We are creatures living within the web of language. How well we understand the world often depends on how capable our language is.
When writing, I often feel that words fall short of thought. This is not a failure of language — it means my vocabulary has yet to reach the depths of my thinking. When this happens, there is no need for discouragement. Every time I search for that one most precise word, language advances an inch, and so does thought.
The synonym of incompetence is vagueness; the synonym of competence is precision.
The depth of one’s thinking often reveals itself in the ability to find the single most exact word for a particular state of affairs.
Whether making sense of a complex situation or discerning a subtle emotion, once you can define it with a precise word, you have mastered it. More often than not, the right syntax is the right solution.
Yet the pursuit of precision never means verbosity or ornamentation. On the contrary, the strongest ideas are brief and forceful.
Clarity of expression maps directly onto clarity of thought. Hence, everyday writing should adhere to two principles: say less, not more; write formally, not colloquially. Temper the urge to express; let the discipline of written language rein in the diffuseness of speech.
To balance precision with conciseness, every draft should undergo a deliberate exercise: cut.
- Cut meaningless filler words.
- Cut redundant particles and modifiers.
- Cut any sentence that does not bear on the central idea.
- If ten words suffice, never use eleven.
Writing is like sculpture — only by ruthlessly chiseling away the excess of vagueness and redundancy does the true contour of thought emerge.