Vanquishing Wordy MacWordenstein (And Improving Your Writing Skills)

There comes a time in every writer's life, be it early or unfashionably late, that he or she decides to revisit, à la reading, the genre in which the writer...writes. Yes, I know: Redundancy, thy name is redundancy. Of course, writers write! Still, in this golden age of easy(ish) self-publishing, the act of putting pen to paper, fingertips to keyboard, or voice to recorder begs an even better question.

Does the writer write well?

A portion of the answer (and the journey toward personal and professional growth) lies in the reading.

This reading is no paltry book every two months endeavor, either—no, this is a profuse devouring of all things X, Y, or Z. It's picking up a resource like Kindle Unlimited for a bit and going hog wild.

Said writer reads until his or her eyeballs bleed. What's the payoff? Well, he or she limps, scurries or sashays away with a better understanding of the difference between pearls and pig food. The mystery of why gazillions of literary agents would rather contemplate suicide than an unsolicited manuscript is revealed.

Bonus: Along with a firm understanding of both the value of a decent copy editor and the lifelong trials of a literary agent, our reading writer's understanding will now encompass a new and startling awareness. It is the painfully earned headache or full-blown nausea brought on by generic wordiness.

For clarity's sake, here are some examples:

• Overcome by passion, he pulled her into a passionate embrace.

If his embrace is passionate, we can pretty much assume it's because of passion. Why not redact the redundancy, my Dear Scarlet, and give a damn about finding a more passionate verb instead? Overcome by passion, he swept (or hauled) her into his arms—because pulling is what a child does with taffy. 

• He was horrified to find out the man on whom he depended for his income was such an unscrupulous employer.

We know an employer pays us to do things, right? If not, we would tend a resignation. So, he was horrified to discover that the man responsible for his livelihood was so unscrupulous. Better yet, elaborate on the unscrupulousness—did he discover the bossman was morally bankrupt, a pathological liar, or a potential serial killer?

• The party was really festive and it was a success. Everybody had a good time.  

Ever walk into a party expecting to have your gallbladder removed? A shameful review of your old SAT scores? Parties are festive by definition—you hold them to celebrate and have a good time. So, maybe the party was a rousing success. Laughter rang through the halls, the champagne flowed all night, guests raved endlessly about the crab cakes, etc.

In summary, our words count—every last one of them. 

The shame isn't in not knowing exactly how to improve your writing, it's in not making an effort to develop a more critical eye so you can. Reading voraciously in your own genre is an excellent way to learn. 

All examples, whether good or bad, teach us something, so invest the time to scour the local library or a virtual bookstore for the best and worst examples among your peers. What did you love, what did you hate, what left you feeling absolutely nothing? Dissect the material as well as your emotions. What could have made the bad things better? Set your ego or self-deprecation on the shelf and calmly apply what you've learned to polish your work. 

With all that said, I feel obligated to add that analytical thinking does not and should not breed ungracious literary trolls who scramble about, posting nasty reviews with glee. Remember what we teach our children? To be respected, give respect. Constructive feedback is not meant to make others cry. It has nothing to do with scathing keyboard soliloquies that make you sound like a pompous ass.

Yes, I just said ass.

Don't be a Wordy MacWordenstein.

Not all words are created equal—your readers will thank you for saying more with less.