The style of a writer and their words.

9 hours ago

8 min read

There comes a moment in our lives when we take agency in what we wear. It marks the beginning of curating our personal style because we now understand that what we put on our bodies is saying something to everyone. No matter who you are, what you wear is speaking up for you. Our closets reveal a lot about how we've taken in the world around us. Being a 37-year-old millennial and a Black American woman, I believe all of these external factors caused me to experience the world in a particular way, ultimately curating a distinct point of view that marks my individuality.

As a writer, I've felt this has inevitably had a huge say in my writing and, similarly, in what I wear on my body. Part of our job is analyzing our surroundings, absorbing culture, and figuring out how to communicate our findings to society. I believe that inevitably seeps into our attire, whether we like it or not. I'd argue that before anyone reads our words and gets acquainted with our writing style, we're already communicating through our clothing style.

Let's be clear, though. I'm talking about style, not fashion. The two are not synonymous. As Ralph Lauren stated, "Style is very personal. It has nothing to do with fashion." Fashion is what clothes are, while style is how your taste architects them.

If I had to describe my taste, it would be a spectrum of grunge and '90s business casual. But I’m notorious for wearing the beautiful color of black. I've heard many theories about why people love to wear this dark color, but nothing has come closer to YZMN, an artist who analyzes personalities through color: "People who wear a lot of black might use it as a protective barrier and to control what they project to the world. They love intricate details and introspection. So, their depth is sacred, and they're the keepers of emotional truth," she continues. "Black is emotional armor. It absorbs all light, which is why it's seen as powerful and private. So yes, they draw boundaries, but can hold space for people in profound ways."

That breakdown speaks so closely to my personality and writing style. If you ask my friends: I hold boundaries, but am a well of compassion. If you ask my editors: I love details. I write my stories envisioning them as cinematic films. I typically scatter breadcrumbs throughout the prose, from the lede until the concluding paragraph. There must be enough imagery to transport the reader from their reality into the literary world I've created. However, I don't reveal too much upfront. You'll experience suspense in my storytelling. And when it comes to what I wear, it's the same thing. Wearing black gives people little to go on. Some might call it “mysterious," but I'd like to think of it as allowing curiosity to linger until we communicate with our words.

YZMN’s attire analysis made me curious about the styles of some of my favorite writers and what they're saying to us when their pens are down. Because writers don't simply have a style on the page; their clothes, silhouettes, and visual choices are another way they introduce themselves before we've read a single sentence.

Here are five contemporary and historic writers who wore a vibe as great as the words they wrote.

Toni Morrison

Whether in a black suit and matching tie or on the dance floor in a sheer, glittering dress, Toni Morrison gave a presentation that was regal and whimsical, controlled yet free. Her clothing could be structured and commanding one moment, then playful and almost theatrical the next.

Her writing style matched that energy.

Toni showed that you can be serious and whimsical at the same time, and that the two are less a contradiction than symbols of a holistic life, in wardrobe and in writing.

There was an elegance to Morrison that never felt stiff. Her silhouettes often carried the authority of someone who knew exactly who she was, while her jewelry, patterns, textures, and occasional flashes of glamour kept that authority from becoming predictable. She understood that sophistication didn't require restraint at every turn.

If you look inside Sula, Beloved, Home, Recitatif, or The Bluest Eye, she had a way of gently holding your hand in conversation while keeping a firm grip on you with her stories.

Like most writers, I've never met Toni, but I felt very acquainted with her through her novels, essays, and short stories. Her writing made me laugh and cry, think and ponder; her style was similar. It showed up differently depending on what she wanted us to feel.

That's the thing about Morrison: neither her wardrobe nor her writing ever asked her to choose between being formidable and being beautiful, between intellect and pleasure, between seriousness and joy. She made room for all of it.

Joan Didion

Accompanying her minimalist outfits was her iconic sharp bob, oversized black circle sunglasses, and, often, flowy pants that moved with the wind. There have been so many takes on Didion's style over the decades, and sometimes a writer says something so spot-on that there's no need for elaboration.

To that end, Olivia Allen's chic piece, “Joan Didion and the Quiet Rebellion of a Uniform,” captures Didion's style formula so well in one paragraph that you must read it, too:

“Didion’s attire was a deliberate series of wardrobe choices: her uniform, her words, her way of moving through the world. Didion had a formula—seemingly effortless but undeniably deliberate—simple knits, oversized sunglasses, and, of course, the now-iconic (and painfully over-circulated on sad-girl Twitter) packing list. Scrawled on hotel stationery, it simplifies life and all the costume changes it entails into something straightforward. It takes the decision-making out of getting ready—it’s all considered and curated, but without the chaos.”

That feels like Didion's writing, too.

She never seemed interested in excess for excess's sake. Her clothes, like her prose, were edited. Nothing appeared accidental, but nothing screamed for your attention, either. There was a coolness to her that made you lean closer.

Didion's style communicated the same thing her writing did: Pay attention. There is more happening here than I'm immediately telling you.

James Baldwin

James Baldwin is one of those people the world will experience only once. Since his passing, there hasn't been anyone who could quite compare to his writing talent or his swag.

Even though Baldwin was about 5'5", his presence—on the page and off it—was gigantic. His words, and his audacity to say them, took up space. Every sentence carried weight.

I think his clothing told stories, too.

There was an unmistakable intentionality to him. His clothes communicated what his writing did: I am here. I know who I am. And I will not make myself smaller for you.

As he stated during his famous debate with William F. Buckley Jr., “I am a man.”

I have one of my favorite photos of Baldwin hanging in my loft. He's sitting in an audience, listening to a speech, surrounded by people squinting into the sun, talking among themselves, and trying to hear. Baldwin, meanwhile, looks cool and calm in a black suit, crisp white shirt, skinny black tie, and black aviators.

That micro moment speaks to the macro of Baldwin's demeanor in America.

He let his style socialize with his surroundings without allowing his surroundings to dictate who he was. He disrupted the false archetype of the respectable Negro: the person who dressed and spoke in a palatable way for the comfort of the rest of America.

Baldwin didn't dress up for the country. He dressed as seriously as he took himself.

And perhaps that's what made his style so powerful. There was nothing apologetic about it.

The clothes weren't asking permission to be noticed. They simply accompanied a man who had already decided he would not disappear.

Anthony Bourdain

If you looked up the word “cool” in the dictionary, you might find the name Anthony Bourdain.

Gone too soon but still very much with us, his writing, cooking, attitude, and conversation carved a new path in the way people ate, traveled, and appreciated culture. And even though I'm sure Anthony would have detested an invitation to a runway show, he still cared about what he wore.

Perhaps not in an editorial sense, but in how his attire greeted the person meeting him. Anthony's style seemed aligned with his personality: laid-back, chill, comfortable, with just enough edge and mystery. He lived mostly in the world of grays, blacks, denim, button-down shirts, and leather jackets, occasionally throwing in a scarf or a band tee.

But his style was always approachable—the nemesis of haughtiness.

Anthony was one of my favorite conversationalists. His lexicon was as innovative as his cooking. He could make a conversation about food feel like a conversation about humanity, and a conversation about a place feel like an invitation to understand the people who lived there.

That's what Anthony showed us: style doesn't always announce itself.

If your clothes are authentic to you, then wearing a black shirt, jeans, and boots while sitting on a red chair many sizes too small for you can still become an image iconically remembered in history, like a Van Gogh painting.

His clothes worked because they never seemed to be the point. They were simply part of the man. And perhaps that is one of the clearest definitions of style: when what you wear feels so authentically connected to who you are that nobody thinks to separate the two.

Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou's style was simply free.

Whether she was in an African gown or a floral dress with a decadent head covering, she wore clothes that expressed what was important to her. Her clothing felt like a literary footnote—an extension of the stories she told and the stories she still had stored up in her heart.

She embodied the feeling of a library: grand in intellect, but inviting to everyone. And like a library, her presence caused anyone around her to regard her with a certain reverence.

Wherever I saw her—posing with Oprah in O Magazine or in conversation with Dave Chappelle on Iconoclasts—she carried history alongside curiosity to create history in real time.

She was the regal, beautiful bird in an open cage, singing out for herself, for you, and for me.

My favorite look from Maya was when she wore a floor-length black gown, white pearls, and black sunglasses. Black wasn't a color she wore often, and she certainly had many iconic fits, but this ensemble gave chic, unbothered, and diva.

It was elegant without trying too hard, commanding without asking for attention—a little glimpse of the woman beneath all that wisdom.

And maybe that's what I love most about Angelou's style. It never seemed to be about being fashionable. It was about being fully herself. Her clothes had the same generosity as her writing: they invited you in, but they never asked her to become smaller so that you could feel comfortable.

That's the thing about writers and style. Before we read their words, we are already reading them.

We read the jacket. The sunglasses. The pearls. The suit. The boots. The silhouette. We notice what they repeat and what they refuse to wear. We notice whether they blend into the room or command it, whether they want to be understood immediately or leave something for us to discover.

And perhaps that's why I'm so interested in what writers wear.

Because style, like writing, is ultimately about choice.

What do you reveal? What do you conceal? What do you repeat? What do you leave unsaid?