Tighten Your Writing

How to snip out the deadweight.

“Substitute ‘damn’ every time
you’re inclined to write ‘very’;
your editor will delete it
and the writing will be
just as it should be.”
—Mark Twain

This is my favorite thing, trimming nonfiction to fit a word count. Unlike the New York Times crossword (or any crossword, for that matter), it’s a puzzle I can win. And 99.99 percent of the time, it improves the prose.

If the thing you have to shorten is seriously over word count, you probably need to narrow its focus.

Are you working on an article or term paper or blog entry about Kansas history in the 19th century? If so, I presume it is intended to be the first volume in a multi-tome series. Because if it isn’t, I can tell you right now without even looking that you need to narrow that sucker’s focus way down. Move over, Bostonians and Philadelphians. You think you’ve got history? You ain’t seen nothing like what’s packed into the seven years between 1854 and 1861 in Kansas.

You could write several books on that chunk alone—and plenty of folks have. Google books on “Bleeding Kansas” and you’ll get between 1.9 million and 11 million hits, depending on how you ask. So: narrow your paper’s focus by writing about, say, Kansas in 1854, the Wakarusa War, or Daniel Woodson.

But say you need to trim only 10–20 percent. You can manage that through sneaky trims that you and your readers won’t even miss when you re-read your tighter copy.

I start with dead phrases. “It goes without saying that...” or “needless to say...” (If it goes without saying or doesn’t need to be said, why are you saying it?)

“In my opinion...” (Who else’s would it be if you are the writer?)

Others:

“As a matter of fact.” Just say it already.

“At the present time.” First of all, you mean current, not present. As in, “I am currently typing this while being present at my desk.” Secondly, what other time would it be? (Unless you’re in an episode of “Quantum Leap.”)

And others that say nothing whatsoever: “in the event that,” “for all practical purposes,” and “for the most part.”

My father hated “arguably,” claiming that almost always the writer means “probably.” I quibbled with him: those two words don’t mean the same; “arguably” means that the topic is up for debate, while “probably” means that it is most likely true. But as was always the case with my father, his version cut to the reality of the thing, not my English-major hair-splitting abstractions. And we agreed that the word was overused. Next time you read it, think: is the writer simply stating that she thinks something is probably the case, but is too chicken to own that opinion? Arguably. Probably.

This librarian’s blog, Reading, Writing, Research, offers more examples of empty phrases plus other kinds of filler words. Consider these “redundancies,” for example: Absolutely essential; actual facts; close proximity; current trend.

Look at others: executive summary: summary. Cutbacks: cuts. Most especially: Especially. Sold off: sold.

Next, look at passive verbs and phrases. “We are going to be meeting at 2 pm.” Yeah, or: “We will meet at 2 pm.” “We are interested in finding more information about ducks.” How about “We want to learn more about ducks”?

How about adverbs and adjectives? Creative writers cut their teeth on advice that never gets old, no matter how many classes they take: Remove all adverbs. Harsh? Yeah. But until you are, I dunno, Anthony Doerr or Louise Erdrich or John Hersey or Colson Whitehead or Geraldine Brooks and you know so much you can get away with using adverbs, don’t.

“Very” gets its own category. Please: no.

Those who know me know my robust feelings about “unique.” Never ever ever unless you are speaking of fingerprints or snowflakes. And if you are, then you never, ever, ever need to say, “very unique.” That’s like saying “very table.” Something is either unique (see above) or it isn’t. There’s no gradation involved. Please.

If you want to isolate someone or something as special or different somehow, try “distinct.” “The way he acted was very unique.” Better: “He had a distinct manner.”

Our librarian friend reminds us that some words are derived from verbs or adjectives, which is called nominalization. (Which I did not know. And now I do.) For example, “difficulty” comes from “difficult.” So: Instead of “I have difficulty understanding calculus,” try “Calculus is difficult.” (This is a twofer improvement, because in addition to using the crisper “difficult,” you’ve also gotten rid of a phrase stating the obvious—“I have difficulty.” Calculus is difficult for the person writing this, which is you. You don’t need to spell it out.)

Turn the objects of your passive verbs into the sentence’s subjects. I just did that above: “calculus” changed from being the object of “have difficulty understanding” to being the subject of the sentence, giving calculus even more muscle and ridding the sentence entirely of its prior subject (“I”). While calculus hardly needs extra muscle—it is already difficult!—your sentences still benefit from more of the stuff.

But these are just a few words! you cry. Those words add up. “It goes without saying that” (-5), plus calculus (-2), plus especially/ executive/ off (-3), plus “was very unique” (-3), plus “ducks” (-2) equals 15 words. If you need to cut your blog post from 300 words to 225 words (or a full quarter of your text), that’s 15 out of 75—20 percent of your goal.

Bigger cuts can be made by re-examining structure, over and over again. Such examination not only tightens your piece, it also improves its quality, which should always be your prime directive. Do you restate your thesis or your main idea in subsequent paragraphs? Try cutting one of them. Or fold them together, removing phrases and sentences that repeat ideas.

This is a topic for your English teacher. It’s also not nearly as much fun because it requires using your brain, a calculus assignment rather than a puzzle to play with. But even without big cuts, trims can be wonderfully fun and can yield surprisingly large results.

Check out Banished Words for annual lists of overused words that should be, well, banished. Some of them never should have been used in the first place. At the end of the day, the cringeworthy word rizz really slays me.

I found the above resource via a chapter in the excellent Substack grammar publication, The Standards Department.

Here’s a challenge for you: Find the places in this issue of Well Worded that could have been more concise. I guarantee they’re there, unless I’m a much better editor than I think I am, and I’ll enjoy learning from you.

Lagniappe: From a history.com entry, I learned that James A. Garfield could write in Greek with one hand and in Latin with the other. He was also the first American presidential candidate to speak at a campaign in a non-English language, “when he noticed a large group of German Americans in a crowd and addressed them in their native tongue.”

Garfield ran on a corruption-busting platform and had a good political record prior to his presidential election. Not that I know anything, but seems to me that given the brevity of his tenure in the White House—he was assassinated six months in for no particular reason—this man was a good egg who might have done big things for his country. A little what-if to ponder, just to get your mind off Now for a bit.

Coming soon: Well Worded has undergone mitosis. (Borrow your kid’s biology textbook, it’ll all come back to you.) Oh, all right, I’ll just explain: Well Worded has split into two entities. Once a month you will receive Well Worded, advice on everyday writing and editing, plus added insights: examples of good writing, book recommendations, snippets of poems, other language aperitifs as they strike my fancy.

Well Seen debuts later this month under the Well Worded banner and continues monthly as its own spinoff. Well Seen ponders the living things around us in this 21st century of ours. Bugs and bunnies and other flora and fauna available to us here and now. Also, ideas, art works, good acts, craft, stuff I feel like exploring. Self-indulgence you can read or leave alone.