Most books on writing praise the humblest of dialogue attributions: he said or Mary said or the doctor said. Most warn against too-creative substitutes: he grated, she shrieked, Bob hypothesized, Miranda sneered, Andrew pontificated.

But the how-to pundits spend less time on the question of how often to attribute. After years of critiquing in online and in-person workshops—not to mention some painful revisiting of my own early efforts—I feel confident saying that beginners err on the side of too much attribution. Among professionals, less is often more.

Here are some examples from my bookshelves.

From A Slight Trick of the Mind, by Mitch Cullin

In this excerpt, an elderly Sherlock Holmes speaks with his housekeeper:

“Very well, Mrs. Munro,” he said sharply, hoping to thwart any elaboration on her part.

“Should I bring the others in? Or should I wait for this bunch to be finished?”

“You can wait.”

He glanced at the doorway, indicating with his eyes that he wished for her withdrawal. But she ignored his stare, pausing instead to smooth her apron before continuing: “There's an awful lot—in that hall closet, you know—I can't tell you how much.”

“So I have gathered. I think for the moment I will focus on what is here.”

“I'd say you've got your hands full, sir. If you're needing help—“

“I can take care of it—thank you.”

That's seven lines of dialogue, four by Holmes and three by Mrs. Munro, with just two attributions, he said sharply and before continuing. Yet there's no confusion at all about who is speaking.

From Say When by Elizabeth Berg

Here Frank Griffin speaks with his wife, Ellen, who plans to leave him:

“Griffin?”

“Frank.”

“What?”

“Call me Frank.” He sat up, straightened his shirt. Damn it, he'd have to learn to iron.

“Stop playing games, Griffin.”

“Call me Frank.”

She stared at him. “Fine. I will call you Frank. Okay? I will call you Frank.” She fell silent.

Griffin waited a while, then asked impatiently, “So what did you want to say?”

He would handle whatever she said. Whatever she said, he would handle.

She took in a deep breath. “Okay. I told you this morning that I was in love with someone.”

“Yeah, the grease monkey. Congratulations on your lofty standards.”

“Well, I'm certainly not going to defend him to you, Frank.”

That's eleven lines of dialogue with just one direct attribution, asked impatiently. As in the previous example, less is more.

From Neil Gaiman's short story, “The Problem of Susan”

A young journalist interviews an elderly professor:

“Where,” asks Greta, “do you feel your interest in children's fiction came from?”

The professor shakes her head. “Where do any of our interests come from? Where does your interest in children's books come from?”

Greta says, “They always seemed the books that were most important to me. The ones that mattered. When I was a kid, and when I grew. I was like Dahl's Matilda... Were your family great readers?”

“Not really.... I say that, it was a long time ago that they died. Were killed, I should say.”

“All your family died at the same time? Was this in the war?”

“No, dear. We were evacuees, in the war. This was in a train crash, several years after. I was not there.”

“Just like in Lewis's Narnia books,” says Greta, and immediately feels like a fool, and an insensitive fool. “I'm sorry. That was a terrible thing to say, wasn't it?”

“Was it, dear?”

Eight pieces of dialogue, three attributions—all of them belonging to the POV character, Greta.