I ghostwrote a book for a teenager about anime.
The language in that project was nothing like my own voice. The slang, the references, the rhythm of how that age group communicates. Getting it wrong would have been immediately obvious to the target audience. Getting it right required listening carefully to how the client talked, researching the vocabulary of anime fandom, and building a voice on the page that felt authentic to a world I don’t personally inhabit.
That’s what using slang in fiction demands: you have to understand the culture the words come from before you can use them well.
I love slang in fiction when it’s earned, and I wince when it isn’t. Done well, it tells you who a character is, where they come from and when they’re living, faster than any description could. Done badly, it reads like a middle-aged writer trying to sound like a teenager, and that’s exactly what it is when nobody did the research. Readers from the group being imitated notice in one line, and I don’t blame them for putting the book down.
What Does Slang Do That Standard Language Cannot?
Slang tells the reader things about a character that description can’t.
A character who says “that’s mid” is communicating their age, their cultural context, and their attitude in two words. A character who says “that’s rather disappointing” is communicating something entirely different about who they are. Neither line requires explanation. The reader infers the character from the language they use. For more, see collaborative writing and using AI for research without getting burned.
Done well, it makes characters feel real and grounds your story in a specific time and place.Share on X
Regional slang establishes geography without exposition. A character who says “y’all” is from a different place than a character who says “youse guys.” A character who calls a carbonated drink “pop” lives in a different part of the country than one who calls it “soda.” These details are invisible world-building. They place the character in a specific location without the writer ever having to state it directly.
Era-specific slang works as a time machine. “23 Skidoo” puts you in the 1920s. “Groovy” puts you in the 1960s. “Lit” puts you in the 2010s. Each of these words carries an entire cultural context. When you use era-suitable slang in historical fiction, you’re signaling to the reader that you’ve done your research and that the world of the story is grounded in real linguistic history.
How do writers invent slang for science fiction and fantasy?
Slang also works as world-building. When you’re creating a fictional culture, the language people use is part of what makes that culture feel real. Anthony Burgess invented an entire slang language called Nadsat for A Clockwork Orange. It’s disorienting at first, but within a few chapters the reader is thinking in it. That immersion is impossible to achieve any other way.
J.K. Rowling’s “muggle” created a clear boundary between the magical and non-magical worlds with a single word. George R.R. Martin’s characters say “words are wind” to express that actions matter more than promises in a world defined by betrayal. In Battlestar Galactica, replacing common profanity with “frak” let the show convey the emotional intensity of swearing without triggering broadcast standards. Each of these invented terms serves a narrative purpose.
Slang for a fictional world works when it’s grounded in the culture you’ve built. If your science fiction world has no faster-than-light travel, the slang should reflect a culture shaped by long distances and slow communication. If your fantasy world runs on a rigid class system, the lower classes should talk differently from the upper classes in ways that reveal who holds the power. Made-up words sprinkled on for flavor annoy me, because the reader does the work of learning them and gets nothing back about the world.
Where do writers go wrong with slang?
The most common mistake is overuse. A few well-placed slang terms establish a character’s voice. Every other word being slang makes the text unreadable. Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting works because the Scottish dialect is consistent and the reader adjusts to it. Most writers aren’t operating at that level, and attempting full-dialect writing without the skill to pull it off produces text that exhausts instead of immerses the reader.
The second mistake is using slang you don’t understand. If you’re writing a character from a culture or demographic you don’t belong to, you need to research how that group really talks. The anime book I ghostwrote required me to learn specific terminology and speech patterns from the client and from the community itself. Writing slang based on assumptions instead of research produces stereotypes instead of characters.
Getting this wrong costs more than bad prose. A stereotype on the page teaches readers something false about real people, and the people it misrepresents are the ones most likely to notice. If I can’t learn how a group talks, I’d leave the slang out and let the character’s choices carry the voice.
The third mistake is forgetting that slang has a shelf life. If your novel is set in the present and you fill it with current slang, the book will sound dated within five years. Holden Caulfield’s slang in The Catcher in the Rye works because Salinger chose terms that felt specific to the character without being so trendy that they expired. “Phony” still communicates exactly what Salinger intended seventy years later. Most current slang won’t survive that long.
The fourth mistake is leaving readers without context. If you use slang your audience might not know, the surrounding text should make the meaning clear without a definition, so build the scene around the word until the meaning is obvious. Burgess never defines Nadsat vocabulary, and the reader figures it out from how the words are used. When a novel needs a glossary in the back to be understood, I think the scenes didn’t do their job.
Slang in Ghostwriting
Ghostwriting makes slang harder because you’re reproducing someone else’s linguistic world. The anime project required me to write in a voice that belonged to a teenager immersed in a fandom. That meant learning vocabulary I’d never use in my own writing, understanding the cadence and tone of how that demographic communicates, and making sure the language on the page felt natural instead of performed.
Every ghostwriting project that involves a distinct voice requires this kind of linguistic adaptation.
A memoir for a Southern client uses different language than a memoir for a tech executive. A book written for a twenty-year-old anime fan uses different language than a book written for a sixty-year-old CEO. The ghostwriter’s job is to disappear into the client’s voice, and slang is often the most visible marker of whether that voice is authentic or fake.
For a ghostwriting client, fake slang costs more than a flat book would.
The people who really talk that way are the readers most likely to pick the book up, and one wrong word on the first page tells them the author is faking it. The author’s credibility goes, and the author never wrote the line. I won’t hand a client dialogue I haven’t checked against how their people speak.
The approach is always the same: listen to how the client talks, research the community their audience belongs to, and use slang on purpose. I’m hard on this because slang is the first place a reader catches a writer faking it, and once they catch you there, they stop believing the rest. Writers who pad dialogue with terms lifted from a quick search are cheating the people they claim to be writing about, and it’s a betrayal.
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