In Defense of Clarity

There's a particular kind of satisfaction in complexity. The dense theoretical framework, the multilayered argument, the essay that requires three readings to fully absorb — it feels like serious intellectual work.

But the best writing I've encountered is clear. Almost deceptively so.

The complexity trap

Early on, I conflated difficulty with depth. If a piece of writing felt too accessible, I assumed it lacked rigor. Surely the real insights required more jargon, more qualifications, more footnotes.

I was wrong. Most of the time, clarity is harder to achieve than complexity. Obscurity is easy. Making something genuinely clear requires understanding it completely.

What Orwell got right

George Orwell's rules for writing are well-known, perhaps to the point of cliche. But they endure because they're true:

Never use a long word where a short one will do. This isn't about dumbing things down. It's about respecting your reader's time and attention.
If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out. Every unnecessary word dilutes the ones that matter.
Never use the passive where you can use the active. Passive voice often hides who is acting and who is being acted upon — which, in legal and political writing, is rarely an accident.

The courage to be plain

The hardest part of clarity isn't skill — it's courage. Clear writing exposes your thinking completely. There's nowhere to hide behind impressive-sounding abstraction. If your idea is weak, plain prose will reveal it.

But that's exactly the point. Writing clearly is a form of intellectual honesty. It's a commitment to being understood rather than merely being admired.

Write less. Cut more. Say what you mean.