What makes the written word come alive? One can review rules on clarity and concision, on sentence pacing and variety. But sometimes we just need to experience good prose.
Below, I offer two versions of a statement laying out some essential rules for good writing. Both include identical information. But where the first version pays almost no attention to style, voice, and pacing, the second version does so on a major scale. Every sentence–its length, punctuation, pacing, syntax–seems intentional.
Check out both of the statements below. Read them aloud. What distinguishes version 1 and version 2? What can you learn from both of these examples? Is there a proper time and place for both versions? Are there any specific sentence types or tricks that you would hope to try out in your own writing?
Version 1
Writing requires significant effort. Good writing requires even more effort. What makes writing “good”? We sometimes good use words like “flow” to describe good writing. “Flow” makes sense on a number of levels. It suggests a connection between sentences and paragraphs, and it captures a sense of easy progress. Because flow is related to the idea of filling something up, however, the idea of flow can seem to value quantity over quality. One of the most common struggles I hear from students facing down a 5-page paper is how to fill up the pages. We might feel compelled to mourn the loss of bland and repetitive conclusions that can get us onto page 5.
Rather than discuss how writing “flows” I prefer other metaphors. Transitions can be thought of as dynamic bridges. Punctuation can be thought of as pacing. And we might think of arguments as having narrative elements like character, setting, and story. To achieve good writing, sometimes it makes sense to write short sentences. Sometimes it makes sense to write much longer ones. Most of all, a good sentence captures the complexities of any given thought.
This is maybe what we mean when we talk about finding our “voice” as a writer. That might be misleading though. Though many good writers do find a distinct voice, they often do that by exploring new modes and genres of writing. This is dangerous as well. Sometimes writers in an academic writing class try to sound more academic, and that can limit the range of one’s voice. This frustration reminds us that distinct audiences often call for distinct styles. The good news is that we are just beginning. Take risks and do your best to write in ways that you haven’t before.
Version 2
Writing requires significant effort; good writing, all the more. But what makes writing “good”?
We’ve all heard of those airy abstractions and analogies—none more vexing than the elusive idea of “flow”—that try to capture the essence of solid prose. “Flow” makes sense on a number of levels: it suggests a fluid connection between sentences and paragraphs, and it promises some smooth progress that might lull the reader into a state of unquestioning acceptance.
But it also subtly tempts the novice writer to value quantity over quality. Flow, after all, is also about filling something up, and one of the most common struggles I hear from students facing down a daunting 5-page paper is how to hit the mark. We might all, at times, feel compelled to mourn the loss of repetitive conclusions that dribble meekly onto page five.
So yes, I am against “flow.” I prefer metaphors of structure, speed, and story: dynamic bridges for transitions; punctuation-as-pacing; narrative elements of character, setting, and story to build an argument.
I like the short sentence. And I like it especially when this entity appears next to a much longer one—a sentence that seems reluctant to allow the period as it spirals out into expanding circles of sense and nonsense, taking unexpected turns towards the momentous (imagine!) and the mundane (there is a place for that as well) before finding its end after five lines.
But most of all I like it when a sentence doesn’t simply transcribe thought or speech but seeks, instead, to capture the complexities of thought’s movement: its liveliness and surprise, its analytical depth and capacity for feeling.
I wish this were all as easy as finding your “voice,” but that’s just another one of those unhelpful analogies that teachers—including the present one!—at times mindlessly use. Though many good writers achieve something like an individual style, more often than not they do so by not writing like themselves—by finding new voicing’s and phrasings and patterns.
This approach has its risks as well: there’s nothing more frustrating than witnessing a writer hampered by a sense that they need to sound more “academic” or “formal.” But this frustration serves as a reminder that distinct audiences often call for distinct styles.
The good news? We are just beginning. Err on the side of experiment. Make it new—and you just eventually might make it you.
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