Polishing Your Prose: A Guide to Writing with Clarity and Precision

Posted on 11/22/2024 Evan Swensen

In the quiet corners of writing workshops and editorial meetings, there is an unspoken truth: many writers, even skilled ones, sometimes write dumb things. It’s not intentional, of course. Most start with noble intentions to craft vivid imagery, evoke deep emotions, and draw readers into the worlds we build. Yet, there it is, glaring at us from the page—the unnecessary redundancy, the over-explained metaphor, or, worse, the outright absurdity.

Consider, for instance, the classic blunder: “The peninsula was pristine, untouched, with water on three sides.” A geographically accurate statement, sure, but as helpful to the reader as a map drawn with invisible ink. Peninsulas, by definition, are surrounded by water on three sides. Why write it? Perhaps the author feared that without clarification, readers would imagine a peninsula inexplicably dangling over dry land, defying logic and gravity without clarification.

This isn’t an isolated issue. Its equally egregious cousin, “The island was remote and surrounded by water,” pops up with startling regularity. Islands, surrounded by water? Revolutionary. Yet, these sentences find their way into manuscripts, serving as unintentional monuments to what happens when we underestimate our readers.

Why This Happens

Redundant writing often stems from insecurity. Writers may feel compelled to over-explain, fearing the audience won’t “get it.” Yet great writing is built on trust—trust in the reader’s intelligence and the prose’s power. As George Orwell wrote in Politics and the English Language, “If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.” Clarity doesn’t come from piling on details but from stripping away the unnecessary.

Another cause is a misguided attempt to sound poetic. In the pursuit of literary beauty, some writers lapse into what has been called “purple prose”—overly elaborate descriptions that drown out meaning. Instead of simply saying the morning sky was overcast, they might write, “The heavens were veiled in a somber tapestry of gray, heavy with the whispered promises of rain.” While nothing inherently wrong with a little flourish, it must serve the story, not distract from it.

The Problem with Redundancy

Redundant writing isn’t just an annoyance—it’s a roadblock. When a reader stumbles across an unnecessary clarification, it pulls them out of the story. Imagine this: You’re immersed in a thriller, the hero racing against the clock to defuse a bomb, and then you encounter a line like, “The clock struck midnight, marking the end of the day.” The tension evaporates. The reader’s internal monologue goes from What will happen next? to Well, duh.

Similarly, redundancy wastes precious narrative space. Every sentence in a story should pull its weight, either advancing the plot, deepening character, or enriching the setting. Redundant sentences do none of these. Instead, they act as filler, dragging the pacing and testing the reader’s patience.

How to Fix It

The solution to redundant writing lies in careful revision. Ask yourself with every line: Does this add value? If the sentence doesn’t provide new information or enhance the reader’s understanding, it probably doesn’t belong. In his book On Writing, Stephen King advises, “Kill your darlings.” Even the most lovingly crafted sentence must go if it doesn’t serve the greater good.

A Broader Lesson

The problem of redundant writing isn’t confined to descriptions of landscapes. It rears its head in dialogue, too. Have you ever read a conversation like this?

“I’m so tired,” she said, yawning.

We get it. She’s tired. The yawn already showed us that. The dialogue tag is redundant, a missed opportunity for sharper storytelling. Replace it with something that adds depth:

“I’m so tired,” she said, her voice a frayed whisper.

By eliminating redundancy, we create space for details that matter, resonate, and linger in the reader’s mind.

The Importance of Self-Awareness

Every writer has fallen into the trap of redundancy at some point. It’s part of the learning process. The key is to develop an ear for it, to become your own harshest critic. This means reading your work aloud, soliciting feedback from trusted readers, and approaching revision with ruthless honesty.

And perhaps most importantly, it means embracing simplicity. As Anton Chekhov famously advised, “Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” Let your readers connect the dots. Trust them to see the water surrounding the peninsula without being told it’s there.

Conclusion

Writing is, at its core, a dialogue between author and reader. Redundant descriptions and over-explanations are like interruptions in conversation, breaking the flow and diminishing the story’s impact. By striving for clarity and precision, writers can ensure that their words resonate, their characters breathe, and their worlds come alive.

So, the next time you’re tempted to write, “The valley was serene and peaceful,” stop and ask yourself: What does serene feel like? What does peaceful sound like? Instead of telling, show. Instead of explaining, trust. And for goodness’ sake, let the peninsula speak for itself.

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