How Should Writers Show A Character Talks Nonsense Silently?

I tend to get practical and a bit clinical when I want the nonsense-in-silence to land. First, pick a voice for the inner chatter: is it childlike, snarky, paranoid, or dreamy? That choice informs rhythm and word choice. Then show the noise through interruptions — bracketed thoughts, parenthetical comments, or sentences that trail off into fragments. Let the outer action stay grounded: chewing, pouring tea, nodding. The contrast tells the reader more than a paragraph explaining the inner silliness.

Another effective method is to let other characters misread the person. Have someone ask a question and get an odd pause or an odd smile; the observer's confusion becomes a cue that something weird is happening inside. Use sensory mismatches too: the inner nonsense might be loud and visual while the environment is monotonous and bland. Finally, remember economy. Short, punchy internal lines that feel like stray radio signals are more memorable than long explanations. Try writing two versions of the same scene — one where the internal nonsense is revealed directly, and another where it’s implied through action and reaction — and compare which feels truer.

Sometimes I imagine the silent nonsense as a little private radio station inside a character's head — chaotic, off-key, and entirely unfiltered. Picture the scene: they're at a dinner table and their mouth is politely forming words, but their brain is broadcasting nonsense about pigeons wearing top hats or an argument with an invisible cashier. To show that on the page, I like to contrast crisp external actions with jagged internal fragments. Short, clipped interior phrases, odd punctuation, and abrupt line breaks tell the reader the thought is jumbled without the narrator having to say 'they were thinking nonsense.'

Another trick I use is physical mismatch. While the internal monologue is absurd, the character's face or gestures are controlled: a polite nod while their head imagines a marching band of spoons. That contrast is delicious because it dramatizes the disconnect. You can also have the prose itself change — more playful syntax, parenthetical asides, or a sentence that derails into non sequiturs — then snap back to normal voice for spoken dialogue. It reads like a static-filled channel that the reader has to tune into.

If you want to play with readability, sprinkle in non-standard typography sparingly: ellipses, em-dashes, single_words_joined, or even a stray CAPITALIZED word for emphasis. But use that sparingly; too much looks like a gimmick. For practice, try writing a scene where the internal nonsense escalates from silly to revealing — often nonsense hides something true — and see what surfaces.

On a late-night writing spurt, I shoved a character into a tiny cafe and let them stew in private nonsense, and the difference between what they said out loud and what their mind did was hilarious. I wrote the external dialogue cleanly, almost bored, then let the interior go wild: non sequiturs, sudden metaphors about rubber ducks, and a line that simply read 'no, not the blue one, the existential one' before snapping back to 'Pass the sugar.' That juxtaposition made the nonsense feel like a living thing, not a description.

For me, rhythm is everything. A steady, polite rhythm for outward speech makes the inner fragments pop. I also like to use small, sensory anchors — a smell, a clock tick, a spoon clink — to interrupt the inner monologue and make the reader aware they're hearing thoughts. Subtext is a helpful partner: nonsense can mask anxiety, desire, or boredom, so let it occasionally hint at something deeper instead of being pure comedy. That way the silent nonsense enriches character, and readers get both a laugh and a clue about what's really going on in their head.

Here’s a compact toolkit I reach for when I want a character to silently spout nonsense: mismatch actions, clipped interior fragments, misread reactions from others, and selective punctuation. I often write the internal chatter as staccato lines, peppered with parentheses or dashes to show it’s intrusive. Pair that with a calm outward demeanor — smiling, agreeing, or performing a mundane task — and the contrast does a lot of the heavy lifting.

A small tip I use: make some of the nonsense recurrent, a private joke that echoes through the scene. It becomes a motif and helps the reader track the pattern without explanation. Also be mindful of pacing; too much interior nonsense becomes exhausting, so sprinkle it where it illuminates character or shifts tone. Try it in a short scene and tweak the balance until it feels natural.