to My Wall:

“If I’m not dying to know what happens next—I haven’t hit the nerve yet.”

That’s it. That’s the nerve I want every scene to strike.

And if you’re chasing that too—welcome to the club. We’re just getting started.

The Power of Irony in Storytelling

by

Andrew Charles Southern

Few forces in storytelling are more powerful than irony.

When I was in college, I had a brilliant English professor who walked into class one day, said nothing, and just wrote on the board:

"Irony is the highest form of literature."

Then he sat down and stared at us.

Sure—maybe it was a little dramatic. But over time, I’ve come to believe he was right.

Irony carves hidden depth into a story—the kind you feel more than you understand. Like secret channels beneath the surface, where real meaning rushes through.

So What the Hell Is Irony Anyway?

Webster’s defines irony as:

"The use of words to express something other than and especially the opposite of the literal meaning."

But it’s more than just sarcasm.

Irony happens when you expect one thing—and reality delivers something completely different.

It reminds me of something Jim Morrison once said:

"The most serious people are often the funniest, and the people who are funny often have something serious to say."

That’s irony. The universe flipping expectations on their head.

Now, some might say, "Isn’t that just a plot twist?" Partly, yes—a great twist usually has irony baked into it. But irony isn’t just a trick at the end of the story. It’s a deeper current, a hidden hand shaping fate from the beginning.

Take Casablanca: Rick Blaine, the man who "sticks his neck out for nobody," ends up risking everything for the love of his life, her husband, and the greater cause of the war. That's not just surprising—it’s fundamentally ironic.

Why Audiences Love It

Irony is intellectually stimulating. It’s emotionally satisfying. And it’s inherently enjoyable.

I once heard someone say:

"Irony reveals a deeper order to the universe."

I love that. It’s like God winking at us—letting us know that chaos isn’t random after all. When irony lands, it feels clever—but it also feels true. It reminds us that even in a broken world, some hidden symmetry still exists. That’s why audiences love it. That’s why it stays with you long after the credits roll.

Amadeus: A Masterclass in Irony

If you want a perfect case study in irony, look no further than my favorite movie of all time: Amadeus.

Antonio Salieri, a respected court composer, prays for greatness.He lives a life of restraint—no women, no vices, pure devotion to God—hoping that, in return, God will grant him genius.

And when genius arrives?It’s not Salieri who receives it. It’s Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart—a childish, giggling, wine-drinking flirt, whose powdered wig is as messy as his personal life. (Mozart, by the way, spends most of the film running around Vienna with his pink satin breeches and chasing more cleavage than a corset maker at a royal ball.) And yet, despite all his wild behavior, Mozart's music is transcendent. It's heavenly. It's everything Salieri ever dreamed of creating—but never could.

That’s irony. And it only gets more brutal.

Salieri, recognizing Mozart’s divine gift, worships the music—and hates the man.

He devotes himself to sabotaging Mozart:

• Undermining him at court.

• Turning the Emperor against him.

• Pushing him into poverty and despair.

And yet, Salieri attends every one of Mozart’s performances. He studies every note, every movement. Because even as he works to destroy him, he knows he’s in the presence of something sacred.

That’s not just tragic. That’s painfully, beautifully ironic.

Other moments of irony in Amadeus:

• Salieri plots to commission a Requiem Mass from Mozart—hoping to claim it as his own after Mozart’s death—only for the act itself to hasten Mozart’s collapse.

• In the end, it’s Salieri who lives on, not as a great composer, but as the self-proclaimed "patron saint of mediocrity," overshadowed forever by the man he tried to erase.

Salieri prayed for eternal fame.Instead, he was granted eternal envy.

Why It Matters

Irony isn’t just a clever device. It's truth wrapped in contradiction.

It’s what makes stories unforgettable. It’s what makes them feel alive.

It shows us that even in chaos, meaning exists. And sometimes, meaning arrives in the most unexpected, ironic ways.