David Albertyn's Blog
August 16, 2020
What is Good Writing and How to Achieve It
It's the question that is so often asked by writers, readers, editors and agents: what exactly is good writing? Beyond simply adequate vocabulary, grammar, sentence structure, stylistic techniques, and so on, what makes a book—and in this context a book of fiction—well written? I have often heard people in the industry say, you can't exactly pinpoint what good writing is, you just feel it. I feel that this is true to an extent, but I also feel that at times there are clear indications of effective writing. Something I have noticed in the works of several great writers is that they don't overdo anything, but everything they do, they do well. I feel that this is a useful guiding principle for a conventional writing of good quality. (By conventional, I mean that there are of course countless examples of brilliant writing where the writer completely immerses the reader in an excess of dialogue or action or exposition or descriptive detail or a character sketch or uses of style, or completely breaks form and convention altogether in another way, but that this guiding principle is to assist in a more generic version of effective writing.)
What is good writing? To reiterate my interpretation of a standard, conventional form of effective writing (and to be clear, this is an interpretation that helps me approach my writing and not intended at all as a definitive answer to this question): nothing is overdone, but everything is done well. By this I mean that passages of dialogue do not stretch on too long, but the dialogue is fresh, engaging, and distinctive. Action is not endless, and occurs judiciously, but it is visceral, immersive, and perhaps even shocking. Descriptions are done with just a couple of brushstrokes, but they are evocative enough to paint a full picture. Metaphors and similes are used sparingly, but when they are used they are original and illuminating. Characters are introduced or described briefly, but their uniqueness comes through vividly. And exposition can be dotted between the rest, connecting scenes, themes, and backstory. For me this is a useful principle when approaching my work.
The book that was significant in helping me become aware of this approach is Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall. While Mantel does take her time throughout her Cromwell trilogy with long passages devoted to a particular form (dialogue most often, I would argue), she often moves seamlessly between various options available to her. I feel that nowhere is this more evident than in the opening chapter of Wolf Hall, which I simply love, and which I often refer to for inspiration when I feel stuck with my own writing. In this chapter, without indulging in any one thing, we are given a strong sense of all the characters presented, a clear image of 16th century England, gut-wrenching action, exquisite dialogue, and the beginnings of an epic tale about a particular person. Another novel that made me aware of this style of writing is J.M. Coetzee’s Disgrace. Something that has stuck with me from it is how sparse are some of Coetzee’s physical descriptions of his characters, and yet how vivid in my head were the images of those characters. Likewise, the pivotal action scene of the book, the most famous and talked about scene of this famous novel, is actually quite brief. Yet it is shocking. It stays with you. And the force of it comments on a whole host of issues. Both Disgrace and Wolf Hall won the Booker, or Man Booker, prize. This is an indication that this guideline seems to resonate with critics and the industry at large, and ideally it can be an asset for anyone attempting to be published.
Now a person can definitely follow this guideline for much of their book or story and then break from it for specific sections to completely expand one aspect of their writing. So many 19th century classics are flush with examples of extensive passages devoted to descriptions or philosophical discussions for instance, but a contemporary example that really struck me is a passage near the end of Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Buried Giant, where dialogue alone runs on for pages, without even specifying who is speaking. At this point of the story, despite there being multiple speakers, the reader can tell exactly who is saying what and the passage is riveting and crucial. A writer can also do the opposite: immerse the reader in particular forms for significant stretches of a story, and then move into this flow between the various options for key moments.
I am against rules in writing. I do not like advice given to writers that says, never do this, or never do that. I don’t see how entirely cutting out options for writers is good for literature or language. I don’t believe we should throw away tools that can be at a writer’s disposal. But I do believe that principles, guidelines, techniques can be extremely useful, and taken or discarded at the writer’s discretion. For me, this principle of not overdoing anything, but trying to execute everything with a sharp quality and focus, flowing between your options, is extremely helpful. I feel that especially for writers in their earlier stages of their writing development, this can be a useful approach to their work. Once the writer feels more comfortable with their storytelling, then it might be easier to try less conventional methods and push the limits of what is available to them.
What is good writing? To reiterate my interpretation of a standard, conventional form of effective writing (and to be clear, this is an interpretation that helps me approach my writing and not intended at all as a definitive answer to this question): nothing is overdone, but everything is done well. By this I mean that passages of dialogue do not stretch on too long, but the dialogue is fresh, engaging, and distinctive. Action is not endless, and occurs judiciously, but it is visceral, immersive, and perhaps even shocking. Descriptions are done with just a couple of brushstrokes, but they are evocative enough to paint a full picture. Metaphors and similes are used sparingly, but when they are used they are original and illuminating. Characters are introduced or described briefly, but their uniqueness comes through vividly. And exposition can be dotted between the rest, connecting scenes, themes, and backstory. For me this is a useful principle when approaching my work.
The book that was significant in helping me become aware of this approach is Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall. While Mantel does take her time throughout her Cromwell trilogy with long passages devoted to a particular form (dialogue most often, I would argue), she often moves seamlessly between various options available to her. I feel that nowhere is this more evident than in the opening chapter of Wolf Hall, which I simply love, and which I often refer to for inspiration when I feel stuck with my own writing. In this chapter, without indulging in any one thing, we are given a strong sense of all the characters presented, a clear image of 16th century England, gut-wrenching action, exquisite dialogue, and the beginnings of an epic tale about a particular person. Another novel that made me aware of this style of writing is J.M. Coetzee’s Disgrace. Something that has stuck with me from it is how sparse are some of Coetzee’s physical descriptions of his characters, and yet how vivid in my head were the images of those characters. Likewise, the pivotal action scene of the book, the most famous and talked about scene of this famous novel, is actually quite brief. Yet it is shocking. It stays with you. And the force of it comments on a whole host of issues. Both Disgrace and Wolf Hall won the Booker, or Man Booker, prize. This is an indication that this guideline seems to resonate with critics and the industry at large, and ideally it can be an asset for anyone attempting to be published.
Now a person can definitely follow this guideline for much of their book or story and then break from it for specific sections to completely expand one aspect of their writing. So many 19th century classics are flush with examples of extensive passages devoted to descriptions or philosophical discussions for instance, but a contemporary example that really struck me is a passage near the end of Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Buried Giant, where dialogue alone runs on for pages, without even specifying who is speaking. At this point of the story, despite there being multiple speakers, the reader can tell exactly who is saying what and the passage is riveting and crucial. A writer can also do the opposite: immerse the reader in particular forms for significant stretches of a story, and then move into this flow between the various options for key moments.
I am against rules in writing. I do not like advice given to writers that says, never do this, or never do that. I don’t see how entirely cutting out options for writers is good for literature or language. I don’t believe we should throw away tools that can be at a writer’s disposal. But I do believe that principles, guidelines, techniques can be extremely useful, and taken or discarded at the writer’s discretion. For me, this principle of not overdoing anything, but trying to execute everything with a sharp quality and focus, flowing between your options, is extremely helpful. I feel that especially for writers in their earlier stages of their writing development, this can be a useful approach to their work. Once the writer feels more comfortable with their storytelling, then it might be easier to try less conventional methods and push the limits of what is available to them.
