Right-branching sentences

Think of a sentence in geometrical terms. In English, we start writing on the left-hand side of the page and keep going until we arrive at a full-stop. If the main verb makes an early appearance, we call this a ‘right-branching’ sentence – the sentence spreads its tendrils rightwards. If the main verb shows up late, closer to the full-stop, we call it a ‘left-branching’ sentence – the sentence unfurls slowly, bunched up on the left. 

A right-branching sentence should be your default setting for writing. First comes the subject and then comes the verb, followed by the rest of the sentence. The best writers hew to this basic structure. Here’s a passage from Ian McEwan’s The Innocent, a Cold War spy novel with a coming-of-age twist: 

Twenty minutes later he was sitting at the dining room table filling his fountain pen. He wiped the nib with a rag he kept for the purpose. He squared the sheet of paper in front of him. Now that he had a workplace he was content, despite the confusion around Glass. His impulse was to set things in order. He was preparing to write the first shopping list of his life. He contemplated his needs. It was difficult to think about food. He was not at all hungry. He had everything he needed. A job, a place where he was expected. He would have a pass, he was a part of a team, a sharer in a secret. He was a member of a clandestine élite, Glass’s five or ten thousand, who gave the city its real purpose. He wrote ‘Salz’. He had seen his mother make her effortless lists on a sheet of Basildon Bond. 1lb mnce, 2lb crts, 5lb pots. Such feeble encodings were not appropriate to a member of the intelligence community, one with level three clearance in Operation Gold. And he could not cook. He considered Glass’s domestic arrangement, crossed out ‘Salz’ and wrote ‘Kaffee und Zucker’. He consulted his dictionary for powdered milk: Milchpulver. Now the list was easy. As it grew longer he seemed to be inventing and defining himself. (1990: 24) 

The power of the passage comes from its right-branching sentences: the main character, the main action, and then everything else. The subject is mostly same in every sentence (he), which anchors meaning for the reader. Some of the verbs move the story along, accelerating the action (wiped, squared, contemplated, wrote, considered, crossed out, consulted, had seen, was sitting, was preparing), while others describe a state of being, slamming on the brakes (was, were, would have, had, could, seemed). But almost every sentence follows the same template, one that never fails to deliver. Subject, verb, rest of sentence. 

In academic writing, we often encounter left-branching sentences. Authors frontload each sentence with information before arriving – finally – at the subject and the verb. It makes a lot of scholarship hard to digest. Consider this passage, published in the journal Organizational Dynamics. 

While there are some benefits to working virtually such as better work-life balance by working from home, more efficient use of time gained by not commuting to an office, and increased access to the best talent that can be located anywhere, there are also unique challenges faced by virtual employees. Employees may feel lower levels of trust with and support from their manager and their organization as a result of working remotely. Moreover, since strong cultures are created by interactions with others in that culture and the visible reinforcements of cultural values found in an office’s signs, symbols, and artifacts, working from home inevitably diminishes the employees’ connections to the corporate culture’s values, beliefs and norms. (Newman and Ford, 2021: 1) 

Of these three sentences, which one is the easiest to understand? I’d bet my money on sentence number two, which starts with the subject and the verb (employees may feel). It’s an example of a right-branching sentence. But it’s sandwiched in-between two left-branching sentences, sentences that force that reader to store information in their mind before they know how to make sense of it. It’s like watching a film in reverse: the denouement arrives ahead of the inciting incident, and so the story is harder to follow – and you’ll be wondering who the protagonists are and why they’re behaving so strangely. The same goes for sentences.

Here’s how the authors might reformulate the passage above: 

There are benefits to working virtually, such as improving work-life balance and reducing commuting time for employees. But remote workers also face unique challenges. Employees may trust their manager less and feel a lack of support from their organization as a result of working remotely. They will also loosen their connection to a corporate culture’s values, beliefs, and norms, because working virtually prevents employees from interacting with each other in an office adorned with company-related signs, symbols, and artefacts. 

The verbs now exert a centripetal force on each sentence, serving as the fixed points around which everything else orbits (are, may trust, may feel, will loosen). We start from the centre and work our way outwards, spinning in tight circles, never leaving the verb’s gravitational pull. This is the beauty of the right-branching sentence: it’s like a law of motion for writing.