Let’s talk about “good writing.” There are two flavors: writing that sounds good, and writing that’s actually right. One is like a catchy jingle, the other is like a correct answer on a math test. You might think these two are as unrelated as a car’s horsepower and whether it’s painted neon pink. But, surprise! I’m convinced they’re secretly best friends.
Here’s the kind of idea that makes philosophers rub their hands together: it sounds ridiculous, but it just might be true. Why would writing that tickles your ears also be more likely to tickle your brain in the right way? Let’s dig in.
From my own adventures in writing, I’ve learned you can’t chase two totally different goals at once—try to, and you’ll end up with a literary Frankenstein. But when I try to make a sentence sound lovely, I never find myself sacrificing the meaning. In fact, the opposite happens: fixing an awkward sentence almost always makes the idea clearer. If it didn’t, we’d all just grunt our way through essays and call it a day. But no, making things sound better actually helps the ideas shine.
And by “right,” I don’t just mean “technically true.” I mean the ideas are well-developed, the conclusions are juicy, and the details are just right—not too much, not too little, like a Goldilocks porridge of insight. Saying the right true things, not just any true things.
But how does the pursuit of beautiful sentences help you reach this literary nirvana? Here’s a clue: years ago, while laying out my first book, I discovered that if a section ran a line too long, I’d rewrite it to fit. You’d think this would make the writing worse, like trimming a bonsai with a chainsaw. Yet, every time, the result was better. It’s as if the writing gods reward those who edit under pressure.
This isn’t because I’m some editing wizard. I bet if you asked anyone to trim a random paragraph, they’d end up with something snappier. It’s like shaking a box of oddly-shaped objects: the shaking isn’t designed to make them fit, but somehow, they always end up packed tighter. Gravity’s rules: no floating allowed, so every shake is an improvement.
Writing is the same. When you rewrite a clunky passage, you won’t make it less true—you simply can’t bear to. So, every edit is a step toward clarity. It’s obvious when you think about it: writing that sounds good is more likely to be right, just like a well-shaken box is more likely to be packed tight. But there’s more: making writing sound good doesn’t just improve the ideas by accident—it actively helps you get them right.
Why? Because smooth writing is easier to read. And guess who reads your work the most? You do! When I’m writing, I spend more time rereading than typing. I’m like a woodworker, sanding down each sentence, checking for splinters. The easier it is to read, the easier it is to spot the rough patches.
So, yes, the two types of “good” in writing are connected. Making writing sound good helps you fix mistakes both without realizing it and on purpose. It’s like shaking the box and also shining a flashlight inside. But let’s go even further: is writing that sounds good actually more likely to be right? Wild as it sounds, I think so.
There’s a connection between sound and meaning, even at the word level. Some words just sound like what they mean—glitter, scrape, cavalcade. But the magic really happens in how you string words together. Good writing has rhythm, but not the steady thump of a metronome. It’s more like jazz: the rhythm matches the ideas, which can be simple or twisty, short or sprawling.
An essay is a tidied-up train of thought, and thoughts have their own rhythm. When writing sounds good, it’s because it matches that natural flow. Good writers instinctively chase both rhythm and meaning at the same time. Often, when something sounds off, it’s because the idea underneath is off. “Ugh, this doesn’t sound right what am I really trying to say?”
The sound of writing is less like a car’s paint and more like the shape of an airplane, if it looks right, it’ll probably fly.
However, this only holds when writing is used to develop ideas. If you’re just reporting on someone else’s experiment or building instructions for IKEA furniture, the writing might be clunky even if the ideas are solid. Textbooks and surveys often fall into this trap: the ideas live elsewhere, so the writing can be as lively as a tax return.
At this point, you might be thinking, “But what about liars? Can’t a smooth talker write something beautiful and totally bogus?” Sure, but only with some serious method acting. To write beautifully and falsely, you have to almost believe your own nonsense. You’re building a flawless train of thought, but on tracks that don’t exist.
So, while we can’t say all beautiful writing is true, we can say that ugly writing is usually a sign the ideas are off, too. The two kinds of good in writing are like the ends of a rope, tug one, and the other moves. It’s hard to be right without sounding right.
Author’s Notes
Sometimes, when you try to shoehorn a new point into the middle of your article, the flow gets wonky. That’s because ideas are tree-shaped, and articles are more like a one-way street. Occasionally, you have to slap on a footnote and call it a day.
And yes, if you shake the box too hard or force your writing into some bizarre constraint, like alternating one – and two-syllable words you’ll end up with a mess. Moderation, as always is key.
Weirdly, this very paragraph was guilty of repetition until I got annoyed enough to fix it. Turns out, the repetition was a symptom of a deeper problem with the ideas. Fixing the words fixed the thinking, too, It’s funny how thatchings like this work.
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