May 2025

There are two senses in which writing can be good: it can sound good, and the ideas can be right.

It can have nice, flowing sentences, and it can draw correct conclusions about important things.

It might seem as if these two kinds of good would be unrelated, like the speed of a car and the color it's painted.

And yet I don't think they are.

I think writing that sounds good is more likely to be right.

So here we have the most exciting kind of idea: one that seems both preposterous and true.

Let's examine it.

How can this possibly be true?

Writing can be good in two senses: it can sound good, and its ideas can be right. You'd expect these to be as unrelated as a car's speed and its color. Yet writing that sounds good seems more likely to be right.

So here we have the most exciting kind of idea: one that seems both preposterous and true. How can this possibly be true?

Writing can be good in two senses — it can sound good, and its ideas can be right — and these seem unrelated. But I think writing that sounds good is more likely to be right.

I know it's true from writing.

You can't simultaneously optimize two unrelated things; when you push one far enough, you always end up sacrificing the other.

And yet no matter how hard I push, I never find myself having to choose between the sentence that sounds best and the one that expresses an idea best. If I did, it would be frivolous to care how sentences sound.

But in practice it feels the opposite of frivolous.

Fixing sentences that sound bad seems to help get the ideas right. [1]

By right I mean more than just true.

Getting the ideas right means developing them well — drawing the conclusions that matter most, and exploring each one to the right level of detail.

So getting the ideas right is not just a matter of saying true things, but saying the right true things.

How could trying to make sentences sound good help you do that?

You can't optimize two unrelated things at once; push one far enough and you sacrifice the other. Yet I never have to choose between the sentence that sounds best and the one that says an idea best. Fixing sentences that sound bad seems to help get the ideas right.

By right I mean more than true: saying not just true things, but the right true things. How could making sentences sound good help with that?

You can't optimize two unrelated things at once, yet I never have to choose between the sentence that sounds best and the one that says an idea best. Getting ideas right means saying the right true things.

The clue to the answer is something I noticed 30 years ago when I was doing the layout for my first book.

Sometimes when you're laying out text you have bad luck.

For example, you get a section that runs one line longer than the page.

I don't know what ordinary typesetters do in this situation, but what I did was rewrite the section to make it a line shorter.

You'd expect such an arbitrary constraint to make the writing worse.

But I found, to my surprise, that it never did.

I always ended up with something I liked better.

I don't think this was because my writing was especially careless.

I think if you pointed to a random paragraph in anything written by anyone and told them to make it slightly shorter (or longer), they'd probably be able to come up with something better.

The best analogy for this phenomenon is when you shake a bin full of different objects.

The shakes are arbitrary motions.

Or more precisely, they're not calculated to make any two specific objects fit more closely together.

And yet repeated shaking inevitably makes the objects discover brilliantly clever ways of packing themselves.

Gravity won't let them become less tightly packed, so any change has to be a change for the better. [2]

So it is with writing.

If you have to rewrite an awkward passage, you'll never do it in a way that makes it less true.

You couldn't bear it, any more than gravity could bear things floating upward.

So any change in the ideas has to be a change for the better.

A clue: 30 years ago, laying out my first book, I'd rewrite a too-long section shorter. You'd expect such an arbitrary constraint to make the writing worse. It never did; I always liked the result better.

And not because my writing was careless. Tell anyone to make a random paragraph slightly shorter or longer, and they'd probably improve it.

The best analogy is shaking a bin of objects. The shakes are arbitrary, yet repeated shaking makes the objects discover brilliantly clever ways of packing themselves. Gravity won't let them pack less tightly, so any change is for the better.

So it is with writing. Rewrite an awkward passage and you'll never make it less true — you couldn't bear it, any more than gravity could bear things floating upward.

Laying out my first book, I'd rewrite a section to fit, and the arbitrary constraint always improved it. Like shaking a bin of objects, where gravity ensures any change packs them tighter, you can't rewrite a passage to make it less true.

It's obvious once you think about it.

Writing that sounds good is more likely to be right for the same reason that a well-shaken bin is more likely to be tightly packed.

But there's something else going on as well.

Sounding good isn't just a random external force that leaves the ideas in an essay better off.

It actually helps you to get them right.

The reason is that it makes the essay easier to read.

It's less work to read writing that flows well.

How does that help the writer? Because the writer is the first reader. When I'm working on an essay, I spend far more time reading than writing.

I'll reread some parts 50 or 100 times, replaying the thoughts in them and asking myself, like someone sanding a piece of wood, does anything catch?

Does anything feel wrong?

And the easier the essay is to read, the easier it is to notice if something catches.

So yes, the two senses of good writing are connected in at least two ways.

Trying to make writing sound good makes you fix mistakes unconsciously, and also helps you fix them consciously; it shakes the bin of ideas, and also makes mistakes easier to see.

So far sounding good is a random external force that leaves the ideas better off. But there's something else: it actually helps you get them right.

Because it makes the essay easier to read. How does that help the writer? Because the writer is the first reader. I spend far more time reading than writing, rereading parts 50 or 100 times, like someone sanding wood: does anything catch? The easier it reads, the easier that is to notice.

Sounding good isn't just an external force shaking the ideas better; it makes the essay easier to read. And because the writer is the first reader, an easier essay makes it easier to notice when something is wrong.

But now that we've dissolved one layer of preposterousness, I can't resist adding another.

Does sounding good do more than just help you get the ideas right?

Is writing that sounds good inherently more likely to be right?

Crazy as it may seem, I think that's true too.

Obviously there's a connection at the level of individual words.

There are lots of words in English that sound like what they mean, often in wonderfully subtle ways.

Glitter.

Round.

Scrape.

Prim.

Cavalcade.

But the sound of good writing depends even more on the way you put words together, and there's a connection at that level too.

When writing sounds good, it's mostly because it has good rhythm.

But the rhythm of good writing is not the rhythm of music, or the meter of verse.

It's not so regular.

If it were, it wouldn't be good, because the rhythm of good writing has to match the ideas in it, and ideas have all kinds of different shapes.

Sometimes they're simple and you just state them.

But other times they're more subtle, and you need longer, more complicated sentences to tease out all the implications.

An essay is a cleaned up train of thought, in the same way dialogue is cleaned up conversation, and a train of thought has a natural rhythm.

So when an essay sounds good, it's not merely because it has a pleasing rhythm, but because it has its natural one.

Which means you can use getting the rhythm right as a heuristic for getting the ideas right.

And not just in principle: good writers do both simultaneously as a matter of course.

Often I don't even distinguish between the two problems. I just think Ugh, this doesn't sound right; what do I mean to say here? [3]

The sound of writing turns out to be more like the shape of a plane than the color of a car.

If it looks good, as Kelly Johnson used to say, it will fly well.

But I can't resist adding a layer. Is writing that sounds good inherently more likely to be right? Crazy as it seems, I think that's true too.

There's a connection at the level of words: many sound like what they mean. Glitter. Cavalcade. But it depends even more on how you put words together.

Mostly that means rhythm — but not the regular rhythm of music or verse. Regular rhythm wouldn't be good, because it has to match the ideas, and ideas have all kinds of shapes: some simple, some needing longer sentences.

An essay is a cleaned-up train of thought, and a train of thought has a natural rhythm. So a good essay has not merely a pleasing rhythm but its natural one — which means getting the rhythm right is a heuristic for getting the ideas right. Often I just think Ugh, this doesn't sound right; what do I mean to say here?

The sound of writing is more like the shape of a plane than the color of a car. If it looks good, as Kelly Johnson used to say, it will fly well.

Beyond helping, is good-sounding writing inherently more likely to be right? Good writing has rhythm that matches the shape of ideas, and an essay is a cleaned-up train of thought — so getting the rhythm right is a heuristic for getting the ideas right.

This is only true of writing that's used to develop ideas, though.

It doesn't apply when you have ideas in some other way and then write about them afterward — for example, if you build something, or conduct an experiment, and then write a paper about it.

In such cases the ideas often live more in the work than the writing, so the writing can be bad even though the ideas are good.

The writing in textbooks and popular surveys can be bad for the same reason: the author isn't developing the ideas, merely describing other people's.

It's only when you're writing to develop ideas that there's such a close connection between the two senses of doing it well.

This only holds for writing used to develop ideas. When you get them some other way and write them up afterward — building something, running an experiment — they live in the work, so the writing can be bad even when the ideas are good. Textbooks are bad for the same reason: describing other people's ideas, not developing your own.

This only holds for writing used to develop ideas. When you get ideas elsewhere — building something, running an experiment — and write them up after, the ideas live in the work, and the writing can be bad though the ideas are good.

Ok, many people will be thinking, this seems plausible so far, but what about liars?

Is it not notoriously possible for a smooth-tongued liar to write something beautiful that's completely false?

It is, of course.

But not without method acting.

The way to write something beautiful and false is to begin by making yourself almost believe it.

So just like someone writing something beautiful and true, you're presenting a perfectly-formed train of thought.

The difference is the point where it attaches to the world.

You're saying something that would be true if certain false premises were.

If for some bizarre reason the number of jobs in a country were fixed, then immigrants really would be taking our jobs.

So it's not quite right to say that better sounding writing is more likely to be true.

Better sounding writing is more likely to be internally consistent.

If the writer is honest, internal consistency and truth converge.

But what about liars? Can't a smooth-tongued liar write something beautiful that's completely false?

Of course — but not without method acting. You write something false and beautiful by first almost believing it, so like the honest writer you present a perfectly-formed train of thought. The difference is where it attaches to the world: you're saying what would be true if certain false premises were. If the number of jobs were fixed, immigrants really would be taking ours.

So better-sounding writing isn't more likely to be true; it's more likely to be internally consistent. If the writer is honest, consistency and truth converge.

Can't a smooth liar write something beautiful and false? Yes, but only by method acting — almost believing it, so the false premises produce a perfectly consistent train of thought. Good-sounding writing is more likely to be internally consistent; if the writer is honest, consistency and truth converge.

But while we can't safely conclude that beautiful writing is true, it's usually safe to conclude the converse: something that seems clumsily written will usually have gotten the ideas wrong too.

Indeed, the two senses of good writing are more like two ends of the same thing.

The connection between them is not a rigid one; the goodness of good writing is not a rod but a rope, with multiple overlapping connections running through it.

But it's hard to move one end without moving the other.

It's hard to be right without sounding right.

We can't conclude beautiful writing is true, but the converse usually holds: clumsy writing has usually gotten the ideas wrong too.

The two senses are really two ends of one thing — not a rod but a rope, with overlapping connections running through it. But it's hard to be right without sounding right.

We can't conclude beautiful writing is true, but the converse usually holds: clumsy writing has gotten the ideas wrong too. The two senses are a rope, not a rod — hard to move one end without the other.

Notes

[1] The closest thing to an exception is when you have to go back and insert a new point into the middle of something you've written. This often messes up the flow, sometimes in ways you can never quite repair. But I think the ultimate source of this problem is that ideas are tree-shaped and essays are linear. You inevitably run into difficulties when you try to cram the former into the latter. Frankly it's surprising how much you can get away with. But even so you sometimes have to resort to an endnote.

[2] Obviously if you shake the bin hard enough the objects in it can become less tightly packed. And similarly, if you imposed some huge external constraint on your writing, like using alternating one and two syllable words, the ideas would start to suffer.

[3] Bizarrely enough, this happened in the writing of this very paragraph. An earlier version shared several phrases in common with the preceding paragraph, and the repetition bugged me each time I reread it. When I got annoyed enough to fix it, I discovered that the repetition reflected a problem in the underlying ideas, and I fixed both simultaneously.

Thanks to Jessica Livingston and Courtenay Pipkin for reading drafts of this.

The nearest exception is inserting a new point mid-essay, which breaks the flow — ideas are tree-shaped and essays linear, so sometimes you resort to an endnote.

Shake the bin hard enough and things pack less tightly. Likewise, impose some huge constraint — alternating one- and two-syllable words — and the ideas would suffer.

Bizarrely, this happened while writing that paragraph: fixing a repetition that bugged me revealed a problem in the underlying ideas, which I fixed at once.

Endnotes: inserting a new point can break the flow, because ideas are tree-shaped and essays linear; shaking too hard unpacks the bin; and this essay's own rhythm problem revealed a problem in its ideas.