Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.
~Anton Chekhov
Words are a writer’s currency. But too many words – or the wrong ones – will devalue a written work faster than an oil spill devalues an oil company’s stock.
This isn’t news to you. You know all too well the struggle to find the right words to tell your story. (Put down the thesaurus. That’s not what I mean. Have you even been reading this blog?) And so you write. And write. And write some more. And you finally finish your first draft.
And yet when you go back to read what you’ve written, it just doesn’t “feel” right. It’s not like you’re missing any key ingredients. The characters are believable. The plot is moving along just fine. There’s plenty of lovely description to set the scene.
But something’s wrong.
Now, it could just be that your writing sucks. (This is where you look around the room to see who else I might be talking to, because surely it isn’t you. I mean, your crit partners loved your short story about the fruit fly that preferred vegetables. “It’s a work of literary genius,” “a powerful metaphor about love and loss,” “like Animal Farm, but with insects,” they told you. Well, their actual words were, “it didn’t make me want to vomit,” but that’s essentially the same thing, right?)
Or it could be that you’re simply saying too much.
There are lots of ways “too many words” can steal the power from a story. Here are the three most common that I run into:
The Telling
I love the Chekhov quote at the top of this post. I haven’t found a better one to describe the difference between “telling” and “showing.” But that’s not what I’m here to talk about. You already know why showing is generally better than telling. So why, then, do you have an entire paragraph dedicated to telling us what the protagonist is anticipating immediately preceding paragraphs that so beautifully show us exactly what happens?
There’s nothing wrong with some internal thoughts here and there. Nor is there anything wrong with the occasional telling. But there’s rarely a need to have both the telling and the showing. I bet you can find at least a dozen places in your first draft where you do this. Yes, showing usually takes more words than telling (not always). But the showing words aren’t the problem. Trim the redundant telling. Your readers will thank you. (In their hearts.)
The Describing
There are very few writers who can do detailed description well. I’m talking about the sort of detail that reveals every shadow and wrinkle on a bruised white rose lit by twilight, or the font (and foundry it came from) that graces the title page of the book buried beneath a pile of similarly dust-deviled tomes that the protagonist reaches for with paint-stained fingers (Sherwin-Williams Rookwood Amber). (See? I’m not one of those writers. I’m okay with that.)
But just because we don’t have that skill doesn’t mean we don’t attempt it. What happens, though, is we end up with wordy descriptions that tell us stuff we don’t really care to know (or need to know). For example, if you simply tell me that a bowling ball rolls off the top shelf and lands on your hero’s head, that paints a clear enough picture for me to see it happen. Do I need to know that it was a 15 pound red and black Brunswick Evil Siege bowling ball? Well, maybe I do. Does the specific brand/weight/color play into the story elsewhere? Or are you being intentionally over-descriptive because it makes the scene funnier? In those cases, fine. But otherwise? I’ll paint the bowling ball black (or green if I actually owned one of my own that happened to be green) and assume it’s heavy enough to do the necessary damage.
I know what you’re thinking. All those writing books tell you to be specific. Hell, I’ll tell you that right here, too. Be specific. But…learn when to leave the rest of the picture to the reader’s imagination. If it’s not critical to the story (or the writer’s voice) that the character uses a Rachael Ray blue porcelain 10-inch skillet to kill the spider, just let the character use a plain ol’ skillet.
The Dialoging
I love this one. Dialogue is one of my favorite things to write (and edit). Let’s start here: Take a minute to listen to real-life dialogue. Now, imagine transcribing that verbatim. It doesn’t quite look right, does it. One reason for this is the fact that you can’t actually layer multiple conversations on top of each other. If two people are talking at the same time, you can say so in your novel, but you’ll still have to run their words one sentence after another because you can’t stamp them on top of each other. (Well, you could, but that would look like a printer error.) Because of this, if you include every actual spoken word, dialogue that only takes a moment to speak in real time can stretch on for pages when written. Think of your written dialogue as spoken dialogue that’s been edited not only for content, but also for clarity and rhythm.
Also, real conversation has lots of non-words and repeated-ad-nauseum words in it, things like ums and ers and likes and plenty of unintelligible grunts and groans. Put all of them on the page and your readers will wonder what sorts of drugs you abuse.
But I still haven’t gotten to the biggest wordiness problem with dialogue: hijacking the character to deliver information readers should get elsewhere. You’ll recognize this dialogue by the way your character suddenly appears to be a puppet for the plot rather than a real human being.
“Is the sword shaped like a cross with a sharp dagger end that’s dangling over your head making you nervous, Edward?”
“No, Jacob. But you should be scared because I’m baring my fangs right now and they’re really menacing because they’re sharp and I’m smiling at the same time which is ironic and therefore underscores my obvious lack of fear.”
Please. Don’t. Go. There.
Instead, establish the scene so we know Edward is standing under the cross with the sharp dagger end. Then all you have to write is this:
“Nervous?”
Edward looks up at the cross then back to Jacob. He smiles, then bares his fangs.
“Not even a little.”
I know, my example is over the top. I did that on purpose. But you get the idea. If you need to deliver information to the reader about something in a scene, only use dialogue if it’s the sort of information the character would organically include in the course of the conversation.
Well, that’s all the questionable wisdom I have for you today, friends. Now get back to that second draft and start chopping.
Comments
17 responses to “The Beauty of Things Unsaid (Advice for the 2nd Draft)”
Useful post – i find something that can also help (with being able to see where there are too many words, or too much showing) is to print out the draft. It also makes basic mistakes in grammar or spelling jump out at you.
That’s good advice. And this is exactly why I never print out my blog posts. Jumping spelling errors scare me.
Wonderful post. Sums it all up simply and makes it easy to both understand and put into practice. Beautiful quote at the beginning as well.
Thanks. I’m glad I didn’t totally screw this up by being unnecessarily verbose. Although that would have been ironic. In that case, if anyone thinks I have too many words in this post, it’s actually a post about irony.
Thank you! Excellent points and a great reminder of the process when creating the 2nd draft. Especially handy, since I’m working on that nowadays!
I try to make all my blogposts especially handy. Sometimes they disobey and become particularly grabby, though. So if that happens, just throw a glass of water on the post. Unless you’re reading it on your computer at the time. Maybe you should print the post out first, just in case it does decide to become grabby. Then you could safely throw a glass of water on it. And also, printing out stuff helps you see extra words and stuff (see above). So that’s like two great reasons to print out this post. Want a third? Two words: birdcage liner.
You’re welcome.
favorite writing quotes of all time:
1. The Chekhov moonlight on glass as mentioned above
2. “The first draft of anything is shit.” Hemingway
3. “The road to hell is paved with adverbs.” Stephen King
Next post: how in the world did Stephanie Meyers become a bestselling phenomenon when she’s such a terrible writer?
I think June should be your record-breaking month for blogposts. Just sayin’.
As always, thank you.
Great quotes, Kristin (especially the one we both like), though I don’t know if everyone agrees with Hemingway. There are a few writers who labor on their first drafts and end up with a pretty good book by the time they hit “the end.” Of course it could be argued that they’re doing revisions on the fly. Or maybe not. Or maybe.
I know this isn’t a very well-written comment. Don’t judge me, it’s a first draft.
Okay, fine.
Hemingway was right.
Just one little addendum. The average readers don’t give a watootie about skills. They just like or don’t like the story. (Which could answer Kristin’s question.) And the professionals bag all these useful lessons if they find something they think will sell . . . just my opinion.
I believe the first part of this is true. It’s like that saying “I don’t know what good art is, but I know what I like.” (Is that how it goes?) But about professionals bagging the lessons? I think that’s the exception rather than the rule. I don’t know any writers who intentionally write badly in order to sell books. I think what happens is, when a book sells well (because it resonates with an audience), a writer then decides if he or she wants to write another book “in that style.” I don’t think that’s selling out. That’s just writing more of what they’ve already written.
I can tell you this – if the desire to sell tons of books “whatever that takes” is the primary reason someone writes, that person is not going to enjoy the writing journey.
“I’ll know it when I see it” is my personal favorite.
What I inarticulately meant was a good story can trump so-so writing or can feature the unique style you referred to which doesn’t stick to “the rules”. You’ve also said that following the formula doesn’t necessarily or always produce good writing–it produces formulaic writing or passion-less writing or uninteresting writing or something that stinks. And I referred to the editors/publishers moreso than the authors. I totally agree with you, Stephen: authors don’t write bad on purpose or to sell books. We fight hard against writing bad. But sometimes we ignore the rules on purpose. That’s all I meant.
Oops, sorry I missed the point there. I now see the word “professionals” and understand the group you’re referring to. (I blame a severe lack of bacon today for missing that.) I would say it this way, regarding the publishers (moreso than the editors, who often champion innovative work only to see it shot down in pub board meetings) – they certainly won’t turn away books that sell in order to replace them with novels that are beautifully written but without an audience. Publishers often pursue books similar to what already sells in hopes that they can sell still more books to an audience that has said with its pocketbooks “we like this.” It’s about balancing salability with quality. A publishing company’s reputation isn’t based solely on their sales history – quality is important too – but it’s the best measure (to most people) of their success, their ability to choose winners (ie: books people want to buy). That’s true of nearly every business, isn’t it?
Of course, if something unique and brilliant came along and they took a chance on it and it sold a ton, they’d be looking for more unique and brilliant writing in the same vein. (Yes, that’s an oxymoron.)
Recently, a well known agent wrote that the person on the pub board who must be convinced of the value of the project is the sales guy. Uh, geez. Since the mastery of marketing has yet to be determined, and since up to or over 60% of selected novels don’t earn back their advances, it doesn’t seem like anyone has really mastered the selection process. JMO. And I agree with you, Stephen.
I guess I’m a rebel at heart and possibly without a cause. Or an effect. 😉
Most readers don’t know why they don’t like a book, they just know they don’t. I think I’ve mentioned before that the telling in lieu of the showing (or, God help us, both) is a huge pet peeve of mine. Great writing is a gift, but good writing can be achieved. You just have to do your homework.
Loved Kristen’s quotes!
Yes, good writing can be achieved. But will good writers get published? Some will, if what they’ve written hits a nerve with the agent and editor. Will it sell well? If it hits a nerve with readers. And yes, great writing might end up dying a quiet death on the writer’s computer. But the only thing the writer truly has power over is his or her story. You write until you find your voice, then you write the heck out of that voice until you find your best story. If it sells, celebrate. If not? Keep writing and enjoy the journey.
This whole post is excellent, but I especially loved this:
“Learn when to leave the rest of the picture to the reader’s imagination.”
So true. This is such a key thing in going from good writing to great writing.
Thanks for all the great tips in this post!
Hi Steve. Big fan when I played bass for you. Bigger fan now that I’m reading you. (I would have said that in 100 more words, but…)