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. 

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.

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