Sometimes the most powerful writing isn’t so much about what’s said as what isn’t said.

If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water.—Ernest Hemingway, Death in the Afternoon (affiliate link)

As a writer, it’s easy to become accustomed to peeking into random characters’ minds. One of the thrills of writing stems from the ability we authors have to be “all-knowing” within the scope of our story worlds. Unlike real life, where we sometimes (make that often) struggle to understand the opinions, emotions, and needs of those around us, in writing we have the power to understand everything. I know why my characters react in sometimes unexpected and seemingly irrational ways. I know their histories, and I know their futures. I never have to wonder why they think or act; I just know.

How Much of Your Story’s Subtext Should You Share?

Writing Your Story’s Theme (affiliate link)

As a storyteller, it is my job to share this omniscience of mine with the readers. After all, that’s why we read, right? To find out how and why the characters are going to react. And, indeed, that’s why I write: to share my characters’ experiences, emotions, and opinions with my readers in a way they can understand, commiserate with, and perhaps be empowered by.

But does that mean I should spill everything I know?

Beyond the obvious explanation that readers don’t want to know everything (who cares if the bad guy has an ingrown toenail or how the main character’s best friend happened to purchase his VW Bug?), sometimes the secret to punching up a scene, adding layers of meaning, and accurately mimicking reality, is to leave out certain details. But that (surprise, surprise) is easier said that done.

Hemingway was a master of the “iceberg principle.” He took the art of subtext to a level of his own, often expunging everything from his narratives but the bare bones and leaving the reader to glean all the facts from the characters’ actions and dialogue. Although not everyone appreciates Hemingway’s sparse style, he was able to create a vibrant sense of immediacy and, yes, reality in his stories.

What Do Subtext and Subtlety Have in Common?

Dreamlander (affiliate link)

For me, subtext and subtlety share more than just their first three letters. They are, in fact, interchangeable. If I find myself trying to create subtlety in a scene, what I am actually doing is working with the intricacies of subtext. And, if I consciously try to puff up my subtext, the not-so-subtle tool of subtlety becomes my chief utensil. In my fantasy Dreamlander (affiliate link), I struggled with subtext more than in perhaps any other work.

From beginning, one of my POV characters, Allara Katadin, proved herself practically inaccessible to anyone—including me. An introvert who guarded her emotions behind a mask of ice (I privately referring to her as the “Ice Queen,” a title that actually ended up making its way into the story), hid her true feelings and fears even from herself, and rarely said more than was absolutely necessary—she refused to cooperate on the page. The scenes of other POV characters rattled out from beneath my fingertips in comparative effortlessness to the literal hours I spent glaring at the blinking cursor whenever it was Allara’s turn to speak up.

Pay Attention to What Your Characters Aren’t Saying

She didn’t want to talk—not to me and not to the other characters—and when she did actually thaw herself out enough to venture a comment or two, her words were veiled. She rarely said what she meant; she skirted around sensitive subjects and refused to hash them out in the open.

Naturally, all of this left me burbling under my breath and yanking at my hair. But as I continued to battle my way through her scenes, I began to notice something. Sometimes what Allara wasn’t saying became the focal point for entire scenes. As she and the other characters danced their way around her fears and her anger, surprising patterns began to emerge, and I began to see facets of Allara’s character that, although they had always been there, under the surface, I had never really noticed or understood.

Her refusal to speak out demanded the necessity of some serious subtext for her scenes. She allowed me to layer details and subtlety (of both dialogue and action) into her scenes. She forced me to be more creative and meticulous in showing her attitudes and opinions, rather than taking the easy route and sharing these things through dialogue or narrative.

It took me all of half the book to fully understand this character, but she also taught me much about subtext. When I first began writing, I approached her as if the one-eighth of her character that protruded above the water was all there was. Little did I know that her true self lay submerged far below the surface. After a little diving (and much pulling out of my hair), what I found in this character was no less than the art of iceberging.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What aren’t your characters saying in your latest scene? Tell me in the comments!