There are no quotation marks. Dialogue drifts into narration. Characters merge together. Paragraphs stretch for pages with barely a full stop to catch your breath.
It isn't long before I'm no longer immersed in the story. Instead, I'm decoding it.
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There are no quotation marks. Dialogue drifts into narration. Characters merge together. Paragraphs stretch for pages with barely a full stop to catch your breath.
It isn't long before I'm no longer immersed in the story. Instead, I'm decoding it.
Not because they repeat themselves, and not because they are full of obvious flourishes, but because their sentences carry a particular pressure, rhythm, and intelligence. A distinctive sentence is not just decorative. It reveals how a writer sees.
You finish the last page and realise what you miss most is not the twist or the romance or even the protagonist. It is the street, the house, the river, the city at dusk. The particular kind of light that only exists in that fictional world.
This is beige prose, smooth, flavourless, and engineered for mass readability. It’s not bad writing, exactly. In fact, that’s the problem. It’s technically correct, but soulfully inert. A style that’s been edited within an inch of meaning. Every sentence feels like it’s been test-marketed, stripped of friction, and dunked in lukewarm relatability.
Joan Didion has been a monumental influence on countless writers, including myself. Her works, from Slouching Towards Bethlehem to The Year of Magical Thinking, have profoundly shaped modern literature.
Anything new by her is a major literary event. So, the recent announcement of the posthumous publication of her personal journal, Notes to John, has ignited a significant ethical debate within the literary world.
Yes, it is exciting to see Didion's unpublished work, but is it right to publish her personal journals? Especially those detailing conversations with her psychiatrist?
Stream-of-consciousness might initially sound daunting and a bit trippy, but anyone can experiment with it.