Hey there! Thanks for subscribing to my newsletter. Only a few more months until my debut thriller—THE PERFECT HOME—is available. But hey! Did you know you can pre-order it right now and not have to worry about remembering it comes out on January 7, 2025? If you’re reading this and you don’t pre-order it, we can’t be friends anymore.

Allow me to commit an act of blatant writer-sacrilege.

If I never see this popular macro again, I won’t be sad.

No offense to Gary Provost, of course. It’s good advice.

The advice is not my problem. My problem is that too many people take this as a complete Writing Breakfast™ and start littering their Internet presence with poor Gary Provost impersonations.

Sentence length is one thing, sure. But here’s what else the really good authors get right:

They vary sentence type as well as length.

They vary textures. They lull you into big narrative ideas by sucking you in with small details first. They shift from dialogue to internal monologue. And they don’t pound you with paragraph after paragraph of formless goo. (And when they do, it’s on purpose.)

Readers’ attention can be fickle. Writers need an internal timer for how much time to linger in the same headspace before the reader begins to wonder what’s on Netflix.

And vArYiNg SeNtEnCe lEnGtH alone won’t cut it.

If I can pull from New York Times bestselling author Ruth Ware’s novel “The It Girl,” she can demonstrate.

Here's the scenario: Hannah is approaching Oxford University for the first time, feeling nervous.

First, let’s run it through the ol’ Hemingway App and see how Ruth Ware does by the Gary Provost measure:

Oh, no!

An entire paragraph is hArD tO rEaD!

Not enough sentence length variety, right? Not enough Provostian “music,” right? Someone tell bestselling author Ruth Ware that an Internet meme thinks she’s doing it wrong!

/s

Now let’s try something different. Let’s color-code for sentence type.

Watch how the writing lights up:

There’s the music. The long sentences in the first paragraph both start with “As,” but the first one stuffs in a clever metaphor that drags you away from the immediate action. The second one is a more literal description of how the nerves are affecting Hannah. Then the next paragraph gives us our much-desired sentence length variation. But I’ve made it a different color because, once again, it’s a different sentence type, too.

Suddenly we’re not thinking about details like the carved stone arch or the cool October wind, necessary as such details may be. Now we’re getting exposition. New paragraph, new sentence type.

So what’s the takeaway?

You can’t learn how to write like Ruth Ware just by varying your sentence length.

But we can learn a lil’ somethin’ from the basic structure of interesting prose.

In "Dune" by Frank Herbert, there's a rule for walking in on this desert planet, Arrakis: you have to vary your steps.

Sweep a toe here, leap there. Hold still. Then take a step. Kick your heel. Be still. Move two steps.

This is the special walk of the "Fremen," the natives of the desert planet Arrakis. If you walk how people normally walk—that steady bipedal pulse—the constant rhythm will attract sandworms the size of skyscrapers.

So the Fremen dance across the desert, kicking and sweeping as if listening to janky jazz in 7/8 meter.

Why do I bring this up?

Because you, too, O writer, must learn the walk of the Fremen.

Never dwell too long in the same place. Mix it up. Use all the tools at your disposal to keep every new section fresh and surprising.

Because when you stop to think about it, you have a ton to work with.

Questions:

Instruction:

“Big” sentences:

“Little” sentences:

Description:

Voice: 

And that’s not even including two of your most basic tools: dialogue and action. Mix them up and you have contrasting textures. You’ve elevated a basic sugar cookie into chocolate chip territory.

Now let’s put it all together in a paragraph where no two sentences are exactly alike, courtesy of Jess Lourey:

It’s not just sentence length. Every sentence is its own experience. Watch how every sentence starts:

—I hopped...

—It was a long, sticky...

—The Ferris wheel rising...

—Shortly after came the swarming hum...

—Last was the smell of...

—Normally it'd feel...

—We loved our summer gatherings...

—We spent all winter...

—Abruptly, desperately...

—It's why...

In some studies, researchers found that filling your eyeballs with red light means you’ll cease to detect any red at all, psychologically speaking. That’s because if there’s no contrast in our environment, our brain tunes out the stimuli.

If you don’t mix it up in your writing, readers will tune out your stimuli, too.

🖋PERFECT HOME UPDATE: A New Blurb!🖋️

A gigantic thank you to the generous bestselling author Alex Finlay, who had this to say about THE PERFECT HOME:

This makes me think of the days when I was copying and pasting any positive Internet comment about my writing into a “compliments” document because I was that desperate for any hint of positive feedback. To have writers like Christina McDonald and Alex Finlay recommending my book is the stuff of dreams.

And another mild update on the marketing side of things:

Soon, I will attend a bookseller conference known as the Heartland Fall Forum in Milwaukee. There’s an event called the Moveable Feast in in which I go from table-to-table visiting independent booksellers, quick-pitching THE PERFECT HOME. I don’t know that I’ve ever had to “sell” my writing in-person before, so wish me luck. I’ll need it.

Only a few months to go, folks.

(You are planning your every move around the January 7th release date, right? Thank u.)

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Until then,

-DK