An Ounce of Clarity vs a Pound of Cleverness

In writing, an ounce of clarity is worth more than a pound of cleverness.

This has been reinforced for me as I’ve read two books simultaneously. One book is by a pastor. The other is by a career writer and literary editor. The pastor’s book is simple, not artful. It has short sentences, plain arguments, everyday anecdotes, and a tight organization. The writer’s book has flowery language, different shades of humor (especially sarcasm), clever asides, and a lot of pop culture allusion. You can probably guess what I’m about to say:

The pastor’s book is much better than the writer’s book.

When I spend time in the pastor’s book, I know what he’s saying. His language is not impressive, but it’s clear, and it’s convincing. He has a message and he executes it. Reading the writer’s book is a much different experience. Chapters meander and lose whatever central focus they had in the beginning, partially because the author wants to cover a lot of ground. Arguments get derailed in the middle because he thinks of a clever joke or an obscure literary reference. You can tell the author’s objective in writing the book was to write artful paragraphs, not cohesive chapters, because some of the chapters seem to be in conflict with others.

If love covers a multitude of real sins, clarity covers a multitude of literary ones. The pastor’s book has some flaws—intuitive objections get overlooked rather than engaged, and sometimes the generalizations are too sweeping. But the clarity of thought dilutes the impact of these flaws. I can grasp his point without being derailed too much by the blemishes.

Lack of clarity is like pride: it’s a literary sin in itself, but it also makes other literary sins worse. I don’t know what an author is really wanting to me to think, so his sarcasm or rabbit trails feel like he doesn’t know what to think either. Logical errors stand out because I can’t be confident in the premise. Off putting style can be forgiven if I think the point is urgent; if I’m not sure, then style becomes critical, and off putting style a critical mistake.

Here’s what I’ve gathered from my decade-plus literary career:

Authors tend to reach more desperately for cleverness when they don’t know what they’re trying to say.

A lot cleverness in writing functions like nervous laughter in conversation. It fills silence for the one providing it, but it’s distracting for everyone else. This is not to say, of course, that writers ought never be clever. Great writers can often be clever, and more artful expression or memorable turns of phrase are good aspirations for any writer. But it’s easy to chase these things in isolation, especially when the message feels vague or shaky.

Clarity is the kind of skill that separates writing to skim from writing to remember.

There is writing that doesn’t have great clarity but is worth reading anyway. Often, the value is in a salient metaphor or incisive rhetorical question (this has happened a few times in the editor’s book I’ve been reading). But these pieces of writing tend to be forgotten fairly quickly. A tweetable pull quote will give it some juice online. But few people will go back to this kind of writing and let it illuminate their own thinking down the line. Clear writing, however, has a way of reappearing in one’s memory. These are the kinds of books and pieces that every other writer seems to quote reflexively.

The benefits of cleverness are short-lived, but the benefits of clarity tend to reproduce.

Here’s a secret: People who are impressed by cleverness don’t stay impressed very long. Most readers think of clever writing the way people think of big, rich yards. When you see it for the first time, you think, “Wow, that’s a beautiful yard.” When you see it for the third time, you think, “Man, I would hate to mow all this.” It’s nice that big, impressive yards exist. But they’re yards. That’s how most people think of clever writing.

Clarity, though, is useful. It gives people ideas that stick, words that mean something in their day to day thinking and living. Clarity helps. And writing that helps tends to keep on helping. A concept explained helpfully leads to other concepts understood better. An argument presented usefully shows up in different conversations and can persuade different kinds of people.

Here’s a final tip for your own writing:

If you’re stuck, write out what you want to say in the same words and phrasing that you would use with a 7-year-old. If you can do that, keep that sentence, and then build on it. Not everything has to be at a first grade level, but that sentence should be a spigot that pours out what you’re trying to get.

If you can’t write that sentence, consider revising your thesis until you can. If you can’t revise your thesis, ask yourself whether your thesis is worth saying anyway. If you’re not willing to ask that question, you have your answer, and so will your readers.