By Chiara Schoenhoff, 2026-2027 Student Executive Committee Young Artist Ambassador
November 9th, 2026
Imagine that you’re seated in front of a stage, and on it is a perfectly capable singer. That is, every aspect of his vocal performance is mechanically correct. But he is standing stock-still, his arms hang limp by his side, and his stare is fixed blankly on the wall behind the audience. Your friend beside you nudges you and whispers, "Let's see how many seconds pass before he blinks.” You agree to this, and the final count is something like thirty-seven.
While walking out, you and your friend agree that listening to that singer was rather tedious. More importantly, you'd be able to explain exactly why. Even though the song was performed meeting every technical standard, it lacked any sort of emotion or personality. This also couldn’t be an opinion that is purely personal, because the factors that added up to the impassive and wearisome whole were easily identifiable; the singer’s lack of movement, lack of dynamic contrast, and lack of involvement with the audience.
Have you ever read or written something, like an essay or book, that left you with an emotional impression similar to the one that the singer’s performance might have given? When trying to identify what exactly the issues were, though, it can be difficult. Unlike music, writing doesn't have the advantage of tangible audibility or visual accompaniment, unless we are reading aloud.
Furthermore, we're often not taught writing as an art, but as a utility; merely a tool, used to pass grades, give the impression that we know some things, or maybe present a persuasive opinion. As a result, our writing feels utilitarian. It works technically, like the singer's voice did, but that's all. It only exists to exhibit the songs, the subjects, undressed and bare. Not only do we write this way, but the idea of the subject being the “whole point” seems to sit in the back of our minds when we read. When criticizing a piece of writing, we turn quickly to the subject. If we didn't enjoy it, we might say that the topic it covered just wasn’t a very exciting one, or that the plot was dull. This may be the case, sometimes, but more commonly than we realize it there are significant issues with the prose.
We’ll return again to the idea of music, now. Many of music's attractive characteristics are actually featured prominently in language. For example, when somebody is talking to you, a certain tone or pitch they use can tell you whether they are being sarcastic or dead serious. In both music and language, particular words and their delivery will lend themselves to conveying a certain emotion or meaning. In addition to this, when placed effectively, certain linguistic sequences appearing in prose will promote a steady pace, a natural, undulating rhythm, and a dynamic buildup or even diminuendo that leads to a resolution—just like music.
An easy way to get a feel for the overall quality of the prose in a piece of writing is to read it aloud. Does it feel bland? Overly elaborate? What causes you to falter or disconnect with the idea the writing is trying to articulate? What seems to be keeping everything smoothly afloat? You might notice that sentence length contributes a lot to either the good or evil of a passage. What I first assumed, and may be what others have been taught as well, was that one should avoid sentences that are "too short" and sentences that are "too long". However, the truth is that neither is inherently bad. They shouldn't be avoided, only utilized effectively. Both short, chopped sentences, and long, seemingly run-on sentences, can be deployed with positive results. When used in certain ways, though, they can completely destroy the momentum of the writing.
For instance, when reading something that uses too much of one of either kind of sentence, it can feel like listening to a piece of music that consists only of drawn, tedious chords that seem like they will never lead anywhere. There has to be some sort of drive, some sort of tension underneath, that brings you towards a conclusion or resolution. And, that much-awaited resolution must be there.
An excellent illustration of this was penned by the American author and writing instructor Gary Provost, in his book 100 Ways to Improve Your Writing:
“This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals—sounds that say listen to this, it is important.”
Did you notice how, after "Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings…" you start running along beside the writer, thinking "Oh, yes, yes, and what then?"
Notice, too, how the variation in the lengths of the sentences is not the only thing that keeps the prose flowing in Provost’s example. Do you see how punctuation and phrasing are used to the benefit of the passage’s musicality? It is not quite what you would expect, and that makes it interesting. For example, we have "…a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony," instead of simply, "A pleasant rhythm, lilt, and harmony." Even something as small as that accomplishes multiple things—it establishes a distinct voice, for one, and it also appeals more strongly to our aesthetic sensibility.
Furthermore, certain patterns and their development continue to keep your attention caught in the satisfying snare of words. "I use…And I use…And sometimes…when I am certain…I will engage…" After I will engage, things start changing. The words Provost uses get stronger and more vivid, and things go on building and building until we reach the "crash of the cymbals" and finally find our resolution in "…listen to this, it is important." Although it's not marked in any way, you feel the emphasis of the statement because of everything that led up to it. It is not that significant of a statement, either, but the momentum of the passage that came before drew you into feeling as if it was.
As you can see, the subject itself is far from being the only thing that connects the reader with what they are reading. A good writer can make anything feel important. The dust accumulating behind your sofa? A grave matter, one could say! An army gathering in secret, preparing to launch a kingdom-wide revolution. It must be suppressed immediately, else the Warriors of Filth increase their might to something beyond what you are able to control. The fate of the land lies in your hands. Will you clean, or will you let your home fall subject to the vile and oppressive reign of your enemies?
When we read, we must learn how to identify the tones, flaws, and commendable traits of the writer’s voice, and once we are able to do that, we will be able to recognize and refine these qualities in our own writing. Try finding a writer whose work you admire, and look closely at what sets their style apart from others. Imitate aspects of it, observe how it changes the feel of your writing, and consider whether or not it is a positive change. Eventually you’ll have your own style, and if the inspiration you drew came from your favorite writers, it can be one you enjoy.
Writing always has and always can be a utility, purely a way of communicating our ideas in precise detail to others. As with many utilities, though, we have freedom to make it beautiful or fun. Especially with writing, that is something we should take advantage of. Be creative, be unafraid, and present things in a way that might make your readers laugh, gasp, or wonder. Involve their emotion and their intellect. Why settle for a simple nodding of the head or shrug of the shoulders? You are not engaging in small talk, you are relating to them one of the most alarming, intriguing, or amazing things in the world.
Subjects are never completely novel, so you as a writer must give your audience a reason to listen to your take on it. Don’t be like the singer who could have had his song sung the same way by anybody else. You have your own personal voice that others might appreciate, admire, or relate to.