When I took this assignment three years ago, moving my column to the top of Page A2 and writing six times a week instead of once, my editors told me I could write about anything I wanted. Just do it in 326 words.
Heck, it practically takes me 326 words to say hello.
My predecessor, Clay Thompson, had done it. When Clay was my editor in my early years at the paper, he’d chide me to “Write tight, and make it sing.”
I never took to it. The license plate on my car says, LNGSTRY.
When my son, Sawyer, was young, and I’d lecture him, he’d say, “I got it, mom.” As in, I could stop talking. (Apparently I do run on.)
Kind of like the stories I loved most to write, long-form narratives. Really long. Jump three times from page to page long.
I bought a copy of Roy Peter Clark’s “How to Write Short,” an appropriately slim book. I learned that readers tend to skim longer sentences and passages. If I wrote short, my thoughts wouldn’t get lost in all those extra words.
“Get right to it,” my editor Shaun McKinnon told me. No starting so many sentences with “because.” The best place for an important word is at the beginning or end of the sentence. He cut adverbs, strings of prepositional phrases, and rewrote passive voice to make it active.
I learned from his edits.
I learned it’s hard to write short and takes longer. When you write short, the subject — and the purpose — is clearer. There’s power in short sentences. A rhythm that cements the ideas. Fewer words give greater strength to each one.
Writing overly long and overly detailed can sound patronizing. Like one of my lectures to Sawyer.
I learned writing short made me a better writer, even when I wrote longer stories.
A couple of years ago, I won first place in short-form writing in a journalism contest. Short. Me.
I learned to make it sing.
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