There is nothing more difficult than
writing short. So much of what’s
written is fluff. So much is a
clearing of a throat when it comes to writing. It’s the most urgent flaw that those who make a living
writing constantly battle.
While I by no means consider myself an
excellent writer, I do verge on decent at times. But then I’m reminded of my inadequacies whenever a good
editor takes his or her pen to my stuff (and it’s usually a “her” because for
some reason women tend to be better editors and proofreaders and, on the whole,
smarter than men).
More than any other form, sales copy
must aspire to the greatest economy of phrasing. And just when I’ve achieved the final cut, my boss or some
other decent editor cuts a line or two and trims words and suddenly the copy
sings even stronger.
Professional writing means returning
time and again and cutting, cutting, cutting. Seldom are muscle and bone sacrificed, it’s always fat. So the next time you have to write
something and you think it’s finished, see if there’s some way to reduce it by
at least a third.
Few of us are paid by the word. So spend the extra time to write
less. Cutting is an extreme mental
exercise that substitutes for chess and jigsaw puzzles in my case. After all,
isn’t it better to complain that the book or movie was too short, rather than
it was too long?
Compression is a game anyone can
play. Using fewer words will
attract greater attention than using more. I hope your job doesn’t depend on it like mine does—-and I still
do not consider myself good at it.
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