Did you watch any of the Olympics coverage? I did: I find the athletes very inspiring. They work tirelessly, they make sacrifices, they push themselves to the limit emotionally and physically: they represent all that is beautiful about having a dream and pursuing it.

My favourite event is the heptathlon, because I so admire how the athletes train in not one or even two, but seven events. That dedication and versatility is astonishing. It is also, I realise, reflective of what many people do in life: try to excel in more than one field. We are family members, friends, workers, homemakers and creators, all at the same time.

Writing is, of course, my raison d’être, but I am more than a writer: I am also a wife, a mother, a businesswoman, a traveller, a gardener… the list goes on and on. But what of that single self-definition of writer? In the parlance of the Olympics, is writing a lone event, or is it in fact more of a heptathlon? The latter, I would argue.

The modern-day writer must take on many following roles in his/her work, from researcher and administrative organiser, to designer, business manager and, increasingly, marketer. But even when you strip away all the business of authoring, leaving only the writing itself, there is a duality to the work involved. A writer blends two different skills: mastery of style and storytelling. A book may be stylistically great but lack a compelling story; equally, a book may have a fantastic story but be written in a less than appealing style. But a well-written book with an enthralling story: that’s a good book.

In times gone by, in the era of classic literature, both style and story were of equal importance. When we read works by Dickens and Hemingway and Flaubert and Tolstoy, we are as moved by the language as the story. Take, for example, the following quotations:

‘Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than before – more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle.’ ― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

‘You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.’ ― Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

‘At the bottom of her heart, however, she was waiting for something to happen. Like shipwrecked sailors, she turned despairing eyes upon the solitude of her life, seeking afar off some white sail in the mists of the horizon. She did not know what this chance would be, what wind would bring it her, towards what shore it would drive her, if it would be a shallop or a three-decker, laden with anguish or full of bliss to the portholes. But each morning, as she awoke, she hoped it would come that day; she listened to every sound, sprang up with a start, wondered that it did not come; then at sunset, always more saddened, she longed for the morrow.’ ― Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary

‘He soon felt that the fulfillment of his desires gave him only one grain of the mountain of happiness he had expected. This fulfillment showed him the eternal error men make in imagining that their happiness depends on the realization of their desires.’ ― Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

Beautiful, poignant writing, don’t you think? In the modern time, we still have writers who believe in the important of style. Often, their works are designated ‘literary fiction’, while commercial fiction is expected to place a greater emphasis on storytelling rather than style.

Academics and those ‘style purists’ who really care about language can find this direction quite frustrating. A good example is the backlash to Dan Brown’s books. Each of Brown’s books, based on historical research, has been a bestseller, but simultaneously panned by critics. ‘Brown’s writing is not just bad; it is staggeringly, clumsily, thoughtlessly, almost ingeniously bad,’ Geoffrey Pullum, Professor of Linguistics at Edinburgh, told the Telegraph. Examples abound of Brown’s ‘clumsy’ word style, and plenty of critics quite gleefully point these out.

But Brown is not alone: when it comes to published novels, it seems to me that style has steadily taken a back seat to story (and few disagree that Brown tells a decent tale). These days the term ‘plot-driven’ fiction is bandied about, and it has distinctively positive connotations. Modern readers are busy and impatient and seeking quick, mindless gratification, we are led to believe. They don’t want art; they want easy escapism.

Is this true, do you think? I confess, I don’t agree. I will always believe that to be a writer is to be both a storyteller and a wordsmith. When I pick up a novel, I want to be pulled into the story world but also moved by the writing style; I want to appreciate the writer’s mastery of style just as I appreciate a painter’s expert brush style based on so many years of study and practice.

Should an author today fuse storytelling with style? Yes, absolutely, is my answer. Style matters. That is why I have always taken seriously the study of style. I began at university, studying French literature, but I never stopped: all of my adult life I have sought to learn more about the craft of writing. That is how I come to spend long afternoons in my garden reading style guides, dictionaries and thesauruses (see the picture at the top of this post).

W. Somerset Maugham wrote, ‘A good style should show no signs of effort. What is written should seem a happy accident.’ In fact, it is no accident, but the product of a lot of hard work. And it is work I believe every writer should be prepared to do.