Why Prose Falls Flat

Photo by Jordan Heath on Unsplash

When I first started writing stories, I had entirely the wrong idea about words.

I thought that, if I wanted to be an author, I had to put on a “writerly voice”. I had to sound mysterious and important.

The result? Most of my early work is a tangled, unreadable mess.

This is something I see all the time as a developmental editor: the writer has a great story, but the prose is so contrived that no one will ever enjoy it.

For me, spending six weeks at Clarion West ruined clunky prose in the best possible way. Once you’ve heard N.K. Jemisin dismantle your terrible sentences, you’ll never make the same mistakes again.

But why do our words go so wrong? And how do we fix them?

Whether you’re writing your first novel or your tenth, it all begins with the same thing: the reader’s valuable supply of attention.

Our Most Precious Resource

When we pick up a book, our brain is actually doing a whole bunch of different things at once:

• Deciphering the words themselves.

• Imagining the physical location of the story.

• Keeping track of what’s happening.

• Remembering what happened in previous chapters.

• Recalling the names of the different characters.

• Thinking about what’s going to happen next.

• Becoming invested in the protagonist’s story and caring about what’s going on.

All of this requires a slice of our precious attention, and sadly, it isn’t an unlimited resource. You only have so much to give, and when a story demands too much, it’s the last thing on this list that suffers: the first casualty of war is our ability to care about the story.

The upshot of all this? Managing our reader’s attention becomes one of our most important (and least talked about) writing skills.

Photo by Sixteen Miles Out on Unsplash

Where Words Go Wrong

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying we can’t have beautiful descriptions.

Trust me. There’s nothing in the world I love more than gorgeous prose. But gorgeous doesn’t have to mean overly complicated. And when it does? Those moments are best saved for the quiet lulls in the action. Times when the reader has a little attention to spare, and we can take advantage of that.

That’s where so many of the writers I work with go wrong. They overload their stories with complicated sentences, trying to sound as writerly as possible, and ignore (or have never fully grasped) the fundamental rules of writing clearly.

Here are the five mistakes I see writers make most often:

Tangled sentences

This is the trap that many of my early stories tripped, fell into, and skewered themselves on. Writing sentences like this:

As the copper-plated automaton lurched forward, gears grinding and echoing through the vaulted chamber, hung with banners of ancient kings whose faces were eroded from memory, Liora, clutching the spellbook she’d stolen just moments before and was already regretting, stumbled sideways behind a toppled pillar slick with moss and ancient dust.

How many times did you have to read that sentence to make sense of it?

My guess is: more than once.

This is an extreme example, but I read lesser versions of this sentence thousands of times in my day-to-day work. They litter so many of the books I work on as a professional editor.

Fantasy novels are especially at risk of this sort of language, although I’ve read my fair share of sci-fi books facing similar problems. And the worst part? Writing this way is especially damaging in speculative fiction, because the reader is already using their precious attention to make sense of a spectacular world. When they also have to go back and re-read everything half a dozen times? They’re well on their way to putting our book down and never picking it back up again.

Notice especially how the “camera” in this sentence wanders: first we’re looking at the copper-plated automaton as it lurches forwards, we hear the grinding gears, shift to looking at the vaulted chamber and the banners of ancient kings. Then there’s Liora. Who’s this? How has she come into this sentence? Does she have something to do with those kings? Oh, no, she’s clutching a spell book. I wonder how it got there. Right, so she stole it, and she’s regretting it, that makes sense. She stumbles sideways. Why? Ah! The automaton. I’d forgotten about that. Now we’re not looking at her anymore, and the focus shifts to that toppled pillar.

Exhausting, isn’t it? Now imagine reading a whole page that’s written this way. A whole chapter. Even an entire book.

No matter how good the story is, the reader will never experience it.

Now, consider how the same sentence would look if we simplified things:

The copper automaton lurched forward, metal grinding on metal, echoing off the vaulted roof. Liora was toast. She should never have stolen that spellbook. Frantically searching for an escape, all she saw were the faded faces of dead kings, staring back at her from old banners. They were no help at all. She’d have to go it alone. Diving behind a toppled pillar, she braced herself and screwed her eyes shut, waiting for the enormous copper fist to fall.

See how each sentence has a clear focus, and makes itself almost invisible?

This helps the reader pay attention to what matters most: what’s actually happening, and whether or not Liora will survive.

Photo by freestocks on Unsplash

Filter words

These happen whenever we place the point of view character between the reader and what’s happening. Words like saw, thought, felt, heard, noticed, realised, remembered, etc, all subconsciously remind the reader that there is someone else there. Someone who’s doing the seeing, thinking, feeling, and remembering.

It adds a subtle layer of distance, pulling the reader further away from the story and distracting them, as we see here:

She started to feel the cold seeping through her coat, causing her to shiver as she realised the fire had gone out. She could hear the wind beginning to rattle the shutters, making her think she should probably get up.

Importantly, words like started, causing, and beginning have a similar effect: they aren’t filter words per se, but they create a similar reaction—insulating and distancing the reader from the story.

And since most people read for immersion, this can cause big problems. Because while filter words aren’t always bad, they cause an unwanted effect on our readers: detaching them from the action and leaving them numb.

Addressing that problem (by removing filters and associated filler words) can have a massive impact:

She shivered, cold seeping through her coat and lodging in her bones. The fire must have gone out in the night. An icy wind rattled the shutters like clattering teeth. Time to get up, then.

Passive voice

In the same way that the events (and even individual moments) in a story come in an expected order, the same is true for sentences.

At their most simple, a sentence flows from subject, to verb, to object:

The woman ate an apple.

Something or someone (the woman) does something (ate) to another person or an object (the apple). Of course, not every sentence is going to follow this exact pattern, but the more we drift away from it, the harder it will be for our readers to decipher.

One particular trap we can fall into is to invert the natural order and put the object first:

The apple was eaten by the woman.

Sometimes, the subject even disappears entirely:

The apple was eaten.

As with filter words, the passive voice isn’t exactly wrong—it just creates an extra layer of distance. Which is great, if that’s exactly what we want. If we’re trying to hide the subject for some reason, or want to create a detached or dream-like feeling? Then passive voice is helpful.

But when it winds through most of our scenes and paragraphs, it causes further confusion, muddies our meaning, and leaves our reader further and further away from the story.

Adjectives & adverbs

I love a good adjective, and even adverbs have an important place in our writing. But many of the speculative fiction writers I work with take things way too far.

Her long, silken, midnight-blue cloak billowed dramatically as she stepped quietly onto the wide, gleaming marble platform. Dozens of curious, whispering courtiers watched her carefully, their jewel-like eager eyes reflecting the bright golden light from the chandelier.

By trying to create a rich description (and wanting to make sure the reader pictures everything perfectly) they write sentences that are impossibly bogged down.

The effect is similar to the tangled sentences: the reader is distracted, their precious supply of attention depleted, and a lot of the time, they are lost.

Remember, our job isn’t to describe every little thing or use every adjective in the dictionary. Our descriptions are here to create a rough framework of vibes. Something the reader can fill will the glorious power of their own imagination.

What’s the most important thing about this scene? What atmosphere are we trying to convey? And how can we focus on a few key details that show it, while leaving enough room for the story to breathe?

A lot of the time, less is more:

Estella lifted her chin and stepped onto the marble platform, her midnight blue cloak billowing. Below, dozens of jewel-like eyes stared back, the ballroom washed in golden light as courtiers whispered behind their painted fans.

Photo by Lê Tân on Unsplash

Honourable mention: italicised thoughts

In the past, it was normal for writers to italicise direct thoughts like this:

She stepped over the fallen branch, wincing at the snap of dry wood. Why did I think wandering into this forest alone was a good idea? she thought. The wind whispered through the trees, and she hugged her cloak tighter. She sighed to herself. I wish I’d brought a lantern.

But modern readers are mostly here for immersion, and close third point of view is king. That means we generally want to eliminate anywhere that the prose draws attention to itself: folding a character’s thoughts into the flow of the narrative, instead of making them stand out.

She stepped over the fallen branch, wincing at the snap of dry wood. Why did she think it was a good idea to come out here alone? The wind whispered through the forest, and she hugged her cloak tighter. She definitely should have brought a lantern.

A clean window with a clear view

In a perfect world, we want our prose to be like a pane of glass: invisible, and offering the reader an unobstructed view into the story. This is especially true in the speculative genres, when our readers already have to take in a lot of fantastical details.

We can let loose in quiet moments: using powerful metaphors and rich description to enchant our readers and transport them to another world. But knowing when to open the taps, and when to focus on the story, is vital if we want to keep our readers invested and stop them from getting overwhelmed.

Especially when you’re just starting out as a writer, or working on the first pages of your book, clear, concise sentences will give your characters (and their story) the space they need to change the world.

✒️Before You Go...

Want to build a storytelling community?

I’m committed to keeping all my deep-dive posts (like this one) free. But if you’re finding real value here and would like to take the conversation further, you can help me launch a paid tier with an interactive twist.

When we reach 30 pledges, I’ll unlock:

• A subscriber-only chat for real-time questions and support.

• Monthly live workshops where we’ll dive into stories submitted by you, and find out how to make them stronger.

Think of it as a creative co-working space for spec fic writers. If that sounds like your kind of thing, you can pledge your support below and help to make it happen.