Gavin F. Hurley, author of The Playbook of Persuasive Reasoning; @Gavin_F_Hurley

Sometimes, beginning writers want to be taught the way — the one way — to write. The monolithic, all-encompassing formula. As if effective writing depends on mathematical prescription.

Why do they want to oversimplify? It is instinctual, really. By simplifying writing into broadband operations, writing becomes bifurcated into “a wrong way to write” and “a correct way to write.” Such simplicity promises more certainty; more certainty promises less risk; and less risk affords more security and comfort.

Alas, writing isn’t like that. Writing isn’t supposed to be comfortable. Writing isn’t supposed to be easy. As both ancient and modern rhetoricians tell us: eloquence is an art, not a science. And, like other arts, writing involves freedom. A whole lot of freedom — and a whole lot of risk. Such risk can spark feelings of uncertainty and discomfort.

Rather than running away from artistic risk, effective writers learn to harness it. Whether fronted in a creative story or finessed into a work email, uncertainty seeps into the reading experience as well as the writing experience. As such, written compositions can be analogized as “labyrinths of language.” As writers, we invite our readers into mysterious textual venues. We take readers’ hands and escort them through these unfamiliar environments — serpentine webs of symbols on the page — toward an eventual exit. Naturally, readers walk our mazes of their own freewill; but it is our job to design the mazes and provide the appropriate guidance. It is the writer’s job to rhetorically accommodate the reader along the way. It is the writer’s job to structure the reading experience.

As writers, we offer our readers interconnected networks of sentences to decode and navigate, but we do not want to frustrate them. Our job is to ensure that they never disengage. Several elements can ensure a successful journey through our language labyrinths:

1.) Establishing goodwill with the architect

As maze architects, we should probably not model our labyrinths on Jim Henson’s 1986 Labyrinth film. We should not splice deceitful double-talk into our writing or toy with our readers like David Bowie’s character Jareth the Goblin King. As writers, we may be tempted to show off cleverness or complexity. But such play can come at a cost. It can confuse or dismay readers, or lose audiences entirely. Clever labyrinthine traps may work well when crafting surrealist or multi-genre postmodern fiction — but can backfire when writing more straightforward genres. After all, our goal is not to abandon readers in our labyrinths — but to support them.

Quickly paced maze experiences can also be stressful. Readers may feel like the writer is chasing them through the labyrinth. If we do not pace our writing appropriately, our readers can begin to grope for an exit as quickly as possible. Ultimately, they can become frustrated and stop reading. Therefore, we should probably resist imitating Kubrick’s The Shining. We need not chase our reader through a snowy hedge maze like the axe-wielding Jack Torrance.

Instead, we should try to celebrate patience. Rather than rushing our readers so they constantly look over their shoulder, we can slow the pace of our written products. To this end, we can calmly signal where to turn left or where to turn right. Traditional elements of writing, such as paragraph breaks, clear theses, topic sentences, and transitional phrases, all act as effective signposts to comfort our readers and cultivate goodwill.

2.) Cohesion of design

Labyrinths involve series of twists and turns — but ultimately our guests should know that they progress toward an exit. If our content strays from our thesis or purpose, then we will lead our readers down dead-end corridors. Down these hallways, readers will have to turn around and retrace their steps to a previous spot in the maze. Not only does this waste readers’ time, but readers can also become irritated by the misdirection. Consequently, we want to stay on-topic — and try to streamline the journey so we do not lose our reader within our own maze.

3.) Exciting them to enter the labyrinth in the first place

Much like solving a labyrinth, reading a written composition also requires time and labor. The reader has to voluntarily commit to the journey. It becomes our task to initially motivate our readers toward this commitment. Therefore, every composition — even lackluster white papers, business memos, and emails — require a type of hook. The hook does not always require passionate emotions, deep intrigue, or sexy attention-grabbers. To hook our reader, we can simply communicate the purpose of our writing in a transparent manner. By stating the purpose of our message early on, the reader understands the reason for the journey, steps across the threshold, and enters the maze of their own volition.

In addition to presenting the clear purpose of our writing at the beginning of the text, we can also gesture to the conclusion of the composition — that is, the light at the end of the tunnel. By alluding to the eventual conclusion, readers can understand that the labyrinth does indeed have an exit. This keeps the reading experience goal-oriented and realistic.

Overall —

When we write, we build labyrinths. When others read our work, they walk within our labyrinths. Labyrinths ensure artistry. Much like there are various ways to design a maze, there are various ways to craft a text. Whereas the language labyrinths may be constructed of grammar and designed by logic, its functionality demands acute attention toward audience. Like mazes, compositions are meant to be used, not merely to be looked at. As such, it becomes a writer’s responsibly to account for audience usability, not only readability. Understanding reading experiences as “labyrinth experiences” can remind us of this obligation.

Note: The above selection will be fully expanded and outlined in a future book project, set to begin in 2020. The project will be in collaboration with UX designer Dean Hurley (www.deanhurley.com).