In Conversation: Intertextuality and the Echoes That Shape Literature

When readers pick up a novel, a poem, or a play, they often step into a conversation that began long before the first page. Every story is written within a web of earlier works, cultural traditions, and shared symbols. This dynamic—what literary theorists call intertextuality—is one of the most fascinating and fertile aspects of writing. At its heart, intertextuality is the practice of weaving echoes of other texts into one’s own, whether deliberately or unconsciously.

The term was popularized by Julia Kristeva in the 1960s, building on the ideas of Mikhail Bakhtin, who argued that all texts are dialogic. In other words, every act of writing responds to, reshapes, and converses with what came before. A contemporary poet writing about love cannot help but carry traces of Shakespeare’s sonnets, Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s verse, or even the immediacy of Sylvia Plath’s confessional style. Whether the writer intends it or not, echoes filter through.

When handled well, intertextuality allows a writer to uncover new layers in their work. Margaret Atwood’s The Penelopiad reimagines Homer’s Odyssey through Penelope’s eyes, interrogating the patriarchal assumptions of the ancient text. Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea reframes Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre by giving voice to the so-called “madwoman in the attic,” exploring themes of colonialism, identity, and silence. Both works gain power because they build upon their predecessors to say something new.

For a writer attempting such ambitious work, professional feedback can make all the difference.  A publishing consultant, versed in literary history, can point out when an allusion is underdeveloped or when a reimagined narrative risks overshadowing its source instead of reshaping it. Manuscript critique services function as that mirror, helping authors see whether their dialogue with older texts is vibrant and necessary or whether it needs sharpening.

In poetry, intertextuality often reveals itself in form and diction. T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land is famously saturated with references—snatches of Dante, the Bible, Wagner, Shakespeare, and even nursery rhymes. The poem’s very structure relies on its intertextual web, its fragmented brilliance emerging precisely from those echoes. Contemporary poets like Natasha Trethewey or Terrance Hayes continue this practice, layering their personal histories with cultural references that both ground and expand their work.

In the novel, we might consider James Joyce’s Ulysses, which takes Homer’s Odyssey as a skeleton but transforms it into a Dublin odyssey of modern consciousness. Likewise, Michael Cunningham’s The Hours weaves its narrative around Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway, moving between Woolf herself, a mid-century housewife, and a late twentieth-century woman—all tied together by Woolf’s influence. These texts are enriched by their dialogue with their predecessors, and readers are rewarded by recognizing the interwoven strands.

Even genre fiction thrives on intertextual play. Neil Gaiman’s American Gods is built on mythological scaffolding, pulling from Norse sagas, African folklore, and biblical stories, while simultaneously placing them in conversation with the landscape of modern America. Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games owes clear debts to Greek mythology’s Theseus, as well as to dystopian predecessors like Orwell’s 1984 and Golding’s Lord of the Flies. Recognizing these threads adds layers of meaning, even for young readers.

For writers working in these genres, an outside critique can reveal whether intertextual gestures feel intentional and alive, or whether they seem heavy-handed. A manuscript consultant might ask, for example: Does this novel’s echo of Greek tragedy truly deepen its themes, or is it an ornamental reference? Such questions can refine a manuscript before it reaches an editor’s desk.

Like any literary tool, intertextuality carries risks. A poorly handled allusion can alienate readers, making them feel excluded if they lack the cultural knowledge to follow the reference. Heavy reliance on predecessors can also weigh down originality, making a text seem derivative rather than fresh. Some writers fall into the trap of nodding too obviously toward “great works,” as though borrowing gravitas rather than generating it themselves. A skilled reader can identify where intertextual moves falter. They might suggest that a subtle rephrasing would sharpen an echo, or that a symbol be developed independently rather than borrowed wholesale. 

Writers seeking to use intertextually might ask themselves a series of questions as they draft and revise. Which texts form the background conversation of my work? How do my characters or themes respond to those earlier voices? Am I invoking a source to affirm it, to challenge it, or to complicate it? Do I need to clarify the allusion for the reader, or is ambiguity part of the point?

A publishing consultant can help a writer develop answers to these questions, often by identifying patterns the writer did not even realize were present. For instance, a consultant might observe that a recurring symbol of fire recalls biblical apocalypse imagery, even if the writer had not intended the association. Pointing this out enables the writer either to lean into that resonance deliberately or to adjust it if it risks distracting from the story’s aims.

Manuscript critique also helps writers understand how intertextuality functions in the marketplace. A debut novel that reworks Pride and Prejudice will inevitably invite comparison to both Austen’s classic and to the legions of contemporary retellings. A consultant can guide a writer toward the version of that dialogue that feels most original, most urgent, and most marketable. Intertextuality is a practical craft choice with real implications for publishing success.

Readers may not always recognize every allusion, but they sense the texture intertextuality creates. An intertextual story feels layered, as though it belongs to a larger conversation about human experience. This is why retellings, adaptations, and works that borrow mythic scaffolding continue to capture attention. They appeal to a reader’s sense of recognition and discovery: the joy of seeing something familiar refracted into something new.

At its best, intertextuality creates a bridge between the past and present, between one culture and another, between one writer and the long chain of voices that precede them. For the contemporary writer, this is both a challenge and an invitation: to listen, to answer, and to contribute to the ongoing dialogue of literature.

Intertextuality is a deliberate engagement with the texts that came before, a conversation across time that allows writers to deepen and complicate their work. But like all conversations, it requires balance. This is why professional guidance matters. Manuscript critique services with a publishing consultant can help a writer discern whether their intertextual strategies are enriching the work or hindering it. In a world saturated with stories, many of the most memorable works are those that acknowledge their lineage while carving out new paths.