Prosody - how we hear language
‘The ear is the only true writer and the only true reader.’
Robert Louis Stevenson
When we read, we hear.
Not aloud, but internally. A voice forms in our mind, complete with rhythm, emphasis, pauses, and emotional inflection. This phenomenon is not accidental. It’s called ‘prosody’. This is the way we hear language: it is, if you like, the musical architecture of language.
Prosody is usually discussed in relation to speech or poetry, but it is just as vital to prose. When any writer writes, he or she is trying to convey their own voice in written form. In fiction, the writer is telling themselves a story. Dialogue is phrased and emphasised in their own heads. Descriptions and actions are told in a certain way. The challenge for a writer is to enable the reader to replicate that voice as they read.
In non-fiction the voice may be different, but the challenge remains the same: to enable the reader to hear the voice of the author as they read.
There are a number of different tools which can be deployed from the writer’s toolkit to achieve this goal. But, arguably, the one which has the most impact is punctuation.
Punctuation as acoustic instruction
Punctuation tells the reader how to move through a sentence, where to pause, where to lean in, and where to stop. Here are some simple illustrations:
· A comma introduces a light pause.
· A semicolon sustains a thought without breaking it.
· A colon creates expectation.
· A dash disrupts, interrupts, or adds pressure.
· A full stop closes the door.
Consider the difference:
‘I thought I understood him, but I didn’t.
‘I thought I understood him; I didn’t.’
‘I thought I understood him: I didn’t.’
‘I thought I understood him — but I didn’t.’
‘I thought I understood him. I didn’t.’
The words are almost identical, but the voice is not. In my teaching days, I’d read work from students which had no punctuation in it whatsoever. It’d just be a string of words which absolutely nothing to give the reader a clue how to read it. I’d ask the students to read their own work aloud - and they would give it the punctuation it lacked in text form. I’d ask them how they expected me [the reader] to know all that if they didn’t bother to tell me with punctuation. I mean - a full stop would have been nice now and then.
Rhythm is syntax made audible
Prosody also emerges from sentence structure. Short sentences create force. Long sentences create flow, or sometimes suffocation. A paragraph of uniform rhythm feels mechanical; variation gives prose its pulse. Again, in my teaching days, I’d read an assortment of texts. Some students believed that the longer the sentence, the better. At some point they’d been told that they needed to elongate their sentences so they’d add clauses or phrases which had no purpose in the sentence other than to elongate it. A favourite technique was to say something and then bung in a comma and follow it with ‘meaning’ … and then repeat exactly what they’d already said, as if that made the writing of higher quality. I’d tell them that if they did that in an exam, all they’d be doing is wasting time and losing marks because they’d be repeating themselves. I’d have students who would, literally, say exactly the same thing three or four times just by writing artificially elongated sentences.
Others would include a variety of sentences, not because it better conveyed their voice, but because they’d been told that they needed a mix of long and short sentences. This is writing for a checklist, not writing to convey either meaning or authorial voice. One memorable student had writing which looked very pretty on the page, very even and, somehow, symmetrical. Then, I realised: this individual was changing paragraph every ten lines … without fail. It had nothing to do with what they were saying at all. It was all about visible appearance: a paragraph should look like this … and it was ten lines in their own handwriting.
The point is that technically ‘correct’ prose can still feel all wrong. It might obey the rules but it is ignoring the music.Good writing is about using structure to create the rhythms needed to enable the reader to ‘hear’ the author’s voice in their heads.
White space and the power of silence
Prosody is not only about what we hear. It is also about absence.
Paragraph breaks, line breaks, and white space slow the reader down. A single-line paragraph can carry more weight than a block of explanation. Silence, used deliberately, becomes part of the meaning and of the way the reader hears the author’s voice as they read.
White space is the writer’s pause.
Word choice and natural stress
Prosody is further shaped by lexical decisions. English naturally stresses certain words more than others.
Anglo-Saxon vocabulary tends to strike harder; Latinate vocabulary flows more smoothly.
Let’s compare:
‘They started the fight.’ (Anglo-Saxon origin)
‘They commenced hostilities.’ (Latinate origin)
Here, we see Anglo-Saxon words are shorter and more percussive whereas Latinate words are longer, multi-syllabic with the stress more delayed.
‘She was afraid’ (Anglo-Saxon origin)
‘She experienced apprehension.’ (Latinate origin).
The word ‘afraid’ lands quickly whereas ‘apprehension’ sort of keeps the reader hovering and a bit distant.
‘We found out the truth.’ (Anglo-Saxon origin)
‘We ascertained the facts.’ (Latinate origin)
Anglo-Saxon words tend to speed a sentence up whereas Latinate words tend to slow it down.
‘You broke the rule.’ (Anglo-Saxon origin)
‘You violated the regulation.’ (Latinate origin).
The Anglo-Saxon voice gives commands whereas the Latinate voice is more bureaucratic.
Let’s give this to Shakespeare for a moment and compare ‘This above all: to thine own self be true.’ with ‘Maintain personal integrity’. Both mean the same thing but only Shakespeare is singing to us. That’s prosody.
In my own writing, I instinctively use this contrast between the Anglo-Saxon and the Latinate. When describing lived experience, I favour the Anglo-Saxon. When describing institutions or systems or abstractions, I favour the Latinate. A good example is in one of my short stories ‘I trashed the boys’ toilets today’ where I write, ‘I hammered, frenetically, on a door.’ That’s very Anglo-Saxon; the reader is meant to ‘feel’ the energy and sense of urgency. I could have written, ‘I engaged in a violent act of destruction.’ That sounds more like a criminal report than a feeling and is much more like something derived from a Latinate origin. Often, I use a blunt Anglo-Saxon verb to drive a sentence and contrast them with Latinate nouns which can make my readers hear the irony which is the voice inside my head.
In ‘The Gladiator’s Loss’, which I’ve included earlier in this blog, there’s a series of short sentences: ‘They had fought hard. They had fought bravely. Blood had flowed.’ This repetition creates a sense of insistence, like a drumbeat or a marching rhythm. Similarly, alliteration and assonance guide the ear even when the reader is unaware of it. Again, let’s quote from ‘The Gladiator’s Loss’: ‘Twisting and turning, thrusting and parrying, running, leaping, ducking, diving …’ These are alliterative clusters – t/t/th/p/d/d.
These choices are subtle, but they accumulate – and it is the accumulation which creates the overall melody.
Why this matters in proofreading and editing
From an editorial perspective, prosody is often what distinguishes competent writing from compelling writing. Punctuation errors don’t merely look untidy; they distort the voice. A misplaced comma can flatten emphasis. An overused dash can make prose breathless. Excessive short sentences can feel hectoring.
Proofreading and editing for prosody means asking not just Is this correct? but ‘How does this sound?’ And, just as important: ‘How does the author intend it to sound?’ Strong writers hear their sentences before they publish them. Strong editors help restore that voice when it falters.
Let’s look at some Shakespeare
A classic example of prosody in Shakespeare comes from Macbeth (Act I, Scene VII), where sound, rhythm, and emphasis mirror Macbeth’s mental turmoil:
‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.’
The line appears to follow iambic pentameter, but the piling up of “done” disrupts the smooth rhythm:
If it WERE | done WHEN | ’tis DONE, | then ’TWERE | WELL
This mirrors Macbeth’s inability to think cleanly or decisively while the obsessive repetition of “done” creates a dull, heavy thud. Meanwhile, the comma forces a pause that undercuts the wish for speed:
He wants it “done quickly”
But the syntax keeps stopping him
The sentence resists fluency because Macbeth’s mind is resisting clarity. This is what Shakespeare intended to convey.
If we compare this with another line from Shakespeare. This time, from Twelfth Night (Act II, Scene I), spoken by Viola:
‘I am the man: if it be so, as ’tis,
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.’
This begins with regular iambic pentameter:
I AM | the MAN | if IT | be SO | as ’TIS
When reading this line, actors almost always stress the word ‘am’:
‘I AM the man.’
This is because the stress on ‘am’ asserts identity – a false identity because the line is spoken by Viola, who is impersonating a man. If the actor stressed ‘man’ instead of ‘am’, the line would sound very different, more ironic. It would undermine the impersonation and ruin the plot. Again, Shakespeare has given those reading the parts clues as to how he wants the character’s voice to be heard. This is prosody.
Prosody in Proofreading and Editing
The role of a proofreader and editor is to help writers to convey the voice in their heads to their readers. This is why it isn’t just about correcting spellings and grammar. It’s about understanding both what the author is trying to say and how they want their readers to hear it. That’s why good proofreaders and editors care so much about the author’s voice.