There is a cadence. You might recognize it.
It starts with a short, declarative sentence. Punctuated. It makes you want to read on, driving the action.
It might, then, slow down. Ask you to pause.
You might even do it.
But then it picks up again, authoritative. It makes a bold assertion. It asks you to think. Reflect. To question.
Or does it?
In this cadence, this clever staccato, you find much to agree with. You might find yourself nodding your head, whispering yes! yes! But when you get to the end of this cadence, was anything really there?
I’ve found myself brushing up against this style more and more often. Vaguely disjointed thoughts — a list — held together with lacquer. There’s a connectedness to the ideas, but they don’t run deep.
They lack texture.
And the funny thing, too, is that the writing is anonymous. You could drop in any author, any idea, and still find the form fitting.
It’s one size that fits all.
At first, I thought this might be artificial. That it’s content generated by a machine. But less and less, I think this is the case.
Instead, I think it’s content written algorithmically. A writer attuned enough to style and to attention to write for engagement. To write for the machine.
A machine trained on what humans like.
A machine trained on catnip.
So we find ourselves consuming endless simple sentences, fragments beginning with prepositions. At first, it feels clever — cutting edge even. The voice has an edginess, it sounds like it has a chip on its shoulder.
And that edge may be sharp, the chip may be real. But it’s an edge that easily rolls, a chip that can be smoothed over. This cadence allows for the implication of depth but lacks any real meaning.
There’s no need to cut deeper when your prose flows smoothly, when your sentences are slick with cleverness.
I’m doing it here, if you can’t tell.
But great writing doesn’t move like that. Great writing moves instead like a river, meandering. It has moments of smooth grace, yes, and moments of slickness. But there are also ripples and currents, white water and eddies. There are moments in a river where water meets rock with crushing force, expanding and contracting, bursting into foam and wash and spray, eroding the banks and stealing silt and soil, mixing and enveloping —
And then it stops.
It settles.
And it moves again.
A river, like great writing, has texture. It can be read and it can be read again — each time giving up something new, something powerful. A river changes — Heraclitus told us so — but so does a writer.
So does good writing.
It just takes the courage to wade in.
Of course, after wading in, swimming in the currents, and emerging refreshed, you might find yourself hungry. If that is the case, you might find yourself wishing that you had something quick, something ready — almost — to eat, with little forethought or preparation.
That’s how we’ve been eating, lately: quickly. Between potty training the Warthog and warm afternoons turning into warm evenings spent outside, our dinner making has become opportunistic. We’ve been taking advantage of the lettuce and wild arugula that has been prospering in our garden, not yet overwhelmed by the cucumbers and zucchinis planted in the same bed. While this remains the case, we’ve found ourselves snipping off enough tops to make a hefty salad (leaving the bottom third or so to continue to grow), mixing together a quick vinaigrette of apple cider vinegar, olive oil, salt, pepper, and an avalanche of grated parm, tossing it all together quickly and serving with slices of steak — hot from the grill, or chilled the day after.
You could also, after making
’s fideuà and having leftover fumet, ladle that warm over noodles, more of those fresh greens, some of ’s smacked radishes, and soy sauce — and, if you’re up for it, top it with an egg (hard- or soft-boiled, or if you’re lazy, fried).This is how meals are best done in the summer — of which today is the first day — and, fittingly, these meals are best eaten outside. Take advantage if it, while you can. Starting tomorrow, the days will be ticking ever shorter.
Embrace everything, more so because it’s fleeting.
We’ll see you back here next week.
A graduate school professor suggested the key to good writing in a single word: Subordination.
Loved this, Lou!!