
The Short Story
To ensure writing sticks to the point, edit for cohesion, or the effective functioning of all the parts of the structure, and possible the phrasing and style choices, to achieve the author’s overall purposes. Cohesive writing looks different in fiction than in nonfiction, yet it’s always intentional, consistent, and focused in the ways relevant to the genre. If all the bits and pieces of a manuscript don’t support each other by tying back to a common argument, theme, or plot, the work as a whole won’t be focused—and probably won’t make clear sense, either.
The Real(ist) Story
Cohesion describes how well the different elements of a piece of writing come together. A writing style or written voice may be cohesive if it exhibits a reasonable degree of consistency, without erratic elements. In fiction, it may describe how well the various plot threads are interwoven into a sensical whole, without loose ends. Nonfiction achieves cohesion mainly by ensuring all the building blocks of its structure—like chapters, sections within a chapter, paragraphs within a section, and sentences in a paragraph—support each other and an overall focus on the main argument (thesis) or theme of the piece, including any key supporting points or subtopics.
Cohesion carries with it a connotation of being intentional and, perhaps, economical. No word is wasted, even if the voice is wordy, because the words point back to the main thing (or the subsidiary things that hold up the main thing).
Coherence is different from cohesion, yet they may go hand in hand. Being coherent boils down to making clear sense. Writing that lacks cohesion (unity and focus) probably won’t be coherent (clear and sensical), either.
Try thinking of a written manuscript as a medieval castle. The tactical purpose is defense; the strategic purpose is control of the vicinity or of an entire region, especially if the castle is located in a vital harbor, mountain pass, or the like. Cohesion means encircling the castle with fortified walls that provide ramparts, towers, and a reinforced gate, all of which relate directly or indirectly to the defensive purpose of the castle. All the parts of the castle operate together effectively to that end. Stone is used wherever possible for superior protection, which further ties the whole of the castle together in appearance and function.
All of these consistent, intentional elements that make the castle cohesive also make its design coherent. Coherence may also entail situating your castle keep on a hill or other elevated position, with a commanding view to watch for the arrival of unwelcome visitors.
Lack of cohesion, by contrast, might look like walls that don’t connect. Maybe a different construction material was used for every wall and the gate—the part that should be reinforced due to its inherent vulnerability—was built of hay bales. The various parts of the castle don’t join together architecturally or functionally.
Further incoherence would arise from placing the keep directly under a cliff, where attackers could drop things easily on the defenders’ heads. So would building the thickest walls around the ornamental gardens instead of the keep. Such design decisions don’t add up or make sense, certainly not with respect to the castle’s purpose. (Unless the notion is to befuddle attackers with its sheer incoherence.)
Put another way, incoherent conception or design tends to produce lack of cohesion in the execution and the end result. So it goes with writing.
Keep nonfiction writing cohesive and coherent by asking these sorts of questions:
What is the main point, argument, or theme? If there are multiple such arguments or themes, do they connect, and which is primary?
What are the subtopics? Do they relate clearly to aspects of the theme or secondary points of the main argument?
Do the chapters and sections support the main or key points?
Do the paragraphs and sentences support each other, the chapters and sections, and the overall argument or theme?
Are all of these connections clear throughout? Does every piece point back to the main thing?
Are there logical transitions throughout the manuscript?
Does the manuscript include extra stuff that doesn’t relate to the main point directly or indirectly? Whether or not it’s well written, does it belong in this piece?
When practical, get second opinions on questions of relevance, focus, and general cohesion. Unless the subject matter is obscure or esoteric, readers who aren’t professional editors may shed light on questions of cohesion (and coherence) more readily than on the nitty gritty of grammar and punctuation.
Story Time
For an example from nonfiction, let’s say I had inserted a lengthy tangent into this post about my utter disdain for the word cohesiveness. An extended diatribe regarding the lack of daylight I perceive between cohesiveness and the far more concise cohesion would’ve been an obnoxious bit of editorial snobbery. It also would’ve undermined the cohesion of this article. Good thing I mustered some self-restraint!
By contrast, the snippet below, from the Eastsong setting of my Vaporous Realms story-world, exhibits more than the usual cohesion:
Griivuh's heart thudded with every oar-stroke pulling the canoe upriver. He knelt in the aft, cradling his long-toothed scythe and peering vainly into lingering night. The high, cloud-enshrouded city wall loomed to his left. A shield against the moon, who would betray us to enemy eyes. None of his warriors, hunched over their oars in the midsection, uttered a word—neither prayer nor curse, on pain of death.
The enemy lurked upstream, a little further. Foes. Neighbors. Kin-folk. Rhecah skittered across his memory, chasing a yearling aurochs gone rogue. Her sandy tresses streamed behind her, like her pony’s tail. I left thee with so many words. But so few I truly meant.
He turned his mind to counting oar-strokes, which steadied his breathing. Cricket-song made an eerie prelude to bloodletting among brethren.
Thick summer air lay heavy on the river. Griivuh swatted a blood-sucker that assaulted his face, crushing it in his thick beard. Mugginess and anticipation soaked his tunic through, under quilted deerskin armor.
The first predawn light peeked from the east across hills and river-plain. He stopped his silent count and clapped the shoulder of the man in front of him. It was time to disembark—onto the grassy eastern bank, into the rising sun.1
The rhythms of the language work together with the imagery and the plot point—an early morning sneak attack—to reinforce each other and produce a mood of anxious, ominous dread befitting the scenario.
Godspeed and happy rewriting!
Article: Content for purpose
Heywood, M. B. “Prelude to Bloodletting.” The Vaporous Realms (web). February 9, 2024.