“Vigorous writing is concise. A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all his sentences short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that he make every word tell.”
This is the instructional essence of what I believe to be the best single book on how to write well: The Elements of Style. Published in 1918 by William Strunk Jr. and amended and updated through the years, most notably by New Yorker writer E.B. White, who called it: “a forty-three-page summation of the case for cleanliness, accuracy, and brevity in the use of English.”
It has come to be known as Strunk & White, and it was particularly useful in the newspaper business when I was coming up, serving as a young editor’s guide to making writing better by making it more concise. For the first half of my career (You young whippersnappers!), I wrote and edited only for print, because, well, that’s the only place writing appeared — on paper, from trees, like God intended.
Unlike the web, paper is a finite space, limited by a measurable number of pages and the requirement for a readable type-size. That’s why word counts are so critical. This column, for example, has to be between 700 and 750 words every week, give or take an adjective. After 40 years of practice, I’ve gotten pretty good at writing to fit. I can scroll down a block of 12-point type on my computer and tell you within 25 words how long it is. It’s a fairly boring skill, to be honest, useless as a party trick or on TikTok.
I usually stop writing at around 850 words and start cutting from there. I’ve learned that pruning a piece almost always makes it better — distills it to the essence, removes verbosity and repetition.
Precise writing is becoming something of a lost art, mostly because articles and columns and essays crafted for the web no longer have to “fit.” The physical limitations of print provided in themselves a sort of editing function. No more. On the web, the words designate the space, not the other way around. Writers can let a million adverbs bloom, allow no self-indulgent digression to go unexplored.
I’m reminded of this each time I find myself scrolled neck-deep into a story online and asking myself, “When the hell is this going to stop?” It’s not a thought any writer wants to inspire in a reader, but it’s endemic on the world wide web without end: no word count, just boundless pixels waiting to be leisurely fondled into thoughtfully thoughtful thoughts.
Another of the maxims I’ve leaned on is this one, also from Strunk & White: “Aim for one moment of felicity.” The most applicable definition of that word in this case is “something that causes happiness, a pleasing manner or quality especially in art or language.” I’ve always taken it to mean we writers should attempt to offer the reader a little surprise, a bit of unexpected word-play, a fresh turn of phrase, a clever turn-around in the final paragraph. And so, with those words as my guide, I offer this: A career should carry no unnecessary parts; a life should make every day tell.
I’m retiring as editor of the Flyer, as of this issue. Twenty years is plenty. I’m going to continue to write a column each week, but I’m leaving the word counts and the pruning and the scheduling of stories to new editor Jesse Davis, who will be in this spot next week — and who I’m confident will do a wonderful job filling my worn-ass old shoes.
This weekend I’m leaving on a two-week road trip to the northeast to see longtime friends and scattered family and catch some trout in the Laurel Highlands on the way. I’ll be back in June on a new page with the same old word count. Thanks for reading.
Bruce VanWyngarden
brucev@memphisflyer.com
