Simplicity and clarity are at the heart of good writing - Ian McMillan

You know exactly what’s happening. The writer in me gets excited now because I want to know more about the man, more about the room. I want to know why he’s walking into the room at this moment.

The line is in the present tense. It could have been that man walked into the room or maybe he was going to walk into a room later, but he isn’t doing either of those things. He’s walking into the room now, at this moment. Or at least he is as far as this piece of writing is concerned.

There are various other ways he could have entered the room. He could have rushed in, gasping for breath and slamming the door behind him and then the reader would think that the man was being chased by somebody or something.

He could have staggered into the room, singing It’s Now or Never and then we’d know that he was at the tail end of a good night out. He could have hopped into the room and then the reader would be intrigued why the man chose to hop. None of these things happened: he walked in.

He might have been wearing a hat and the hat could be a kind of shorthand that the writer is using to tell us a little bit about the kind of man he is because, let’s face it, a man in a top hat may well be a different kind of man from a man in a flat cap. Or maybe not but if a man in a flat cap walks into a room you expect a certain kind of story is about to unfold.

A man walks into a room. So far we’ve thought a little but about the man but what about the room? What kind of room is it? Is it a front room in a house and if so is the front room his? Is it a bedroom and if so is the bedroom his? Is the room new or old? Is the house the room is in half-demolished, perhaps, or smouldering because there’s been a fire or swimming with furniture because there’s been a flood?

The writer wants us to look around, maybe to find things out about the room but also to find things out about the man. Perhaps there’s a photograph of the man on the wall taken when he was a child. Maybe the man’s briefcase is on the floor, the contents scattered. Maybe there’s a half-finished meal on the table that was interrupted earlier. There could be a note stuck to the fridge that the man reads, his eyes wide with horror.

There could be music playing when the man walks into the room. The radio might be on, playing country music. Somebody at the far end of the room might be playing a harp. An ice cream van might be passing, playing the Popeye theme tune.

The man stands for a moment and the story hums with many possibilities, circling in a holding pattern.

A man walked into a room. A man walked out of a column.

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Thank you

James Mitchinson