A stripped-down writing style that uses simple words, short sentences, and restraint to let meaning emerge from what's left unsaid.
Minimalist prose says as much as possible with as little as possible. It favors short sentences, common words, and surface-level descriptions that carry enormous emotional weight underneath. The writer deliberately withholds - cutting away exposition, emotion, and ornament - trusting the reader to fill the gaps. What isn't said becomes as important as what is.
Learning minimalism teaches you the hardest skill in writing: restraint. Even if you don't write in a minimalist style, understanding it makes you a sharper editor. You learn to cut the sentences that explain what the reader already feels, to trust silence, and to recognize when you're overwriting. Every writer benefits from knowing how to do more with less.
The word 'abortion' never appears in this story about a couple deciding whether to get one. Everything important lives in the subtext of their clipped, evasive dialogue.
Four people sit at a table drinking gin and talking about love. That's it. And it's devastating.
Johnson's spare, hallucinatory sentences make you feel the narrator's fractured consciousness without ever over-explaining it.
Minimalist prose is the result of aggressive, careful editing - not first-draft thinness. Every remaining word is load-bearing.
Minimalism still needs enough context for the reader to orient themselves. Cut the fat, but keep the skeleton.
Restraint isn't avoidance. The emotion should still be there - it's just beneath the surface, not plastered across the page.
Write a scene where two people break up in a restaurant, but neither character directly mentions the breakup. Use only dialogue, short action beats, and concrete details. No internal thoughts, no emotional descriptions. Aim for 300 words. Then read it back and see if the emotion comes through anyway.