A fellow writer, after listening to some samples at Critique times I attended, frequently and succinctly had this to say about individual readings that had been presented: "Too many words!"
Ninety percent of the time he said this with a smile, so you knew he was doing his best to be constructive. Unfortunately, his brief assessment rarely specified exactly which words there were too many of, so that could be a frustrating exercise if you were the person trying to figure out where to edit your excesses. A lot of the time that person was me. I like words. A lot.
A couple of weeks ago I was working on a project that made me wish he was sitting with and coaching the project's author, on exactly what had to go, with his heroic catchphrase. Here is a small sampling of some of the interesting turns of phrase used:
"The flames of the fire reached almost to the ceiling on top of the walls."
"I was too afraid and scared to talk."
"His eyes fell to the ground."
"He turned his back to her so he was facing away from her."
"It was probably possible."
"She watched the steam rise up from the kettle."
"We noticed as we got closer the skyscrapers got larger and bigger."
"His thighs and ankles ran hard against the pavement."
Sometimes I had to get up from my desk and think about how to say "too many words" constructively, because I know, I really know, that writing something clear and connective and interesting can be really fucking hard. I had to suggest a more concise sentence, pace around the story without stepping on meaning, without imposing my own voice and structure upon the author's own.
That's what a copy editor is supposed to do -- I'm supposed to make it better without figuratively grabbing the manuscript and slapping it around until it fits what I think will work. Because sometimes I'm wrong. Sometimes the author really wants the redundant "larger and bigger", or "probably possible" is a voice-ism of a first person narrator. Personally I assume ceilings are at the tops of walls so the phrase isn't necessary, or I'll delete "up" because what other way would something go if it's rising?; and I get the most comical imagery in my head watching eyes hit the ground, or thighs and ankles running without the rest of the body in play -- kind of like those Irish step dancers whose top halves are almost perfectly still while their legs and feet snap precisely, a thousand steps a minute, across a hardwood floor.
But because of my friend Harris, I carry that mantra -- when I work and when I write -- not because you should always use the least amount of words possible, but because you should choose the words that mean something, that make sense and beauty and story, only using the words that count. And you really don't need any more.
And for him, I have only these three: We'll miss you.
