"I'll agonize over sentences. Mostly because you're trying to create specific effects with sentences, and because there are a number of different voices in the book"
About this Quote
Neil Gaiman treats sentences as instruments rather than containers. He worries them into shape because each one must cast a particular spell: to unsettle, to lull, to quicken the pulse, to slip a joke between two shadows. Effects live at the level of rhythm and breath as much as meaning. A long, winding line can stretch time, letting a reader drift through a dream or a memory; a short, sharp clause snaps the trap shut. Word choice, punctuation, the soft nudge of a comma or the knife-edge of a period, all become stagecraft.
The attention makes special sense for a writer whose stories carry many voices. Gaiman moves between mythic registers and everyday speech, between the uncanny and the comic, often inside a single chapter. Coraline’s clear, unadorned sentences mirror a child’s wary courage. American Gods toggles between laconic, hard-edged realism and cadences that sound older than iron. The Sandman layers monologues, whispers, and chorus-like commentary, each with its own music. Switching voices without losing coherence demands that sentences do not merely deliver plot; they embody character, context, and mood.
He has long emphasized reading prose aloud, a habit drawn from folklore and performance. If a sentence clunks in the ear, it will stumble on the page. That test enforces discipline: prune a clause, shift a verb, move a reveal to the end of a line so that the page-turn becomes a gasp. The smallest changes can tilt an entire scene.
Agonizing, then, is not mere fussiness. It is a commitment to the experience of the reader, a belief that narrative power concentrates in the smallest unit of craft. When a book hosts many voices, the sentence is where they are distinguished and harmonized. When a story aims for wonder, dread, or laughter, the sentence is the instrument tuned to that note. The labor is invisible when it works, but it is what makes the magic hold.
The attention makes special sense for a writer whose stories carry many voices. Gaiman moves between mythic registers and everyday speech, between the uncanny and the comic, often inside a single chapter. Coraline’s clear, unadorned sentences mirror a child’s wary courage. American Gods toggles between laconic, hard-edged realism and cadences that sound older than iron. The Sandman layers monologues, whispers, and chorus-like commentary, each with its own music. Switching voices without losing coherence demands that sentences do not merely deliver plot; they embody character, context, and mood.
He has long emphasized reading prose aloud, a habit drawn from folklore and performance. If a sentence clunks in the ear, it will stumble on the page. That test enforces discipline: prune a clause, shift a verb, move a reveal to the end of a line so that the page-turn becomes a gasp. The smallest changes can tilt an entire scene.
Agonizing, then, is not mere fussiness. It is a commitment to the experience of the reader, a belief that narrative power concentrates in the smallest unit of craft. When a book hosts many voices, the sentence is where they are distinguished and harmonized. When a story aims for wonder, dread, or laughter, the sentence is the instrument tuned to that note. The labor is invisible when it works, but it is what makes the magic hold.
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| Topic | Writing |
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