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I was simply not prepared to be so wowed on a Tuesday in July.
You saw them too, right? The images released from the James Webb Space Telescope, the most powerful space observatory in existence, reveal the deepest view into the universe the human eye has ever seen.
I’m kind of reeling here from all the superlatives in that sentence! And I’m in good company, as one career astronomer put it, “I’m gobsmacked.”
We see the sky everyday, and we know we live in an expanding universe, but the “wow” factor really staggers when you encounter these cognitive truths visually.
Galaxy clusters, swirling nebulas, what astronomers are referring to as “star nurseries,” cumulus cliffs that seem to be the birthplace of newborn stars—no one has ever seen this before, this far afield in our cosmic home.
It’s incredible to be confronted with the mystery that there is so much more than we can see. It is human nature to want to be wowed.
This is true when we look to the sky, and true when we come to the page.
The element of surprise is a signature of great writing, because surprise earns our attention and often becomes the threshold into wonder. (And yes, the element of surprise is at the heart of a strong “slant”!)
We read because we are hungry for epiphany, not to be told what we already know. Surprise captures our attention. We tend to tune out what we already know—like when the flight attendant runs through the safety guidelines pre-flight or the last time you got mansplained to. At best, we let it fly right by us. At worst, it’s insulting. But tell us something new? SHOW me something I haven’t seen before? Okay, I’m listening.
Reading is meant for our unfolding, stretched borders and expanded imaginations. Yet stating the obvious, making flat assumptions and foregone conclusions, is the stuff of closed systems. When writing is void of surprise, it sparks no curiosity in the reader to hear more, because is there really any more to the story?
Writing that leads with surprise and writing that states the obvious is just about as different as beholding the most distant stars known to humankind and talking about the weather.
It’s the difference between, “Tut, tut, looks like rain,” and high-fiving galaxies. Same sky, radically different stories.
Creating the experience of surprise takes craft, of course.
First, you can watch for “tells” of the self-evident in your writing. A short, starter list:
naturally
apparently
to state the obvious
remind
remember
This is the language of cliché—which always deadens surprise. It’s predictable and flat, when what your reader wants from you is a TWIST. No one wants to nod along politely to a secondhand story. What we want is to witness the “wow.”
So write toward discovery. Write toward wonder. And switch your “obviously” with “ACTUALLY.”
Channel your inner contrarian and flip the script. Become an artist of overturning assumptions. The best way to do this? Lean into your own astonishment, your own midsummer Tuesday wonders, pay attention to what sparks your “wow” and curiosity and write that magic down.
We want our words to awaken, not put readers to sleep. We want to incite epiphany, not ingrain platitudes. Stating the obvious tends to signal, “Case closed.” “Conversation over.” But surprise has a way of unfolding, expanding, like the universe itself.
Life is too short to talk about the weather. What I want is to witness the cosmos. What I want is to be wowed.
When was the last time you felt the “wow?” I love these stories. Tell me in the comments below!
Until next time,
Take heart. Write on. You got this.
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P.S. // A Blessing for Writers
SLANT LETTER is about both craft + soul care for the creative life. So for each issue, I want to speak this blessing for all of us anxious, ambitious, internet-exhausted writing folk.
I have felt the "wow" every night (save a few rainy nights) for the past month, when I've sat on my deck and watched the sun sink below the trees across the little hollow behind my house. You see, I was a stay-at-home mom for 29 years; my husband brought home the bacon, and I fried it up in a pan, raised and homeschooled our four kids, and made our house a home. But we divorced in March, sold our home in May, and through God's grace, I was able to buy a little townhome of my own. I've never lived alone, so that first night I was feeling a whole range of emotions—tired, anxious, sad, lonely. So when I glanced out my sliding glass door (devoid of curtains) and discovered I had a panoramic view of the sunset from my tiny deck (devoid of furniture and decoration), it brought tears to my eyes. I adore a good sunset, and the one that night was spectacular. It felt like a gift from God just for me, His way of telling me, "It's okay, child. I've got you." Now, I lean back in my new lounge chair every night and watch the setting sun paint the sky, and all I can think or feel or say is, "Wow, God. Just...wow." But I'm not just in awe of God's stunning artwork, but also for His unending love and provision for me. That's the true "wow"!
I wrote in my journal this morning this found quote from John Milton: 'Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world' :)