Some authors get famous for their style, or at least get their fame attributed to style. Hemmingway, for instance; ask somebody why he’s famous ,and odds are that you’ll get something along the lines of ‘short sentences’. That’s not the sum of their fame, of course; no author was ever made great solely by style. Stories are more than the flavoring given to their telling, and without the stories, the style would be empty. Still, though, style is an important part of writing. How you communicate a story matters. It changes what is communicated, changes the effectiveness of the communication. Further, style helps make writing fun; I know of few more enjoyable experiences than finishing a really and truly good bit of prose, the type of writing that you just know people will want to read twice for the sheer joy.

That’s all very well and good, but we need to get a grasp on the basics before we get to the point of a personal ‘style’. Style is a very personal choice, but in the end there are certain basic rules which are not truly breakable (though sometimes their application seems to contradict that). They are: say it plain, say it short, say it clear.

The first rule isn’t really so much for the reader’s sake as for the author’s, though it may help both. By ‘Say it plain’, I mean that we must know what we intend our writing to mean. Knowing what you yourself mean is the first step to getting anybody else to mean it. If it works, the simplest way to do that is to state your meaning in the bluntest terms possible, devoid of fancy language, concern for readability, or suitability to the audience. The point of the exercise is not to provide a final draft or even a rough draft; the point is to be sure that what is being said is what ought to be said. In some cases, of course, this exercise does not fit the problem. In fiction particularly, that which needs saying can be more complex, more emotive, more intuitional than plain speaking is really capable of conveying. Here, simply follow the principle of the rule: know what you intend to say, in order that you may be sure you are saying it.

When it comes to actually communicating this intended meaning to the audience, though, plain, blunt statements may not be suitable. In the first place, the medium may not be suited to the audience and opportunity. Speaking in the bluntest possible language when delivering news of a loved one’s death is generally be less than advisable; tact may be the better part of valor. In the second place, that blunt language may not be the best path to conveying the meaning intended. As has already been noted, blunt language can be wholly unsuited for certain topics; often it is surpassed in efficacy by a more nuanced and complicated style. The prophecies of Isaiah could have been rendered to us in much fewer words, but the full intensity of them would have been lost without the repetition and accretion of imagery ancient Hebrew poetry loves. Remember, though, that sometimes simple really is best, and complexity is never good for its own sake. If the job is best done by the simplest phraseology (as is sometimes the case in nonfiction particularly, or in certain parts of a story), use that simplicity without groping for complications justified only by their complexity.

The second rule, to ‘Say it short,’ is the rule of efficiency with which any student of Strunk and White should be familiar. Do not use two words when one will do, do not use three when two will do, and absolutely never include the unnecessary. The reasons for this instruction are several. First, if the word or segment has no purpose for being there, no argument legitimately exists for its being there (beyond pure reluctance to delete one’s own work). Second, if an element lacks purpose, the reader has no reason to read it, and you as the author have no reason to require the reader slog through it. Third, if that which has purpose is mixed with that which does not, that which does not inevitably dilutes the impact and clarity of that which does.

What is important with this rule is not to confused efficiency with minimalism. Two words may be better than one for reasons of rhythm, euphony, correspondence to earlier verbiage, or subtle connotation. Parts of a story may have no obvious purpose while still retaining a hidden but essential role in the narrative. The trick is to be sure that the amount of the reader’s time you spend upon an element is correspondent to and justified by the importance of its purpose. A word may be much less important than a sentence, but it needs much less importance to justify its presence. Conversely, though, do not be too lenient. Rough drafts in particular will tend to need a lot of pruning,¹ and much of editing is realizing that a detail is unnecessary or that a sentence could be more effective if reconfigured just so.

The third rule is this: ‘Say it clear.’ Clarity is an essential prerequisite to communication. Communication, the transmission of information from giver to receiver via a medium, succeeds precisely in proportion to clarity, for clarity is the property of that which is being given matching that which is received, a real problem in our fallen world. Therefore the story must always be concerned for its own clarity in order to tell the same tale as the one the author wanted to tell. Clarity does not entirely preclude obscurity. If you intend obscurity, to keep secrets and to hide facts, clarity is the communication of that obscurity, its reflection in the recipient of the story. Clarity merely precludes unintended obscurity.

These three principles are the foundation of style, but they are not its full compass. Only once they are ensured, however, can the rest of the superstructure be built. They are principles, remember, not building codes. How they are accomplished is up to you, and it is here that personal style emerges. Personal style is the coincidence of a hundred habits, the result of thousands of choices both conscious and unconscious. Sentence structure, word choice, and imagery (into which I’m lumping description) are three fundamental categories which compose much of style.

Sentences structure has already been mentioned here in terms of grammar; here we must consider it in terms of style. Hemmingway was famous for his short sentences; other men have been famous for their long ones. The truth is, though, that if you’re writing for an audience capable of reading them, the length of your sentences isn’t the most important thing about them, not on its own. Sentences structure encompasses questions of sentence complexity- how many clauses and phrases, where they are, how they interrelate-, of preferred tools- participles, gerunds, infinitives, subordinate clauses, coordinate conjunctions, interjections-, and of emphasis- where, in relation to all the other factors, do you draw the reader’s attention most sharply. Generally speaking, short and long sentences both have their place, often with one setting off the other, with one preventing the reader from growing weary of the other. Paragraphs are an extension of this paradigm. Some of this will be your intentional choice; some will be your habit, grown of use and observation.

Word choice is a trickier topic than you might think. We have that famous quote of Twain’s to give us assurance as to its importance- for we’d all prefer our words be lightning and not merely lightning bugs- but the attributes of a word are much more varied than the simple (if essential) ‘right’ or ‘not right’ binary of a single quote’s summation. What words I tend to use will change how my writing sounds, on a macro-scale. A tendency towards more complicated words will create a much different feel than if I were to favor the simplest of words. Pushed to an extreme, either will usually feel artificial- in most context’s ‘sesquipedalian’ makes me sound like I’m showing off, but obstinate refusal to use any word longer than two syllables can be its own sort of snobbery, especially when the reader has the intuition that you are following that rule from intent and not mere happenstance. Word choice is not even entirely in our hands; my vocabulary, its limits, and the parts of it to which I am more or less accustomed, as well as the circumstances which may have reminded by of a particular word, will contribute to my writing to change its word choice without by ability to control.

Individual words are still potent. When Twain compared the right one to lighting, he spoke rightly. The right word can make a passage come to life. When the rhythm, the euphony (how the word sounds related to its surrounding and meaning), the denotation, and the connotation all come together, that’s a moment of magic.

Imagery is a complex topic, one that I’ve addressed before², and one that I’ll assuredly address again. For now, let’s consider imagery as it relates to style. Different authors will prefer different methods of imagery. Similes, metaphors, epic similes, symbolism, and more are all forms of imagery, and you and I will have different balances of them, different sources for our comparison, different ways of leading into them. Description too is related to imagery; how you describe characters and settings and actions is an essential part of writing. You and I will share certain fundamental similarities, assuming we’re both decent at it, but those similarities may only highlight the vast gap. For example, consider three different authors’ descriptions of combat. Tolkien barely considers the intricacies of the fight, content with its form and tone. G.K. Chesterton, near the climax of Napoleon of Notting Hill, almost brushed over the combat, describing it from the inside as a sudden rush of action and emotion, without any specifics. Finally, I, in my book, use a much more blow-by-blow style, following much more specifics than either Tolkien or Chesterton.

Style is a very complex topic, and I’ve barely scratched the surface today. In truth, for all I’ll be talking about style again next week, I’ll still only be dipping my toes in. Part of the problem here is that style is an immensely complex thing. As I said, it’s composed of thousands of decision. Style is the aggregate of what you’ve written; the style of the story is all the decisions in it which are about conveyance and not what is to be conveyed. Sometimes, of course, how you convey will help determine what you convey, not just the reverse, and so the line gets blurrier. At the end of the day, though, our style isn’t going to be precisely calculated on our parts (though I’ve read rumors of exceptions). We’re going to learn to write in a particular style, and though we may be able to give reasons for each particular choice, we’ll often have made those choices without counting the reasons. This is as it should be, and thank God for that, because writing would be a lot slower otherwise.

See you next week.

God bless.

Footnotes

1 – My own experience, as per my recent work editing my most recent short story, is that the story generally needs a lot of small stuff removed and a few medium-to-big things added; I still cut about 200 words total off its lightly edited first draft in making the second draft. I actually edited out significantly more, but the effect was muted by my adding several hundred words to the underpowered conclusion of the first draft.

2 – Here and here and here.