Writing Yourself into a Corner

“Kill Your Darlings”

The idea of writing yourself into a corner probably sounds like a bad idea. A kind of confinement. Nowhere to go. But restrictions in writing can be helpful, especially if you need help learning how to write more concisely. Writing concisely is as much about word choice as anything else. If you choose precise wording, you can often express yourself in fewer words. This can be easier said than done, though; you need practice in order to consciously evaluate word choice.

If you’ve ever had to write a statement of purpose or personal statement (for graduate school, for a job, etc.), you know that you are usually limited to around 500 words. For some people, reaching that word count is difficult. Some writers may repeat themselves or include extraneous information–simply because they don’t know what to say. Creating appropriate content is a slightly different issue (not to be addressed here); however, the exercises in this post can still help such writers.

On the other end of the spectrum sit writers such as myself. My first draft in such a situation (a 500-word essay) might be around 1000 words; as such, the crux of my editing/revision process would involve tightening the prose and getting rid of superfluous information. I allow for such intensive editing and trimming in my writing process. I expect it. I’m currently working on one of the final documents for my MFA degree, a critical essay that cannot exceed 30 pages. I fully expect my first draft to be around 40 or 50 pages. From there, I will spend time focusing (and refocusing) my topic and intensely editing. And, to be honest, that extreme editing is my favorite part of the writing process! When I’m writing a first draft (of anything), I never worry about writing too much (overwriting, if you will). That’s because writing helps me gather my thoughts and focus them better. It’s necessary for me to overwrite, and I think of it as a kind of organized freewriting.

While I now know and recognize this about my own writing process, fifteen or twenty years ago I didn’t. Back then, it was easy for me to become frustrated when trying to say a lot in just a few words. And I’ve worked with writers who seem to have a similar outlook. I’ve heard things like, “But I can’t cut that. That’s important information.” Or “Nope. I have to keep that.” I’ve said the same thing myself. To those excuses, I will repeat the sage advice that every writer has heard (or said) at some point: Sometimes you have to “kill your darlings,” a quote that has been attributed to a number of famous writers, from Chekov to Faulkner. In writing, “killing your darlings” basically means that you might have to get rid of words, lines, paragraphs, or even whole scenes that you really like simply because they don’t work within the immediate context. Maybe they don’t advance the story or essay. Maybe there’s a feeling of disconnect. Whatever the reason, sometimes writers have to cut words, phrases, or scenes that they’re really attached to.

This idea of editing down a piece (for conciseness and/or preciseness) is not something that can be learned overnight. It takes time, even for experienced writers. When someone suggests that I remove something from one of my stories or from an essay I’m writing, I always feel a bit deflated, a bit disappointed. I often have to think about the proposed change for a few days. I have a group of astute writing peers from whom I get critical feedback on my work, so I naturally respect their opinions. But writing is subjective. For that reason, I think carefully about suggestions that are made, but I don’t always make all suggested changes. Still, there have been a lot of times when I’ve thought about the feedback and have eventually deleted a line or scene that I loved simply because, after careful consideration, I’ve realized that my peer reviewer has made a valid point. But it’s not easy, even after many years of doing this.

Therefore, all writers—but especially less experienced writers—can benefit from what I call “restriction” exercises; that is to say, they can benefit from writing themselves into a corner. In the next section, I offer some sample restriction exercises, but you are certainly not, uh, restricted to the ones I’ve listed. You can easily create your own, too.

Restriction exercises make great writing warm-ups but can also be used as freewriting prompts. And, like any prompt, you can stray from the initial direction—freeing yourself from the “rules”—especially if you’ve gotten a great idea and want to keep writing. But I would encourage you to stick to the restrictions first—as much as possible—before deviating. You might very well surprise yourself.

Drabbles, Pantoums, and Haiku (Oh, my!)

1. Drabbles

Many years ago, I participated in a writing group in which the writing and sharing of drabbles was an intricate part of the group’s activities. According to the Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, “A drabble runs to exactly 100 words (the title may or may not be excluded).” [Don’t let the reference fool you–drabbles are certainly not limited to science fiction.] Essentially, a drabble should tell a complete story within the 100 words; it is a test of brevity for the author: What words to include? What words to leave out? In the group I was in, the facilitator also gave us two (random) words of which to include in the drabble. Including two random words can further stretch a writer’s imagination. A drabble with the words “dog” and “coffee” will probably be very different from a drabble incorporating the words “alien” and “sun.”

You can adapt the drabble exercise to suit your fancy. Restrict yourself further by making 50 words your target goal. Or randomly select five words instead of just two. Or expand your story to 250 words. Dozens of possibilities abound. In restricting yourself in this way, you will likely find yourself omitting needless adverbs and selecting stronger verbs instead (and that’s a good thing!). In a piece of writing that short, every word counts; therefore, you want to think about your word choice and choose with the utmost thought and consideration.

Another variation is six-word stories, of which there are whole books devoted to. The famous example—attributed (rightly or wrongly) to Ernest Hemingway–is this: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” There’s a whole story there, complete with layers and depth, and it’s relayed to the reader in just a few deceptively simple words.

2. Pantoums

I’ve written a lot of poetry in my life, and I’ve tried different forms. I’ve done acrostic poems (which are also great exercises), and I’ve played with line length and stanza length. But I’ve mostly written in free verse; that is, I haven’t followed any particular form or meter—or any rules at all. There have been exceptions, though, and the pantoum form is one of those exceptions. Although there can be some variation (particularly in the last stanza), the basic pantoum form is stanzas of four lines (quatrains), in which the second and fourth lines get repeated in the following stanza as the first and the third line.

Pantoum Example:

I.

My coffee is getting cold [A]

But still I sit here [B]

Staring at my computer screen [C]

Typing nonsense [D]

II.

But still I sit here [B]

Mindlessly Googling and [E]

Typing nonsense [D]

Day after day [F]

III.

Mindlessly Googling and [E]

Coming up empty-handed [G]

Day after day [F]

The life of a writer [H]

That’s not a very poetic example (I wrote it in about 30 seconds), but hopefully the pattern is apparent. What’s fun about the pantoum (which is not obvious in my example) is that one can play with meaning, changing punctuation or word form. Think of words that can be used as both nouns and verbs or words/phrases of double (or triple) entendre. Pantoums can be fun experiments in meaning and context. As such, this form is another good way to practice paying conscious attention to word choice.

For variety, look up other types of poetic forms and try those, too. You can even create your own! You can play with syllable count or rhyme scheme, too, for added challenges.

3. Haiku

Most of us know haiku as a syllabic restriction: five syllables for the first line, seven for the middle, and five for the third line. This is but one small aspect of haiku; haiku are actually quite a bit more complex than that. I won’t go into detail here, but a true haiku (as I understand it) should be an expression of nature, the first line indicating a season or time of year and the final line offering a twist or surprise. (Again, this is a very simplistic explanation; if you’re interested in learning more, there are websites and books available. A helpful book I read a number of years ago was How to Haiku: A Writer’s Guide to Haiku and Related Forms by Bruce Ross.)

Practicing with the haiku form can be fun (it’s quick–doesn’t take much time), and restricting your syllable count is another great way to draw your attention to the word choices you’re making.

Another variation of haiku is Allen Ginsberg’s “American Sentences.” I first heard of these about seven or eight years ago, and I think it’s an interesting concept. According to ThoughtCo., Ginsberg “spoke of how the 17 characters of this Japanese form [haiku] just don’t cut it as 17 syllables of English, and that divvying them up in five-seven-five syllable lines makes the whole thing an exercise in counting, not feeling, and too arbitrary to be poetry.” His solution was the American Sentence: “One sentence, 17 syllables, end of story. Minimum words for maximum effect.” It’s not all that different from restricting oneself with word count. As a writer, you still need to focus on word choice and think about what is being conveyed—the emotion as well as the overall information. One of Ginsberg’s sentences (as posted on ThoughtCo.) is this: “Put on my tie in a taxi, short of breath, rushing to meditate.” This sentence, of course, has some great juxtaposition within it—in particular, the stellar irony of being “short of breath” but “rushing to meditate.” It creates a statement—perhaps a philosophical one—with just a few words. The reader is left to contemplate, and that is precisely the point.

Well-Chosen Words

It may seem as though the above exercises are aimed at creative writers, but, in fact, they are beneficial to all writers. When you submit a statement of purpose (or other such essay), the content is important. But how you convey the content is also important. Graduate schools (and other professional institutions) are looking for brevity and well-chosen words. They’re often assessing your writing skill as well as what the content says about you. Word choice matters. Consider the following sentence: “I am an extremely experienced and qualified applicant, and you won’t regret accepting me into your program.” If the applicant has clearly shown their experience and qualifications, a sentence such as that may be a reasonable concluding type of sentence. But it does not make good use of words; the rest of the essay would have to be impeccable in order to include a sentence such as that. In my experience (and I’ve read many such sentences throughout the years), writers who include such a sentence usually have multiple such sentences; and, depending on the rest of the context, such sentences can make the applicant sound arrogant (which is not a desirable quality). They usually are products of weak and ineffective writing. The above exercises/activities, though, can be used in a variety of ways and for a variety of purposes and can help writers learn to choose words more wisely and with more economy. It doesn’t matter if you’re an academic writer or a creative writer.

Remember: You don’t have to write alone.

If you’re applying for a job or for graduate school or writing an essay for something equally important, getting outside editing assistance can save you a lot of woe and turmoil. For more information on my consulting, editing, or proofreading services, contact me.