The Sentence: A Lesson in Composition

Before the pandemic, I attended numerous author readings and writing panels across New York City. The authors I listened to — nonfiction and fiction writers alike, from Zadie Smith and Garth Greenwell, to Leslie Jamison and Jonathan Safran Foer — each repeated the same adage, again and again: the most important part of writing is the sentence. 

I didn’t like it. I suspected these writers of a smarmy unwillingness to share their real secrets. It seemed obvious; of course writing was made up of sentences, I thought. Duh!

I was taking for granted, I think, that I have been fortunate to read so much fluent, enjoyable prose in my life. Prose that is, upon closer inspection, entirely composed of sentences that are — and here’s the crucial point — widely varied. Sentences which, in their very construction, communicate meaning. Let me state this another way: it is not the words in the sentence that matter so much (although they do, of course, matter). Rather, it’s how the words are arranged that’s important. 

Each sentence is like a little box into which a writer’s chosen words are piled. How the box looks from the outside, regardless of the words it contains, is very important. Some boxes are brightly colored. Some are small and plain. Some are meant to stack neatly on top of one another. Although opening the box — being able to read the words and absorb their meaning — is thrilling, we wouldn’t experience such a thrill without the careful construction of the box itself. Instead, the words would be scattered, presented in lazy disarray. They’d be strewn across the floor. 

Enough of this box metaphor. Let me offer a few real-world examples. Below, I’ll show you a few well-composed sentences I have analyzed with a student I coach here through Gilliam Writers Group. My student admires these sentences’ author — longform journalist Lilian Ross — and so I thought it might be useful for us to look closely at how, exactly, Ross constructs them. 

The following sentences come from an essay published in The New Yorker, entitled “How Do You Like It Now, Gentlemen?” In this essay, Ross profiles the novelist Ernest Hemingway. Here is her description of this famous literary figure:

“Hemingway was wearing a red plaid wool shirt, a figured wool necktie, a tan wool sweater-vest, a brown tweed jacket tight across the back and with sleeves too short for his arms, gray flannel slacks, Argyle socks, and loafers, and he looked bearish, cordial, and constricted. His hair, which was very long in back, was gray, except at the temples, where it was white; his mustache was white, and he had a ragged, half-inch full white beard. There was a bump about the size of a walnut over his left eye. He was wearing steel-rimmed spectacles, with a piece of paper under the nosepiece.”

What is Ross doing in these sentences? Why does she go into such detail about Hemingway’s outfit? The first sentence of the above excerpt contains not only a list of what seems like every article of clothing on his body, but also a list of descriptors for how he looks: “bearish, cordial, and constricted.” Why does Ross opt for the long list (which is to say, the long sentence) as her chosen form of description? Is it because long lists create a feeling of chaos for the reader? Of overwhelm? When, later, we learn that Hemingway lived “nine miles outside Havana, with his wife, a domestic staff of nine, fifty-two cats, sixteen dogs, a couple of hundred pigeons, and three cows,” are we not, somehow, primed to absorb this bewildering information? When we learn that he has traveled to New York with fourteen large bags, are we surprised? 

Ross’s initial list — the one containing every detail of Hemmingway’s appearance — has already warned us, in a subtle way, that this man is a mess. He is wearing so many things. He has brought so many bags. He has so many pigeons.

Curiously, Ross lavishes a ton of time on Hemingway’s socks and trousers, but makes only cursory mention of the more interesting aspects of the author’s visage: “There was a bump about the size of a walnut over his left eye. He was wearing steel-rimmed spectacles, with a piece of paper under the nosepiece.” These oddities are nearly swept under the rug. The ultimate effect, literarily speaking, is that of a cheeky little wink from Ross. We get the feeling that Ross will tell us more about the good stuff later, if we’re lucky.

Here is another example of Ross’s approach to sentence composition, taken from the same paragraph as the excerpt above: 

“He crooked the arm around the briefcase into a tight hug and said that it contained the unfinished manuscript of his new book, ‘Across the River and into the Trees.’ He crooked the arm around the wiry little man into a tight hug and said he had been his seat companion on the flight.”

These are two different sentences, placed side-by-side, that start exactly the same way — with “He crooked the arm around…” Why does Ross make this stylistic choice? What I believe, and what my student helped me to understand through our lesson, is that by beginning both sentences in the same way, Ross creates a kind of symmetry, inviting the reader to compare the two sentences’ contents along with their forms. These sentences are structurally equal; thus, their contents are also, perhaps, equal — at least in some way. It’s up to us to figure out how. 

Ross’s Hemingway “crooked the arm around” a briefcase containing his manuscript, which, presumably, he has spent many months writing. He also “crooked the arm around” a man he just met on a flight. So, what do we learn about Hemingway when Ross equates these two objects of Hemmingway’s affection, the manuscript and the one-time seat companion? In my view, we learn something about Hemingway’s priorities; his outlook on life. We come to understand that Hemingway is an eccentric, a man who sees equal value in a piece of art he has labored over for months and a man he has spent a few hours with. 

I don’t believe it is enough to simply study someone else’s sentences. Ross is an excellent writer, and there is much to be appreciated about her constructions. But you, too, are a great writer. Could you not attempt your own sentence using the box Ross has already built for us? What would it be like to describe someone — your mother, your coworker, your sworn enemy — in the form of a very long list? What would it reveal about this person? And what would it be like to begin two consecutive sentences exactly the same way? What would your two sentences equate? What would their reader understand, having imagined their two subjects as equal? 

All of this is to say that, despite my initial reservations, those writing-panel guests were correct. They meant exactly what they said: the sentence is important. It is the water upon which all else floats: voice, plot, characterization, tone. Sound intimidating? It doesn’t have to be! There’s no need to start from scratch. In fact, there are countless beautiful sentences already out there, the bones of which — or the boxes of which — you can utilize in your own writing. All you have to do is pick up your favorite book, and underline your favorite sentences in it. Then, get to work. Pay attention to which aspects of the sentence provide its essential structure, and which parts you can swap out for your own writing. Substitute in your own words (no plagiarizing!), your own characters and voice. Pay attention to how it feels to write a sentence in a new way. And then, do it again.