The rise and fall of language, especially at the end of sentences or paragraphs, that gives prose a sense of resolution or continuation.
Cadence is the musical shape of your sentences - how they build, where they peak, and how they land. Borrowed from music, where it describes the closing sequence of a phrase, cadence in prose refers to the way sentence endings create feelings of finality, suspense, or flow. A sentence that ends on a strong, stressed syllable feels conclusive. One that trails off with unstressed syllables feels open, lingering. The best writers control cadence instinctively, placing their most important words where they'll resonate longest.
Cadence is what makes certain sentences stick in your memory long after you've closed the book. It's the difference between a paragraph that lands with authority and one that just sort of... stops. When you learn to hear cadence, you gain control over how every sentence feels to your reader - whether it closes like a door or opens like a window.
"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known." The balanced, falling cadence gives this closing line its legendary sense of peace.
"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." The final stressed syllable of "past" combined with the flowing rhythm before it creates one of literature's most memorable closing cadences.
Morrison's repeated "It was not a story to pass on" uses cadence to make a simple statement feel like an incantation, with the falling rhythm reinforcing the weight of forgotten history.
Words like "it," "of," "the," and "to" make weak endings. Restructure so your sentence lands on a word that carries weight. Instead of "That was the house she grew up in," try "That was the house where she grew up."
If every sentence falls with a heavy thud, the effect dulls quickly. Mix falling cadences with rising ones, and throw in the occasional suspended sentence to keep readers off balance.
Cadence is best refined during revision. In your first draft, just write. Then read aloud during editing and adjust the sentences that feel awkward or land in the wrong place.
Write five versions of the same closing line for a story about someone leaving home. In each version, rearrange the words so the sentence ends on a different word. Read all five aloud and notice how moving the final stressed syllable changes the feeling. Pick the version that resonates most and write a paragraph leading up to it.