We don’t talk enough about white space.
Not the white space of empty rooms or clean canvases.
But the white space on the page.
The gaps.
The pauses.
The room to breathe.
You may have noticed this in these blogs. It’s become my style. My technique. My way of making words not just read, but felt.
Because, for me, writing isn’t just about the sentences you put in. It’s about the silence you leave out.
I like one-liners. I like punch. I like rhythm. I like the sudden jolt of a line on its own, sitting there, daring you to keep going.
It’s not laziness. It’s craft. It’s taking the time to strip away what doesn’t need to be there, so what does need to be there has space to shine.
White space makes reading easier.
Friendlier.
More accessible. It stops words from clumping together like a Christmas pudding and lets them fall one by one, light and digestible.
Because let’s be honest. Nobody wants to open a blog or a book and be confronted with a paragraph that takes up half the page.
You look at it.
You sigh.
You think I’ll read that later.
(Which, of course, means never.)
So instead, I keep things short.
Snappy.
Inviting.
When I write, I imagine someone sitting down with a coffee, scrolling through a blog or turning the pages of a book.
I don’t want them to wrestle with my sentences. I want them to glide.
And I want them to stop now and then.
To think.
To smile.
To hear my voice in their head and know I’m talking directly to them.
That’s what white space does.
It creates a rhythm.
A music.
A conversation.
It’s also honest. I’m not dressing words up in complicated structures to sound clever. I’m putting them down so they sound like me.
Real.
Relatable.
A simple Norfolk lad who happens to write for a living.
And here’s the thing.
White space isn’t empty. It’s full. Full of meaning.
Full of chance for the reader to connect.
Full of silence that says more than words ever could.
It’s my way of writing.
It’s my way of working.
It’s my way of connecting.
And I wouldn’t change it for anything.
