Love Not the Word

I’m learning to not love the words I write. Not all of them, of course. Just the ones that aren’t necessary.

Many neophyte writers (and I was one of these) are so in love with every word they write they don’t want to make any revisions. To a suggestion about a possible change that would improve the piece, they declare, “But that’s not the way it happened!” or “That’s my favourite part!”

That may not be the way it happened, but that’s no reason for leaving it there if removing or changing it would make the writing stronger. Life (as it happened, or as close as you can remember) is not art. Art is life arranged. And rearranged.

To make this plain, think back to a recent conversation you've had, in person or on the phone. There are usually a lot of “um-m-s,” “ah-h-h-s,” and “uh-huhs” that, face it, don’t move the plot forward, as it were. Real-life conversations also zig and zag all over the place. Ever been waiting with a great comment to inject into a conversation, but by the time there’s a pause as someone comes up for air, the topic has changed completely and your comment is way out-of-whack?

Now, have a look at a portion of dialogue in a novel or short story. See the difference? It’s been cleaned up; there’s no loose gravel to trip over. Everything has a point. Every comment is moving the plot forward.

So back to learning not love every word you write. Look this square in the eye: some of your words are not art. They gotta go! Toss ’em out! Strike out a whole line, maybe even a whole paragraph. The earth will not spin out of orbit without the weight of those few words holding it down.

Write and rewrite. Don’t be in love with your words. Use the Delete and Backspace keys. Select and Cut.

When I was at the newspaper—and this was before the day of fancy computer compositing programs—my boss-teacher-editor-publisher-mentor used to say, always kindly and with a smile, “There’s nothing here a little knife can’t fix.”

That was a good lesson to learn.