The hysterical crusade against fat has become a veritable witch hunt. With New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s ban on supersize sodas (now temporarily thwarted) and the first lady’s campaign to push leaves and twigs (i.e., salad) on reluctant school children — all in the name of stamping out obesity — it is fat-shaming time in America. Yes, there are countertrends, like the pro-fat TV shows of Paula Deen and Guy Fieri. But in the culture at large, eating that kind of fat has become a class-based badge of shame: redneck food (which I say as someone who likes rednecks and redneck food). It isn’t food for someone who drives a Prius to Pilates class.

— Ron Rosenbaum, “Let Them Eat Fat,” Wall Street Journal, March 15, 2013

Sometimes, however, you may wait until the concluding sentences to divulge your point, or you may even weave a key idea into the fabric of the entire paragraph. Whatever your strategy, all paragraphs should do serious work: introduce a subject, move a narrative forward, offer a new argument or claim, provide support for a claim already made, contradict another point, amplify an idea, furnish more examples, even bring discussion to an end. A paragraph has to do something that readers see as purposeful and connected to what comes before and after.

Develop ideas adequately Instructors who insist that paragraphs run a minimum number of sentences (say 6–10) are usually just tired of students who don’t back up claims with enough evidence. (understand arguments) In fact, experienced writers don’t count sentences when they build paragraphs. Instead, they develop a sense for paragraph length, matching the swell of their ideas to the habits of their intended readers.

Consider the following paragraph, which describes the last moments of the final Apollo moon mission in December 1972. The paragraph might be reduced to a single sentence: All that remained of the 363-foot Apollo 17 launch vehicle was a 9-foot capsule recovered in the ocean. But what would be lost? The pleasure of the full paragraph resides in the details the writer musters to support the final sentence, which reveals his point.

A powerful Sikorsky Sea King helicopter, already hovering nearby as they [the Apollo 17 crew] hit the water, retrieved the astronauts and brought them to the carrier, where the spacecraft was recovered shortly later. The recovery crew saw not a gleaming instrument of exotic perfection, but a blasted, torn, and ragged survivor, its titanic strength utterly exhausted, a husk now, a shell. The capsule they hauled out of the ocean was all that remained of the Apollo 17 Saturn V. The journey had spent, incinerated, smashed, or blistered into atoms every other part of the colossal, 363-foot white rocket, leaving only this burnt and brutalized 9-foot capsule. A great shining army had set out over the horizon, and a lone squadron had returned, savaged beyond recognition, collapsing into the arms of its rescuers, dead. Such was the price of reaching for another world.

— David West Reynolds, Apollo: The Epic Journey to the Moon

Organize paragraphs logically. It would be surprising if paragraphs didn’t use the same structures found in full essays: thesis and support, division, classification, narrative. But it’s ideas that drive the shape of paragraphs, not patterns of organization. Writers don’t puzzle over whether their next paragraph should follow a comparison/contrast or cause/effect plan. They just write it, making sure it makes a point and appeals to readers.

In fact, individual paragraphs in any longer piece can be organized many different ways. And because paragraphs are relatively short, you usually see their patterns unfold right before your eyes. The following two passages are from an essay by Jon Katz titled “Do Dogs Think?” The paragraphs within them follow structures Katz needs at that given moment.

Blue, Heather’s normally affectionate and obedient Rottweiler, began tearing up the house shortly after Heather went back to work as anaccountant after several years at home. The contents of the trash cans were strewn all over the house. A favorite comforter was destroyed. Then Blue began peeing all over Heather’s expensive new living-room carpetand systematically ripped through cables and electrical wires.

Narrative paragraph describes changes in Blue’s behavior.

Lots of dogs get nervous when they don’t know what’s expected of them, and when they get anxious, they can also grow restless. Blue hadn’t had to occupy time alone before. Dogs can get unnerved by this. They bark, chew, scratch, destroy. Getting yelled at and punished later doesn’t help: The dog probably knows it’s doing something wrong, but it has no idea what. Since there’s nobody around to correct behaviors when the dog is alone, how could the dog know which behavior is the problem? Which action was wrong?

Katz uses causal pattern to explore Blue’s behavioral problem.

I don’t believe that dogs act out of spite or that they can plot retribution, though countless dog owners swear otherwise. To punish or deceive requires the perpetrator to understand that his victim or object has a particular point of view and to consciously work to manipulate or thwart it. That requires mental processes dogs don’t have.

A simple statement/proof structure organizes this paragraph.

Why will Clementine come instantly if she’s looking at me, but not if she’s sniffing deer droppings? Is it because she’s being stubborn or, as many people tell me, going through “adolescence”? Or because, when following her keen predatory instincts, she simply doesn’t hear me? Should my response be to tug at her leash or yell? Maybe I should be sure we’ve established eye contact before I give her a command, or better yet, offer a liver treat as an alternative to whatever’s distracting her. But how do I establish eye contact when her nose is buried? Can I cluck or bark? Use a whistle or hoot like an owl?

Taken together, the two paragraphs in this passage follow a problem/solution structure common in proposal arguments.

I’ve found that coughing, of all things, fascinates her, catches her attention, and makes her head swivel, after which she responds. If you walk with us, you will hear me clearing my throat repeatedly. What can I say? It works. She looks at me, comes to me, gets rewarded.

— Slate.com, October 6, 2005

Use paragraphs to manage transitions. Paragraphs often give direction to a paper. An opening paragraph, for example, can outline the content of a report or set the scene for a narrative. (shape a beginning) In lengthy projects, you might need full paragraphs at critical junctures to summarize what has been covered and then send readers off in new directions.

You might even use very brief paragraphs — sometimes just a sentence or two long — to punctuate a piece by drawing attention to a turn in your thinking or offering a strong judgment. You’ve probably seen paragraphs that consist of nothing more than an indignant “Nonsense!” or a sarcastic “Go figure.” There’s a risk in penning paragraphs with so much attitude, but it’s an option when the subject calls for it.

Design paragraphs for readability. It’s common sense: Paragraph breaks work best when they coincide with shifts of thought within the writing itself. When they meet a new paragraph, readers assume that your ideas have moved in some (sometimes small) way. But paragraphs are often at the mercy of a text’s physical environment as well. When you read a news items on the Web, the short paragraphs used in those single-column stories look fine. But hit the “print this article” button and the text suddenly sprawls across the screen, becoming difficult to read.

The point? You should adjust the length and shape of paragraphs to the space where your words will appear.