Why We Read Quiet Fiction

D. Vincent Delorenzo

There’s this idea I keep seeing, Clara, that some books kind of whisper, you know? Not because they don’t have something to say, but because they want you to lean right in and listen for what’s underneath the words. And I think that's what quiet fiction does, more than anything—it holds big emotional stakes in, like, the smallest moments.

Clara Wren

Yeah, I love that. It’s like, the tension isn’t about car chases or—what’s the phrase—plot fireworks? It’s at the kitchen table, under an umbrella, just after an argument when everything’s shifting, but nobody’s actually moving. I remember you said something in a previous episode, about the aftermath whispering what the chaos couldn’t quite say. Is that what you mean here?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Spot on! Quiet fiction is where what’s happening on the surface is so modest you might almost miss it—someone making tea, the room settling after a hard night. But beneath, everything’s at stake. The room feels different, the smallest gesture matters. You find your heart racing because someone set down a chipped mug a little too softly. That’s the stuff.

Clara Wren

So the real drama isn’t in what people say out loud, but in, I don’t know—what’s not said? The way someone passes the butter in silence or reaches for the radio dial. Is that how you’d put it?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Absolutely. The drama is always in the after. You know, like, in Ashes in the Rain there’s this kitchen scene that starts with nothing more than rain hitting the window and one chipped mug on the table. That morning in a small Thai Village—the village waking up slow, the mug-weary and honest—became the quiet hero of the whole scene. I remember sitting there for ages thinking: nothing happens, but everything changes. That’s quiet fiction, right there.

Clara Wren

I love that the chipped mug is the star! It’s not the argument or apology that does the heavy lifting, but how the room feels and what we notice. That really flips everything on its head, doesn’t it?

Clara Wren

So, for anyone who's new to this kind of storytelling, how do you actually read for all that hidden drama? I mean, I know you’ve got a trick for just about everything—what do you recommend for readers who want to see beneath the surface?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

I do, and it’s not even that tricky! I call them my three lenses: Object, Weather, and Distance. First, Object—what's carrying meaning in the room? Sometimes it’s a chipped mug or a coat left draped over a chair, you know? Then there’s Weather—the rain, fog, or kettle steam, acting as, like, the soundtrack, setting the mood or reflecting what people can’t say. And Distance—where you put the camera in your mind. Are you close enough to catch the tremble in someone’s hand, or pulled far back to give them space?

Clara Wren

That’s brilliant. So if I’m reading quietly, I might ask not “what happens next,” but next...oh, what’s changed in this silence? Why that mug, or why the rain? That kind of thing?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Exactly! Those lenses slow you down; you start to notice the shift in body language, or how a storm outside can fill all that unsaid space inside the room. Like, take that kitchen apology from Ashes in the Rain. The objects in play are just two mugs, but one’s chipped—and suddenly your attention lands there, and you kind of get the whole relationship in one glance. The weather—the rain stitching its way across the glass—that’s saying as much as any dialogue. And with distance, sometimes you’re right up against the scene, sometimes the narrative steps back, and all you feel is the truce settling in. Oh, and the umbrella walk, too—the rain gets the last word there. Dialogue just...moves outside the lines.

Clara Wren

That’s beautiful. And I think it gives book clubs or readers a way in, even if you’re worried you’ll miss the “important” stuff. Which, like, maybe the chipped mug is the most important thing after all. Speaking of book clubs, I've been thinking: What sorts of prompts can readers use to dig even deeper with quiet fiction?

Clara Wren

Okay, say someone finishes Ashes in the Rain and wants more. What would you recommend, but—wait, not just titles. What should they be looking for thematically in their next read?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Yeah, titles, sure, but it’s more the world you want to inhabit. Look for books where weather isn’t just background noise—it becomes almost a character. Or stories set in intimate, small spaces—rooms that echo with every footstep, every whispered word. And, honestly, a collection of short stories you can return to, where something new glimmers every re-read. The test? Scenes that can stand alone, like islands. Objects that, I dunno, almost behave. And language that doesn't fight for attention; it steps back and lets the silence do the talking. Those are what I chase.

Clara Wren

That’s gorgeous—what was it in Ashes in the Rain, actually? The umbrella, right? Or, wait, was it the rain? Hmm. I always mix up which felt more central. But either way, I like that idea as a litmus test—if you can remember an object or a bit of weather after the story ends, maybe you’ve found a quiet one.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Exactly. Oh—reminds me, we got a great listener mail about this, Clara. You wanna read it?

Clara Wren

Absolutely! So Hannah wrote in: “How do I know if a quiet book is working for me?” And it’s such a good question because, honestly, not every book is gonna land the same for everyone.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Right. My advice? Check your breath. If you notice you’re reading slower, your eyes landing on hands, cups, the fogged window—yep, the book’s working. If you’re skimming, try those lenses: slow down, let your attention settle. And if nothing clicks, maybe it’s just not your season. Quiet fiction is patient—it’ll wait for you.