In Defense of Difficult Words

Photo @rocinante_11

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I really dislike writing about writing and don't want to be one of those writers who builds a platform around conversations about "the craft," their process, or their personal writing tips and tricks. There are a couple of reasons for this. 

One, it's boring. I feel like there are a million far more interesting things to write about. 

Two, it's completely subjective. Your writing isn't supposed to sound like everyone else's writing, so if we're all following the same list of dos and don'ts, something gets lost along the way. 

Three, it's cheap. Feels like a form of navel-gazing to me. Write about something that matters instead. Maybe it's international politics. Maybe it's marbles. Or goat herding. Anything.

If you absolutely must write about writing, fine. That's your choice. But no matter what you write about, let the one rule be that you write the way you want to write. Let the so-called experts be damned. 

Learn the rules, sure. Internalize them. But remember that it’s not about forcing yourself into someone else’s structure. It’s about knowing when to colour outside the lines.

That's your voice. 

With all that said, I’ll make one brief detour into writing advice territory.

There is a ton of advice out there on what you can do and what you "should never do" (gasp!). Most of it is pretty banal, but over the past few weeks, I've noticed multiple writers hating on so-called "complicated" words.  

I saw three LinkedIn posts just the other day espousing the benefits of simplifying your language as much as possible. I'm not going to link to them because I'm not trying to call anyone out (or give them any more attention). But the message was the same in all three: always write like you’re talking to a 10-year-old. Avoid big words. Dumb it down. Make it as plain as possible.

Is that sometimes good advice?

Sure. Especially if you're a copywriter writing quick-to-consume marketing collateral. Like when your job is to get people to buy dish soap in five seconds or less. Then, yeah, it's gotta be simple because people simply aren't going to give it that much attention. 

But as a hard and fast rule?

I don’t think it holds up. And I think for most people writing online, it misses the point.

Apps like Hemingway help you gauge the reading level of your writing (and I’ve used it! It can be a great tool when clarity is the goal). Style guides like The Elements of Style by Strunk & White or Orwell’s famous essay “Politics and the English Language” champion brevity, simplicity, and accessibility. And in copywriting, we’re taught to aim for a fourth- to sixth-grade reading level—statistically, it’s a sweet spot for consumer understanding.

But not all online writing is advertising! And let's be real here for a sec, we should absolutely not! be! using! advertising! copy! as! the! yardstick! for what good writing sounds and looks like. 

Sometimes, online writing is a story, a telling, a witnessing, a sharing, a philosophy, a meandering thought. Often, it's art. And art is under no obligation to be simplistic. 

And even when it’s functional writing, clarity and simplicity aren't always the same thing.

When we flatten language to its most basic components, we risk losing precision. 

Take a word like ephemeral. Sure, you could say “short-lived” or “temporary.” But neither lands with quite the same delicacy or emotion. Ephemeral holds a softness, a sense of the poetic. It’s steeped in connotation. 

Another example. Cacophony versus “loud noise.”

Serendipity versus “happy accident.” 

Melancholy versus “sad.” 

The longer words aren’t difficult. They are full of meaning and history and layers of nuance. They're not more valuable because they’re "fancier," they're more valuable because they’re richer. Because they mean something slightly different. Something slightly more. 

By some counts, there are over a million words in the English language, and yet, studies show that the average adult’s working vocabulary hovers between 20,000 and 30,000 words. 

It shrinks further online, where platforms often encourage fast reading and short-form writing. But if language is a tool, then a more expansive vocabulary is a sharper blade. And the point isn't to wield it to confuse—it's to communicate more clearly and more beautifully. 

And I don’t think readers are as fragile or impatient as the algorithm assumes. Many are perfectly capable of inferring meaning from context and can handle learning new words. Some might even delight in coming across a word they haven't seen before. They're readers, after all... they're drawn to the written word as a favourite form of media consumption for a reason. 

And more than that, I think the trend toward ultra-simplified language is part of a larger issue: a push to prioritize efficiency over expression. To make everything quick, digestible, and optimized for clicks. It's the marketing machine taking over the artistry of the interwebs. Drowning out the voices of the individuals brave enough to contribute publicly. 

Reading what someone has written doesn’t always need to be easy. Sometimes, it’s meant to be immersive. Challenging. Reflective. Alive.

So here’s my gentle protest: Write the way you write.

Say it out loud if it helps. Follow your rhythm, your ear, your instinct. Don’t write for LinkedIn. Don't write the way that ChatGPT writes—practical, stilted, without soul. 

And for the love of words, don’t write for the algorithm.

Let your vocabulary be vast. Let your language breathe. The world isn't simple, and you don’t have to pretend it is by using words that only float on the surface. 

End of rant/advice.