[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]For this month’s nonfiction knowhow we’re going to focus on two conflicting aphorisms.

The first is “winners never quit; quitters never win” and the second is “quit while you’re ahead.”

I’m not talking about quitting writing entirely, of course, but I’m talking about knowing when to stop, and how much is enough. For example, I’ve spent a whole lot of time lately looking up word counts for novels. How long is a novel anyway? The answer is, ultimately, “long enough to tell the story inside it, and ideally no longer.”

The same rule goes for essays. Is 200 words enough to tell your story or make your point? It just might be. Or you might need all 1,000 words you’re allowed on the nonfiction grid. But you won’t know unless you try writing that essay shorter and shorter, tighter and tighter.[/vc_column_text][vc_column_text]

When is enough enough?

Your essay is long enough when it contains all of the facts and events necessary to convey its central point to the reader. I know that can be a kind of complicated calculus, but try looking at your essay line by line. Let’s write a sample first sentence and look at what information is in it and whether that’s necessary to the essay.

“I was sitting in my chair on the porch last Sunday, reading The Black Calhouns and trying not to die of heatstroke in the 103 degree temperature and 70% humidity.”

OK. This post is about to get long, because we’re moving into bulleted list territory. Hopefully you can do this all in your head eventually, but I’m going to write it out:

1. you were seated
2. there was a chair
3. the chair, and you, were on the porch
4. it was a Sunday
5. it was specifically “last Sunday”
6. you were reading
7. the title of the book was The Black Calhouns
8. it was hot out
9. you are prone to heatstroke
10. it was specifically 103 degrees Fahrenheit
11. the humidity was 70%

That’s a lot of information. Which is fair; it’s a pretty long sentence. Now let’s see how much of that sentence, if any, is necessary for the essay that follows.

In order to do that, of course, you probably need to write the rest of the essay. Don’t worry about how long it is at this point, because it’s going to be a lot shorter when you’re done with it. Haha, sucker, I snuck in a post on editing when you weren’t looking.

Since I just fake-wrote that sentence up there, I have no idea what this essay’s about, but let’s look at two essays it might be. First, it might be a love letter to your air conditioning unit. Second, it might be a reflection on how, when your friend recommended the book to you, she said “you should definitely read this; it’s full of atrocities.”

So now that I’ve “written” the essays, let’s look at our 11 pieces of information and see if we need them for those essays. You know what’s great for that? Columns. Sorry if you’re on your mobile device, but columns are pretty awesome.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column width=”1/2″][vc_text_separator title=”I love my A/C”][vc_column_text]

1. you were seated – this probably isn’t relevant unless you go on to talk about how it’s supposed to be hotter when you move around but you can’t see how that’s possible.
2. there was a chair – this isn’t relevant.
3. the chair, and you, were on the porch – this might be relevant if you’re about to talk about trying to get any breeze at all.
4. it was a Sunday – this isn’t relevant.
5. it was specifically “last Sunday” – unless last Sunday set a heat record for your area, that’s not information your reader cares about.
6. you were reading – this isn’t relevant but might add some flavor I guess.
7. the title of the book was The Black Calhouns – this is definitely not relevant.
8. it was hot out – this is important.
9. you are prone to heatstroke – this could also be important, but only if you’re going to go on to discuss how your a/c is a medical necessity and not just being a drama queen
10. it was specifically 103 degrees Fahrenheit – this is probably important
11. the humidity was 70% – this is probably important because a/c lowers humidity in your house.

[/vc_column_text][vc_column_text]That’s three important things and two maybes, out of 11. You can cut most of that sentence and you won’t hurt your essay a bit. Try something like “I’ve tried to love Portland summers, with their 103-degree days and 70% humidity, but I just can’t warm up to them (rimshot).”[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][vc_column width=”1/2″][vc_text_separator title=”Atrocities”][vc_column_text]

1. you were seated – not relevant
2. there was a chair – not relevant
3. the chair, and you, were on the porch – only relevant if you’re on a plantation
4. it was a Sunday – might be relevant if you’re going to connect up specifically to something in the book?
5. it was specifically “last Sunday” – nobody cares
6. you were reading – you’re about to spend an entire essay talking about this book and how casually Jenny used the word “atrocities” to describe things that personally affected her family, so probably this is actually implied and you don’t need to come out and say it.
7. the title of the book was The Black Calhouns – important…. maybe. Is the book itself critical to your essay, or is Jenny’s relationship and yours to the same material what you’re actually talking about?
8. it was hot out – not relevant
9. you are prone to heatstroke – totally not relevant
10. it was specifically 103 degrees Fahrenheit – even less relevant
11. the humidity was 70% – needs a passport and some very expensive tickets to get to the same country as relevant

[/vc_column_text][vc_column_text]That’s two maybes, total, out of 11 items. Consider discarding this sentence entirely in favor of something like “‘It’s full of atrocities,’ Jenny said cheerfully.”[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]

But how much is enough?

In your zeal to cut your writing down to stark, Hemingwayesque sentences, it’s possible to cut too much out. Remember that you need to leave enough information in, both in fact and in voice, for your reader to get a sense of personality and context as well as the bones of your story.

This is the point at which knowing your audience is important. Who are you writing for? Who will be reading you? If you are writing for members of your own culture and caste you may be able to take some linguistic shortcuts that aren’t possible if you’re writing for a larger audience. It’s like the difference between writing modern fiction and speculative (science) fiction: writing modern fiction you may be able to say “street” but in spec fic you’re going to need to explain whether there are hovercars and what material the street is made out of. Even in a modern setting, you need to give some context of place and time before “street” has a meaning, because a street may be cobblestone, dirt, asphalt… you get the picture.

Challenging your assumptions about what information is necessary vs what is implied can still be a great way to shorten your writing. You can give a detail about the cringing leaves of a mimosa tree that’s necessary to your story rather than giving an explicit date and place and time; the tree will anchor the story in place and give the reader a sense of the climate without having to describe that either.

While crisp, concise writing is something you should always think of moving toward, remember this caution:[/vc_column_text][vc_column_text]Direct, stark writing depends on the support of an entire society being trained to an agreed-upon worldview. It is the Western equivalent of the assumed poetic meanings of haiku in the original Japanese. Without the prior knowledge of the encoded imagery, explanation takes far longer than the seventeen morae. Writing from non-default worldviews cannot rely on the assumptions of the default.

This is not a character deficiency. It is simply what happens when you teach everyone, constantly, that normal humanity means being white and male and straight and cis[gendered].

-Japanese-American writer and activist Kat Tanaka Okopnik[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]