December 7, 2025
As some of you might know, yesterday (December 6th, 2025) I was inspired, after some research, to post an article about how and why English and writing had changed her in America. I didn’t post that as an attack on anyone, but as a deep dive into a subject that has intrigued me for many years; when I was in school, Language Arts was one of my favorite classes, but it was also a class I had a problem in, I didn’t know then what I know now: I’m confirmed dyslexic, and that’s, most likely what made it hard.
But still, Language Arts was an amazing class (I tend to be attracted towards things that are hard; math for instance: I’m great at it now, but back in school, it was a dragon too big for me to slay) and the language itself was art. Flowing sentences, rhythmic, the words and sentences would almost sing to you; writing was always something I enjoyed doing; my father drove an 18 Wheeler when I was in middle and high school, and I would often go out on the road with him, traveling and listening to audiobooks: James Axler’s Deathlands; Long Arm by Tabor Evans; stories about Kip Morgan by Louis L’Amour.
They weren’t your ordinary writers (those authors I mentioned), they were cinematic writers, writers whose books read like motion pictures and painted vivid movies in your mind; you didn’t just read the words on the page: you felt every syllable in your soul. There’s a difference between the writing of then and the writing of now; today, short, clipped sentences are more preferred and accepted, and I’m not implying that there’s anything wrong with that at all, but, to me, they just don’t entertain the way that old writing-style did.
I would much like to put forth an example now, for fun and not for criticism, and demonstrate the difference; I will start with an example of clipped sentence writing.
Marcus ran down the alley. Cold night. Wet pavement. Sirens somewhere behind him. Too close. He turned the corner fast. Slipped. Caught himself. Kept moving.
If I were to write that, it would read something like this….
Marcus ran down the alley, constantly looking over his shoulder, his feet hammering down onto the wet pavement as the cold air numbed his hands and bit his face like the burn you get from a dry-shave with a dull razor. He could hear the sirens behind him, blaring through the night, so loud they could be heard from blocks away, and they were so close now that they were almost deafening.
He ran, desperately, heart pounding against his ribs so hard that he thought he’d bruise; then, as he looked back, he slipped and almost fell, but he caught himself, straightening up, and kept moving.
Maybe I’m getting old (although, at 33, I definitely don’t feel old by any stretch of the imagination) but I miss those days; the days when writing was art, when it was cinematic, when you read a book and a movie played in your mind. I still write stories today, more as a hobby than anything else, and I still enjoy those old books and authors that I mentioned.
Again, I didn’t write this to cast blame, upset, or criticize anyone for their preferences in writing style, nor am I insulting the modern style of clipping itself: just reflecting on and interesting topic that has intrigued me for years.
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