like I want the written word to be different
A popular tip paraded around the internet is to write like you talk. That’s logical. When I write, I often feel the need to make it sound more convoluted. More deserving of the paper (or screen) it’s written on. Pausing to ask myself, how would I phrase this if I was talking to a friend, can prevent the birth of many messy sentences.
Although that advice, write like you talk, is logical, it shouldn’t be applied everywhere. I don’t want to read fiction that is written in a repetitive style. I want to read unusual words arranged unusually; I want to search up words I don’t know the meaning of. I want dramatically short sentences. And I want long, draggy sentences that meander left and right—pausing to take a moment to reflect—before continuing its build up to something worth reading. I want the author’s writing ability to ooze from the page.
At intervals Salinas suffered from a mild eructation of morality. The process never varied much. One burst was like another. Sometimes it started in the pulpit and sometimes with a new ambitious president of the Women’s Civic Club. Gambling was invariably the sin to be eradicated. There were certain advantages in attacking gambling. One could discuss it, which was not true of prostitution. It was an obvious evil and most of the games were operated by Chinese. There was little chance of treading on the toes of a relative. From church and club the town’s two newspapers caught fire. Editorials demanded a clean-up. The police agreed but pleaded short-handedness and tried for increased budget and sometimes succeeded. When it got to the editorial stage everyone knew the cards were down. What followed was as carefully produced as a ballet. The police got ready, the gambling houses got ready, and the papers set up congratulatory editorials in advance. Then came the raid, deliberate and sure. Twenty or more Chinese, imported from Pajaro, a few bums, six or eight drummers, who, being strangers, were not warned, fell into the police net, were booked, jailed, and in the morning fined and released. The town relaxed in its new spotlessness and the houses lost only one night of business plus the fines. It is one of the triumphs of the human that he can know a thing and still not believe it.
East of Eden, John Steinbeck
I mean, I don’t want everything to sound like that. But like I also don’t want everyone to write like this. Let every medium keep and build its own distinct style.
Typos? Comments? Text or email me.
2-minute read. Writing time: untracked. Editing time: untracked.
First published:
August 12, 2025
Last updated: