Last week I read a short story in my critique group. It was met with approval and encouragement to get it published. One of the group members, however, someone whose opinion I respect, suggested that I try to cut it by 10 percent.
“Making a written piece shorter always makes it better,” he said. “I’ve never had an editor say to me, ‘Do you think you could make this piece longer?’” This fellow is in a position to know. He’s published hundreds of poems and more than a dozen short stories.
So over the last few days I’ve gone over this story several times. As with most editing tasks, I can eliminate about 50 percent of what I need to get rid of in larger chunks—a paragraph here, a sentence there. The rest of it, however, takes some work. It comes down to questioning the right of every word to be in that story. What purpose does it serve? Is there a better, and shorter, way to say the same thing?
In fact, I just wrote a sentence that can be edited:
As with most editing tasks, I can eliminate about 50 percent of what I need to get rid of in larger chunks—a paragraph here, a sentence there.
This leaves me with:
As with most editing tasks, I can eliminate about 50 percent in larger chunks—a paragraph here, a sentence there.
But as I look at it, there is more:
As with most editing tasks, I can eliminate about 50 percent in larger chunks—a paragraph here, a sentence there.
Now I’m down to:
I can eliminate about 50 percent in larger chunks—a paragraph here, a sentence there.
What is interesting about this is that in the first four renditions of this sentence, as I was writing it, Microsoft Word flagged is as an issue. The program didn’t indicate a specific problem with the sentence, or offer a rewrite of it. It just gave it a squiggly green underline, indicating it didn’t like the sentence. In the final version, though, Microsoft Word had no problem with it.
I was in awe of The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy. The book was 704 pages and there wasn’t a wasted word.
This is why I respect the writers who came before me—before the baby boomers. Rewriting this sentence on my laptop is effortless. I move my cursor and either delete or insert. As I read through the final version of a manuscript, I can delete or elaborate as I see fit. A generation ago, such a change meant retyping a page, or perhaps a chapter.
Writing is rewriting, and technology erases all excuses for not writing something perfect.
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