Short sentences

A short sentence expresses one clear thought. It can be twenty words (sometimes more), or it can be two (sometimes fewer). No way. Way. 

A short sentence isn’t really a question of length. It’s more a matter of clarity and purpose. The clarity comes from the one-two hit of subject and verb. The purpose derives from knowing who the main character is and what they are doing. If your writing is driven by short sentences, you’ll never have to worry about losing the reader’s attention or stretching their patience. Sure, you might irritate the reader in other ways. But at least they’ll know what you are saying, and this is how a conversation starts. 

We learn to write short sentences at a young age. Think about the classic series of British children’s books from the 1960s featuring Peter and Jane. The sentences are extremely short, precision engineered for preschool readers, powered by subject and verb. Peter is here. Jane is here. I am here. There’s nothing wrong with these sentences. They are strong and durable, impossible to misunderstand. Peter likes the dog. Jane likes the dog. I like the dog. But they soon start to sound childish – which of course they are. Here is a toy shop. Peter and Jane are in the toy shop. I am in the toy shop. Our sentences will grow longer as we enter adolescence and then adulthood. That’s inevitable. But our mistake is to think that all short sentences, irrespective of content or context, are childish. 

In his book Several Short Sentences About Writing, Verlyn Klinkenborg invites us to admire the short sentence and its capacity for meaning-making. A short sentence needn’t remind us of our school days, he tells us. A short sentence can be grown-up and sophisticated. It can address R-rated themes, in a voice rich with experience and insight. A short sentence is a balancing act of confidence and restraint, neither withholding its meaning nor flaunting its cleverness. Remember, it expresses one clear thought. And that’s all the reader wants, really: one clear thought followed by another, and another, and another. 

The problem with academic writing isn’t that the sentences are too short. No one has ever read a journal article and complained that the prose is too pithy, too succinct. That’s because it’s harder to write bad short sentences than it is to write bad long ones. Long sentences meander. They lead us here, there, and everywhere until they finally run out of steam, leaving us gasping for breath at a full-stop. And academic writing is full of them. Here’s one: 

What is generally called community currencies in English (monnaie sociale in French and moneda comunitaria or moneda social in Spanish), mostly activate the principle of reciprocity in a closed system without convertibility and sometimes even without commensurability with public money by setting up a system of reciprocal exchange marked apart by the use of a money, distancing its conditions for circulating from those of market exchange. (Blanc, 2018: xx) 

There’s a lot wrong with this sentence. The main verb (activate) doesn’t match its object (the principle) – just how many principles have you activated in your life? The prepositions clog up the text like clumps of hair in a drain (in, in, in, of, in, without, without, with, by, of, by, of, for, of). As you enter the final stretch, you’re going to have to guess what it refers to and what kind of conditions for circulating the author has mind. But most of all, the sentence is too long. Sixty-six words, if you’re counting. It’s a slog to get through. 

Most problems can be fixed by turning a long sentence into a few shorter ones. This involves putting a full-stop after the first complete idea. It also involves removing unnecessary words, words that hang off the sentence like ornamental cornices. We can even try out a Peter and Jane version, just to untangle the knots: 

Community currencies establish a system of reciprocal exchange. Community currencies circulate in a closed system. Community currencies are neither convertible to nor commensurate with real money. Community currencies are separate from market exchange. 

The original sentence is split into four and the word count has been halved. The short sentences now have clarity and purpose, but they are excruciatingly austere. Peter likes community currencies. Jane likes community currencies. I like community currencies. So let’s stitch some of the sentences back together and see what happens: 

‘Community currencies’ (monnaie sociale in French and moneda comunitaria or moneda social in Spanish) establish a system of reciprocal exchange. Such currencies circulate in a closed system, separate from market exchange, which means they are neither convertible to nor commensurate with real money.

Now we know what the passage is about, without having to decipher or deduce the meaning. The reader doesn’t have to struggle to grasp the point because the writer lays it out for them, one step at a time. The sentences are short but not abbreviated, and we would be surprised to find them in a children’s book. They are adult sentences. 

Practice short sentences like pianists practice scales. Doing so will train your ears and improve your dexterity, and let you handle sentences of any length or complexity. At first your sentences will sound clipped, shockingly abrupt, but over time you’ll grow accustomed to writing them. It will become second nature. And then, as you master brevity, you’ll learn to build longer and longer sentences, sentences that have the structural integrity of a skyscraper, a steel frame invisibly supporting the curtain exterior, constructed to withstand stress and command attention.