50 words (sometimes fewer)

[blatherskite]

Back when I worked for a single someone else instead of 200+ someone elses, my boss used to come to me periodically and ask me to cut a manuscript's length by 50% or more. I rarely had much trouble doing it, even for reasonably good writers who weren't egregiously verbose. Apart from my having a ton of practice applying this skill, it helps that English is highly redundant; our language contains a surprising amount of built-in error-proofing to ensure clear communication.

But I also have a gift of seeing what’s important and what isn’t. Thus, I’ve often told my authors that it’s possible to tell any story in 50 words or fewer, and when they don’t believe me, I show them. For example, how would I describe “economics” in 50 or fewer words? Here are two thoughts:

Cranky mode: “A collection of logical fallacies that stem from the erroneous assumption that Homo economics is common and that markets are fair.” (21 words)

Respectful mode: “Sometimes-profound insights into how and why humans make resource-allocation decisions.” (12 words)

(Pause to admire how the respectful mode is... ahem... more economical of words.)

Both could be shortened further using the various tips I’ll present in the rest of this essay. How about something really complex, like (say) genetics? How about: “Cellular computer programs that define how organisms grow, develop, metabolize, reproduce, and pass those programs to their offspring.” Relativity? "The laws that govern time and motion vary as a function of velocity; time, mass, and dimensions behave differently as we approach the velocity of light." And so on.

In these examples, the key lies in finding the key points and eliminating anything that’s not required to convey those key points. It also helps if you accept the principle that you can’t say everything or provide full details, and shouldn't try. The goal of concision is to convey the essence. Completely explaining any interesting concept takes space, and the more complex the concept, the more space it takes. Consider, for example, that economics, genetics, and physics each require 500-page textbooks just to cover the basis of each discipline. Many of the basics spawn their own textbooks, and so on for subsets of each of those basic points.

Since this essay scrolls relentlessly past the bottom of your screen, you’ve undoubtedly noticed a certain irony: this essay isn’t particularly short. In my defence, I spend my whole week practicing concision; my weekend essays are the textual equivalent of putting on stained sweat pants and a torn t-shirt, swilling beer in a lawn chair, and chatting with a friend. If you’re from the TL;DR (“too long, didn’t read”) generation, and have miraculously read this far, here’s the short version: “Concision’s easy: eliminate the unimportant stuff.” If you’ll allow me a few more words: “You can do it too, with practice.” If you’re willing to read on, here’s the (flabby, verbose) version of the essay. If you want to write concisely:

Start by identifying the key points. Then identify and eliminate the “merely interesting” points. Retain only the strongest support for the key points. Use imperative statements (as I'm doing here) when you want to tell someone what to do.

Start with a strong outline based on the key points. Don’t waste time or space describing the unimportant stuff.

Eliminate repetition. (Deredundantize!) The "rule" that you should “tell them what you will say, say it, then remind them of what you said” works better in oral presentations than manuscripts.

Establish the context once, then repeat it only when a detour or digression changes the context and you need to re-stablish the original context.

Ruthlessly eliminate adjectives and adverbs.

Replace compound verbs and verb phrases with precise, strong verbs: write in a way that confuses the real point = obfuscate. (Most style guides have long lists of verbose phrases and their shorter equivalents. Study them.)

Speaking of obfuscation, don’t circumlocute: get to the point.

Replace compound words or phrases with precise single words: blog post = essay, pale red = pink, evil man = villain.

Watch for implicit redundancies, particularly in clichés and stock phrases: temporary reprieve = reprieve, unfilled vacancy = vacancy, unexpected surprise = surprise.

Use metaphors or key words, such as Homo economicus in my definition of economics, that speak volumes to those who understand the lingo.

Use possessives, even for inanimate things: the point of this essay = this essay's point = my point.

Use pronouns or acronyms judiciously: once you’ve established that the National Aeronautics and Space Administration is NASA, use NASA thereafter. Multi-word phrases such as “our committee” can be replaced with shorter pronouns such as “we” or “us” when the context is clear.

Eliminate (1) numbers and (b) letters used to enumerate short phrases; they’re rarely helpful. Turn longer phrases into a bulleted list, particularly if the sentence that introduces the list lets you eliminate one or more recurring words: “Our goals are to: [list]” rather than “Our goals are to..., to..., and to ...”. If you feel the need to use words such as first, second, and third, use a numbered list and eliminate those words.

Limit yourself to one strong example; provide two or three only for complex topics with qualitatively different cases or sub-cases.

Cite or link to resources external to the text to provide details.

Combine sentences by eliminating overlapping elements: “This essay provides many examples of concision. These illustrative examples show...” = “This essay provides many examples of concision that show...”

Eliminate the least important parentheticals. (These are words between parentheses, like this sentence, or between commas, like this phrase, that only embellish.)

Replace negatives with positives: not alive = dead, not wrong = right.

Let the manuscript sit for a day before you revise it. Examine every word under the editorial microscope to see whether it’s crucial or merely “useful” and whether its role might already be served by another word.

Get a Twitter account and learn to use it. A 140-character limit focuses the concentration most wondrously. (Try not to cheat by breaking longer messages into two or more parts.)

Of course, you can be too concise, particularly when you’re writing fiction and the goal is to wallow in the sheer joy of words. Leo Rosten’s famous joke about “fresh fish sold here daily” illustrates the problem with excess concision: Obviously, sold is redundant; the fish aren’t an art display. Similarly, here: where else would they be sold? Lose daily; if they’re not sold daily, they wouldn’t be fresh. Lose fresh; nobody would buy stinky old fish, and you're not dumb enough to try selling them. The remainder, fish, is also useless; these aren’t dogs or computers. Just display the fish in your window, and everyone will figure out why they’re there without all that redundant verbiage that makes English such a powerful tool and so much fun to play with.