Sentences Matter & I Think A Lot About Them

How has your writing evolved this year?

The author I most relate to is David Foster Wallace. Sadly, he murdered himself in 2008 before I had even encountered his work, so it is strange that I felt a hole in the world, learning of his death.

Right there in the conversation, would be Denis Johnson. I can quote passages of Train Dreams from memory.

Both authors had in common a great love for sweeping sentences. DFW—as his fans call him—frequently wrote two-plus-page sentences. Johnson never rivaled that length, but he had no issue going big.

The internet has encroached on my unquestioned love of those gargantuan sentences. Reading an ebook on my iPhone presented a previously unseen urgency.

When a full digital page has no indent, you can feel tempted to swipe forward, assuring yourself this too shall pass. If after six or ten swipes you’ve found no indent, let alone a period, panic attacks are close at hand.

And don’t get me wrong, I don’t want my writing to change or dumb down because of some electronic device’s limitations, but there’s a name for things that resist or fail to evolve—extinct.

Evolution Favors Efficiency

When I first began reading Stephen King, it was a secret affair. I’ve made it no secret that my college professors and instructors maligned and despised King. He was called a hack, a dope pusher, a—gasp!—commercial author.

NOOOOOOOOO!

If you want some context, calling someone a commercial author in academia is like telling a bride she’s ugly on her wedding day. Please, if you don’t understand why, trust me. Don’t call any brides ugly, but especially on their wedding day.

My Writing Goal

I want to challenge myself to do do unique things inside the novel form. You can tell the same story uniquely, and since there are no new stories left to tell, form is the obvious frontier.

For me, that means stepping away from massive, sweeping, complex sentences and into choppy, short, playful sentences. I’ll return to the world of Faulkner, McCarthy, Wallace and Johnson, but not before I give Raymond Chandler, who’s best at his briefest, the proper respect.

He wrote this gem in Farewell, My Lovely: “I lit a cigarette. It tasted like a plumber’s handkerchief.”

There’s so much in those two sentences, a critic could spend days unpacking the meaning and richness of them.

Expect, in 2023, for me to be writing an abundance of short sentences. And expect for me to be thinking about cigarettes. A lot.

My Book

If you want it at cost, let me know. I’ll give you a signed paperback at cost if you leave a review for me on Goodreads and Amazon. This offer is only good for the first 50 takers. Don’t be late. You’ll regret it.