Lessons from Journalism: Less is More
Given this particular lesson, I don’t know that a meandering lead-in serves the point. So let’s jump right in…
Lesson No. 3: Less is More
My days in journalism prepared me to write for a print medium. There was an actual hole in the actual paper, and I had to fill it with what I wrote. That hole could not stretch without invading photos, stories, ad space, or a gutter or margin. While journalism is almost entirely an online medium today, I sincerely hope the lesson in brevity is still whacked into J-school students.
Because it’s not only a practical rule: Tighter writing is easier-to-understand writing, and it’s writing that’s more likely to be read. This capital-R Reader is not proud to say this, but I’ve never read J.R.R. Tolkien. I’ve tried—multiple books and multiple times. But the meandering details that don’t directly or even indirectly impact Frodo’s or Bilbo’s quests weigh it all down. They keep me from getting into the story. I mean, I can’t even get past the first page of Tolkien.
The editor I’d like to hack at the work would have a monumental task on their hands. It wouldn’t be about chopping whole chapters in one delicious highlight/backspace moment. Rather, it wouldn't be about chopping swaths of text only. No, this "less is more" credo is more nuanced than that: it’s about line edits, about taking a 30-word sentence and distilling it to nine (or doing something, anything, about the 124-word beast in The Return of the King (thanks, Reddit)). That’s how to make a reader race along your prose.
Writers can achieve this tightness at the level of the line in multiple ways. One tip comes from Kurt Vonnegut:
“Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.”
If it does neither? Chop chop, baby.
You may wonder how this leaves space for scene-setting. It’s about not sharing all the details, but the right detail. If Chloe rents a one-bedroom in Chicago that hasn’t seen a new coat of paint since the ‘90s, and the lumpy couch came with the place back when she moved in, you know something about Chloe. If Susannah’s backyard barely has any space to move because she’s planted so much flora that something different pokes its head from the soil to greet every month, you know something about Susannah.
But once you start building worlds that no longer reveal any truths about your character, once your setting isn’t helping your character achieve any goal (read: advancing the action), ditch it. This doesn’t mean the goal of the scene has to be about the goal of the book. Kevin’s overarching desire might be to make up with his father, but maybe in this scene, all he wants is a cup of coffee.
My next tip for chopping comes from Stephen King:
“I believe the road to hell is paved with adverbs.”
Strong verbs provide a more specific description than the adverb-plus-verb combo. They paint a more vivid picture for the reader. Consider "Jackson really hates clowns" versus "Jackson loathes clowns." Or "Trish absentmindedly drew in the margins of her textbook" versus "Trish doodled in the margins of her textbook." It’s a deceptively simple rule, and the stretching you’ll do to find the most accurate verb will make you a much better writer.
Tip No. 3 for tight writing is a personal pet peeve. I wish I had a pithy, famous way to say it like Vonnegut and Steve, and I’m sure some famous writer has some version of the tip in a craft book somewhere. But here’s what I came up with: Ditch the words that make you appear unsure.
This is especially useful for memoir or essay writing, as it involves phrases like "I think" and "I believe." If you are writing a piece, the thoughts are clearly yours. In the tip above, for example, King could have said only “The road to hell is paved in adverbs.” It’s stronger, more forceful. Besides, obviously, he believes it—it’s his memoir/craft book.
One way this mistake rears its head in my writing is through words like "just" and "perhaps." These adverbs are extra insidious because they weaken whatever verb follows and make the writer appear appeasing, as though they don’t want to offend or be forceful.
My first drafts—where the goal is not language precision but only GET IT DOWN—use "just" as much as periods. Hyperbole, yes, but the point is important. "Just" is a crutch I don’t even realize I’ve wedged up in my armpit until I look for it. Consider the first draft of my WIP; a search for "just" turned up 186 words.
My current draft, No. 3, has 53—a reduction of more than 70%. The amazing thing about this sort of editing—ditching the adverbs, the redundant "I think," the details that don’t advance plot or character—won’t make you feel like you’ve attacked your book with a chainsaw.
This isn’t hackery but precision editing that removes the junk gumming up your story, getting readers lost in the weeds until they shut the book and say, “Screw it, I’ll watch Netflix.”