One-sen­tence para­graphs are com­mon when short pieces of di­a­log are being ex­changed, but con­sider the ef­fect of se­r­ial one-sen­tence para­graphs in other con­texts. The fol­low­ing ex­cerpt from my memoir, The Blue Monk de­scribes an ocean cross­ing in a small wooden boat:

The sun marches over our heads through a field of blue, burns the horizon beyond our wake, yields to the stars, purples the east, and rises before us again
We are aground in a river of .
We eat.
We sleep.
With the wheel, we turn the ocean round our boat.
Days pass like silken threads on hidden currents of wind.
Hours hover like dust revealed by a sunbeam.
Forever collapses into a moment.
There can be no other side, no destination.
There is only here, only now.
The wind falls light again.
We motor over calm, shimmering seas.

The nar­ra­tive re­flects on the pas­sage of at sea. Though it could have been writ­ten as a sin­gle para­graph, con­sider how iso­lat­ing each thought af­fects the pac­ing.

This is a mar­riage of prose and po­etry de­signed to be “read aloud” in your head.

at each comma.

Stop at the end of each sen­tence.

Let the words ring.

Short, sin­gle-line para­graphs mimic the ex­pe­ri­enc­ing mind. Ex­pe­ri­ence, in its pure form, tran­scends words. More words could con­vey the au­thor's pic­ture of an ex­pe­ri­ence at the ex­pense of the reader's. Why place your reader in your head when you can pull them into your scene?

Write suc­cinctly and se­ri­ously.

One-sen­tence para­graphs cue your reader to stop and re­flect.

As they say, “the devil is in the de­tails.”

So get rid of the de­tails.