Paragraphs

The basic unit of writing is a sentence. Learn how to write a sentence – a really good one – and you’ll learn how to create a world, one that’s animated by people and things and the relations between them. This is why writing always starts with a sentence. 

But writing doesn’t end there. You’ll also need to organize your sentences into some kind of order on the page if you want the reader to follow your line of thought. This is where the paragraph comes in. 

On the surface, the paragraph seems like a formal extension of the sentence. The sentence is a grammatical unit that contains a subject and predicate. So isn’t the paragraph a grammatical unit that contains one or more sentences? 

Yes and no. Yes, because a paragraph does contain one or more sentences – that is its defining characteristic. Also: no, because a paragraph isn’t a grammatical unit at all. Grammar codifies language usage, laying down the rules of speech and writing. But a paragraph follows no rules. Or rather, in typographical terms, a paragraph follows only the rule of the page. And that’s a rule that changes from one page to the next. 

Consider the page you are reading now. Each paragraph in this blogpost is relatively short, and that’s by design. I suspect most people will read this blog on their phone, scrolling on a screen the width of four or five fingers. On a handheld device, a long paragraph looks about as inviting as a trudge through a muddy field. You just know it’s going to be a struggle. 

But in book form, short paragraphs tend to look choppy and unfinished. So don’t be surprised to see longer paragraphs when a version of this blog comes out in paperback someday. (University of Chicago Press, are you listening?)

Each paragraph sends a coded message to the reader about the difficulty level of the prose, about how much information the author wants the reader to keep in their head at any given time. This is why Stephen King calls the paragraph a ‘map of intent’ (2000: 145). A paragraph tells the reader what kind of terrain they’ll encounter and how much effort it will take for them to traverse it, without them having to read a single word. 

The reader sees the paragraph prior to reading it, like a rock climber peering up at the cliff face before their ascent. A vast block of text that spans an entire page will seem more imposing than bite-sized chunks of text spread over a larger surface area.

Maybe some readers will be prepared to scale paragraphs of any magnitude. But most readers will probably baulk at climbing the prose equivalent of a Kilimanjaro. Assume that the reader is prepared for a leisurely stroll, not a strenuous hike; create maps of intent that promise a gentle incline and plenty of rest stops along the way. 

In his classic style guide, H.W. Fowler says that each paragraph is a ‘unit of thought, not of length’. Good advice, up to a point. No one likes to read a paragraph that’s muddled and digressive, one that goes around and around without ever settling on a particular topic. But it’s not always clear when one thought ends and another begins, because thoughts have a way of overlapping and intermingling. A unit of thought isn’t something we can measure out, with pinpoint precision, like a gram of sugar or a litre of water. 

A good paragraph is a matter for the ear to hear and for the eye to see; there is no set length. But, if in doubt, shoot for seven or eight sentences of varying lengths. Any more than that and you’ll risk losing your thread and trying the reader’s patience. There are exceptions, of course, but unless you’re W.G. Sebald – whose paragraphs in his poetic travelogue The Rings of Saturn sometimes stretch over a dozen pages – it’s tricky to pull off. 

Whatever number of sentences you land on, just make sure there’s enough light and air around your paragraphs for the reader to remain calm and stay focused. Use the white space of the page to ventilate your paragraphs and let the sunshine in. The reader will thank you for it with their attention.