byChrisWhite – 2025

Great prose, by its very nature, takes its own sweet time. It doesn’t jump up and demand attention the way poetry does. It settles itself in, reveals itself piece by piece, and requires a bit of patience from both writer and reader. If poetry is about passion, prose is about justice, and justice, as we all know, well, clearly we don’t know much about justice ‘round here, so I may not be the best person to write ‘bout that.

I say this knowing full well that I have never once been patient in my life. I was raised in the South, where people will sit on a porch and claim they’re in no rush, but if you’ve ever watched one of us in a grocery line behind a tourist who doesn’t know how the express lane works, you know patience is not one of our natural virtues. Justice, in the way great prose demands it, means discipline, tight control over ideas, careful placement of words, and an unwillingness to let any phrase exist purely for the pleasure of hearing it said aloud. It means that while a great writer might have the impulse to throw in a beautiful turn of phrase just because it sounds good, they do not, because it serves no higher purpose.

This is exactly why I will never be a great writer of prose.

I have never met a turn of phrase I did not like. I have never resisted the urge to slip in a particularly fine sentence just because it was clever. I have never, if I’m honest, had much interest in the kind of restraint that separates good writing from the kind that changes people’s lives. I am, in short, the kind of writer who puts too much sugar in the tea, because I like the taste, never mind that it isn’t the way it’s meant to be done. Adverbs; give me adverbs.

The masters of prose have a quality that is best described as steady. They do not rush. They do not meander. They keep their eye on the point and refuse to let themselves be distracted by their own talent. Their words never call attention to themselves individually, because they are in service to the whole. You don’t read a truly great piece of prose and come away thinking, “That was a gorgeous sentence.” You come away thinking about the story or the argument itself, because the prose was so masterfully constructed that it guided you without ever demanding you admire it.

I, on the other hand, am deeply concerned with whether or not people admire my sentences. This is a problem. It is, in fact, the problem. A true craftsman of great prose will cut a brilliant sentence from the page if it does not serve the overall structure. I, meanwhile, will stare at that sentence, marvel at its elegance, and then contort the entire paragraph around it just so I don’t have to let it go. The great writer pursues clarity. I pursue entertainment. The great writer will sacrifice anything, even their own flair, for the sake of justice in their writing. I will sacrifice justice in favor of making myself chuckle.

If a great writer is like a stonemason, chiseling away at the unnecessary to leave only what is essential, I am the person who takes all the excess stone and glues it back on because I thought of a funny shape it could make. The true master of prose refuses ornamentation for ornamentation’s sake. I collect ornamentation like my cousin collects commemorative spoons.

I am, in the grand tradition of Southern storytellers, a man who cannot let a good anecdote die. I know full well that a piece of prose should not rely on the indulgence of its author, but I am too Southern for that kind of restraint. We are a people who will set out to tell you about the time we saw a dog do a backflip and somehow end up giving you a three-hour account of our Aunt June’s ongoing war with the HOA.

A great writer does not do this. A great writer stays on task. A great writer trims and refines, never letting an excess word weigh down the meaning. A great writer never gets distracted by the joy of their own voice. Great writers are trusted and credible because they’re consistent. They don’t need to persuade you with flair. Instead, they persuade with precision.

I, on the other hand, will try to persuade you with a well-placed bit of wordplay, a joke, and maybe a folksy little metaphor I cooked up just now. The great writer is restrained. I, however, was raised in a region where restraint is not as highly valued as the ability to make a good story even better in the retelling.

And this dear reader, this right here, is why I will never be a master of prose. Because while a great writer of prose is someone who can guide the reader along a path so smooth they never think to question it, I am the kind of writer who will take the scenic route, stop at every roadside attraction, and tell you a long and winding tale about the time I got lost looking for a gas station and ended up at a church potluck where an old woman called me by the wrong name and fed me the best banana pudding of my life.

A great writer fully understands that prose is discipline. I understand that writing is a great way to amuse myself. Great writers refuse to be held at the mercy of their own eloquence. I, on the other hand, am absolutely held hostage by the enjoyment I experience with expression through the written word.

And this is where I must acknowledge that my shortcomings are my own fault. No great prose writer was born with a steady hand and a cool mind. They trained themselves to be that way. They learned to resist the sin and temptation of verbal gluttony. They practiced the art of finesse. They did not allow themselves be led astray by the joy of a particularly fine sentence, nor allow themselves to wander off on unnecessary excursions simply because they were enjoyable.

I could have, in theory, trained myself to be more disciplined. I could work toward writing in the kind of measured, controlled, and precise manner that great prose writing requires. I could resist urges to tell a joke just because I thought of one. I could force myself to cut every word or sentence that does not serve the larger whole.

But I won’t.

Because, at the end of the day, I enjoy the way I write. I enjoy the way I think in circles, the way I let myself get carried off on a tangent. I enjoy the fact that I will always choose an unnecessary but delightful sentence over a strictly necessary but uninteresting one. And that is why I will never be a master of prose. That is why I will never write the kind of measured, disciplined, and quietly persuasive work that true craftsmen of the form produce.

But it is also why I will always have fun doing it.