Trimming the Fat: Cutting Unnecessary Words in Your Writing

As a short story and flash fiction author, I sincerely appreciate brevity and conciseness in storytelling. Crafting a powerful narrative in just a few pages, or even a few paragraphs, requires each word to pull its weight.

There’s an art to trimming the excess while still capturing depth, emotion, and character. I love the challenge of weaving a complete world within limited space, where every detail is intentional, and each sentence sharpens the story’s impact. For me, the beauty of short fiction lies in its precision, in saying just enough to resonate—and nothing more.

Here’s an example from a recent short story I wrote for a 2,000-word contest, The Baker of Bogwollow.

“But kind sirs,” Bran continued, rocking on his heels and slipping his thumbs into his waistcoat, “this is no ordinary pie box.”

Think of what I’m conveying in one sentence:

• The mannerisms of my character, Bran, and his tone and formality lend to his ability to charm people with words.

• A description of what he’s wearing.

• His action of slipping his thumbs into a waistcoat depicts confidence.

• Rocking on his heels conveys playful confidence in body language, maybe even a trickster persona, because it’s a stereotyped behavior.

• The dialogue creates suspense, pulling the reader along the story.

Saying less says more.

One of the biggest challenges for new writers is learning to spot unnecessary words that sneak into sentences, puffing them up without adding value. These filler words, phrases, or entire sentences might seem harmless, but they can make your prose bloated and slow.

Think of phrases like “in order to” when “to” alone will do, or “she thought to herself” when “she thought” says the same thing.

The problem with these extra words is that they often muddy the point and dilute the impact of your writing. Readers crave clean, punchy sentences that keep the story moving. If every sentence has fluff, readers can get bogged down, and your story might lose momentum.

The best way to cut unnecessary words is to edit with fresh eyes. Ask yourself: Does each word serve a purpose? Is there a more straightforward way to say this? When you find redundant phrases, try removing them and see if the sentence still makes sense—or even reads better. Trimming a few words often makes a line sharper and gives it more punch.

Writing is about finding that balance: include enough to paint the picture but not so much that readers feel weighed down.

Aim for clarity, word economy, precision, and flow.

R

Keeping Clothing Descriptions in Check for a Stronger Story

One common trap for writers is the urge to detail every item of clothing on every character.

I get it: fashion can reveal a lot about someone. However, if you go overboard describing exactly what each character is wearing, right down to the stitching on their boots, you might lose readers’ attention — fast.

Over-describing can stall the story and slow the pacing significantly if it doesn’t add much to the scene.

The goal isn’t to eliminate clothing descriptions; it’s to use them strategically.

Let’s look at an example.

Elaine walked into the tavern, her emerald green cloak sweeping behind her. The cloak had intricate golden embroidery along the hem and a deep hood lined with soft velvet. Beneath, she wore a fitted leather bodice dyed a rich burgundy, laced tightly up the front with black silk ribbons. Her sleeves were puffed at the shoulders, tapering down to her wrists, where she wore a set of silver bangles. Her trousers were deep brown, tucked into knee-high boots that had brass buckles and small, dark scuffs from frequent travel.

On the one hand, the author dives deep into description to give a sense of the character and their background. It’s meaningful to choose the words “leather bodice” and “rich burgundy” and sleeves that “taper” down to the wrists. Oh, the bangles, too, and the scuffs on the brass buckles of her boots. Nice!

All of these creative layers come to mind as we write physical descriptions, and they’re good stuff. But it’s kind of like Maid and Butler Talk — it’s a massive info dump that slows that story down. It’s just taxing to slog through such a weighty, descriptive paragraph to move the story along. It’s a hallmark of a new writer attempting to get everything about a character and front-load the description.

Ask yourself: does knowing that your character’s cloak is emerald with gold embroidery matter to the story now? Sometimes it does! If that cloak symbolizes status, wealth, or even a magical property, describing it makes sense. But if the details don’t serve the plot or the character, it might be better to leave them out.

When it comes to description, less is more.

Instead:

Elaine strode into the tavern, her emerald cloak swirling behind her.

Great! We see Elaine striding confidently into the tavern with a swirling cloak. Check! Perhaps later, we could introduce another facet, like:

Thymyral eyed the golden embroidery along the hem of Elaine’s cloak. “A merchant marine’s vestment,” he said, gesturing. “You’re a long way from Quisintine, stranger.”

That’s another descriptive layer moving the story along.

“You follow the ways of Maryn, the Sea God?” Father Bynard asked. He lightly touched Elaine’s silver bangles about her wrist. “Yes. I’ve heard tell of their practices, drowning elves and the like.”

Yet another descriptive layer that allows the reader to understand the context. The silver bangles are more than a fashion accessory to Elaine; they’ve got religious meaning, adding even more depth than the original paragraph. But if that’s the setup, here’s the payoff.

Thymyral looked away, disgusted. “I suppose zealotry is its own reward.”

Notice how I used the bangles to set up reaction, dialogue, and conflict. That’s a strategic move by me to help stage the emerging plot.

A few well-chosen details can say more about a character than a whole paragraph. Instead of listing every item in their wardrobe, pick one or two unique items that hint at their personality or mood.

For example, mentioning that your character has a worn leather jacket may suggest a rough past or a rebellious spirit. Readers can fill in the rest with their imagination.

So, when you’re tempted to spend three sentences on someone’s outfit, think about what truly matters. Does it matter at the moment? Can it be layered in at a later time? How does describing a particular garment relate to dialogue or action in the current scene?

Let your readers imagine the other details.

R

Choosing Big vs. Small Words for the Right Impact

Okay. I’m writing this more for my benefit than yours, so bear with me. I have a lot of anxiety around this topic, as — my frequent readers would know — I love myself a $5 word.

The $5 Word

As writers, we have a vast toolkit of words — some simple and familiar, others long or archaic. The English language has around 1 million words — though estimates vary based on how you define “word.” This figure includes words from dictionaries, technical terms, regional dialects, slang, and historical and archaic terms no longer commonly used. The Oxford English Dictionary, for instance, a publication that aims for comprehensive coverage, includes around 600,000 entries, while more general dictionaries contain fewer, typically 200,000 to 300,000 words. English continues to grow as new words emerge from technology, culture, and science, and it borrows liberally from other languages, which means the count is constantly expanding!

Fantasy authors like me have a smattering of go-to $5 words that look cool on paper.

• Ensorcelled – meaning enchanted or bewitched. “The sorceress’s spell ensorcelled the knight.”

• Fain – meaning gladly or willingly, often used to convey desire. “He would fain take up his sword to defend his homeland.”

• Perdition – meaning a state of eternal punishment or ruin, often with a dark, ominous feel. “The cursed treasure would lead any who sought it to perdition.”

• Aegis – meaning protection or sponsorship, originating from mythological usage. “The hero fought under the aegis of the goddess herself.”

• Gloaming – meaning twilight or dusk, with a mystical, atmospheric connotation. “They journeyed through the forest in the fading light of the gloaming.”

Ooo! Aren’t they cool words?

Tiny Treasures

Maybe you might feel as I do.

Writers, as wordsmiths, often delight in unearthing obscure words — those hidden gems of language that carry shades of meaning, history, or emotion not easily captured by everyday vocabulary. Using a rare word is like sharing a small, shimmering treasure with readers; it invites them into a deeper layer of the story’s world or the writer's fascination with language.

When writers select words like “ensorcelled” instead of “enchanted,” it’s not just about vocabulary — it’s about evoking a certain mood, transporting the reader somewhere unusual and captivating. These words hint at secrets within the story, carrying connotations that enhance the setting, enrich the tone, or even deepen a character’s personality.

Obscure words give writers a chance to play with language, savor its texture, and share that joy with readers, who, in turn, get to enjoy the rare thrill of learning a word or being reminded of one.

It’s a subtle way for writers to connect with readers, offering them a gift that feels intimate, like a wink or a whispered secret. Like, “Here’s a cool word! Love this word! I love this word!” In that way, each rare word becomes more than just vocabulary — it becomes a shared experience, a tiny treasure passed from one lover of language to another.

Stroking Our Ego

Now, using one of these “$5” words, like “ensorcelled” or “gloaming,” can make an author feel chuffed (see what I did there?) because these words bring a certain depth, flair, and old-world charm to the writing.

Sliding a rich, archaic word into a fantasy story can feel like adding a secret ingredient that only enhances the setting, adding an atmosphere that feels special and immersive. Plus, using language that resonates with the tone of fantasy allows authors to create a unique voice and style that feels as magical as the worlds they’re building.

But when is it better to keep it simple? Is there a risk of alienating your readers if they don’t know or understand the word? It’s all about choosing the words that best serve your story and connect with your readers.

The Modern Reader

Hi.

My name’s Russell. I’m a writer. I’ve been on the sauce for forty years, and I, er, have an unrealistic perspective of the modern reader: I assume they’re like me.

I believe when readers encounter my cool $5 word, they’ll right-click it (please see the multiple layers of assumptions here) and ask for a definition. Because they’re curious, right? They, too, collect tiny treasures and want to know what they mean. They want to hold them in their palm, stare at them for a while, and coo, telling them what a pretty word they are.

Ensorcelled! You’re such a pretty word! Aren’t you a pretty word?

While exact figures vary, some surveys suggest that around 15-20% of readers will pause to look up a word immediately. In contrast, others will make a mental note and return to it if it significantly affects understanding. Generally, readers are more likely to look up words if they feel it will enhance their experience — like grasping a key concept in a fantasy novel or a mystery. This behavior suggests that 20 percent of readers are genuinely curious and appreciate language, significantly when the word enriches the story or setting.

Please note: the other 80% don’t.

Oh, the horrific feedback I’ve received from judges in writing contests that boil down to:

I didn’t know what this word meant, so I skipped it.

[Grasping my chest.]

I don’t know what’s going on. I’m sorry.

[Running my nails down the side of my cheeks.]

Couldn’t you have just said, ‘tie’ instead of ‘ascot’? Or ‘sword’ instead of ‘scimitar’?

[Silent screaming. No, really: there’s a difference!]

The Reality of the Modern Reader

Newspapers and most mainstream publishers aim for a reading level around 8th to 9th grade. This level ensures that content is accessible to a broad audience and balances readability with clarity and sophistication.

Writing at this level keeps language direct and engaging, making it easier for readers to understand quickly. That’s important for news, which readers typically consume in brief sittings.

Using big or unusual words can add flair and style, especially in fantasy or historical fiction, where specific terms create atmosphere.

Words like “empyrean” or “maelstrom” evoke images and sounds that bring a unique texture to your work. But there’s a catch: if readers constantly reach for the dictionary, they may lose focus and feel distanced from the story. Heck, it may even throw them out of the story.

Here’s an example from a recent contest entry, Sēng of Titan.

Its metallic features shadowed by a wide-brimmed dǒulì,
the robot’s crescent kick sent Rex Thorne crashing to the parched earth.

The word dǒulì is easily Googled. It’s a conical Asian hat. It’s a specific thing. I love that word! And in this contest, I used one word for “conical Asian hat,” so it’s quite economical, too. But guess what my feedback was like?

Yeah.

I really wanted to use that word, but in the end, 80 percent of my readers glossed over it. Without additional context in the sentence, they had no idea what it meant, disengaging them from the story in the opening sentence.

[Facepalm.]

On the other hand, small, straightforward words are easy to read and digest, letting readers focus on the plot and characters. For action scenes or emotional moments, small words keep the pace fast and accessible.

The Voice of the Author

I’ve also been accused of this one. A judge will say my voice as an author rings in a character's dialogue.

That’s not how the character would speak; you’re speaking through them.

[Ugh. But I was writing from the 1st personal perspective of a 19th-century steampunk scientist, you jerk! Am I a 19th-century Steampunk scientist?!]

Ahem. I digress.

Ensuring my characters aren’t parroting what I would say is an ongoing challenge. Would my character use a $5 word? It's hard to say, but I probably don’t want to make a frequent habit out of it. It dampens the believability of my character.

Talking Above the Reader

This was another lesson I took away from Sēng of Titan. It turns out people don’t know the moons of Saturn like I do. Titan’s in the title (yes, one of Saturn’s moons), but some of my readers didn’t see or understand it. So when I started talking about “the moon’s surface,” they thought I was suddenly referring to Earth’s moon and were seriously confused.

Even better, this line:

… the robot’s crescent kick sent Rex Thorne crashing to the parched earth.

My readers didn’t understand the term “crescent kick” and conflated “earth” with “Earth,” like they didn’t understand I was referring to the ‘ground’ and not the planet.

[WTF.]

And this line:

The robot lifted a bamboo dizi to play a breathy, drifting melody that stirred dormant nanoparticles suspended in the atmosphere.

Beautiful, isn’t it? Yeah, I was rather enamored by it, too. By context, the reader could tell a dizi is a Chinese flute if they didn’t look it up, and indeed, everybody knows what “dormant nanoparticles suspended in an atmosphere” are. Right? It’s so science fictiony!

[No.]

I mean, a part of me just wanted to lash out and blame peer-based judging for handing me ignorant, brainless people to judge my awesome science fiction story. Where’s the critical thinking? The locale is in the title! Look up what you don’t know! I didn’t capitalize ‘earth,’ so it’s not the planet? Don’t you understand what nanoparticulates are?! Duh?!

Responding like this would be a good way of missing the point by comforting my ego, wrapping myself in self-righteous indignation, and assuming all readers are like me.

This is a wrong assumption. It doesn’t serve me, and it won’t help me write better. I alienated my readers by talking above them, sending them down a road of confusion.

This was a peer-judged contest. I needed to convey meaning by writing the lowest common denominator.

It’s taken me decades to crawl out of my skin to realize this.

What’s the Best Approach?

I’ve come to feel the best approach is simplicity and balance.

Write in short, concise sentences with 8th-grade words.

Use short, stabby sentences to convey immediacy.

Use long, flowing sentences to create a sense of movement, something ethereal drifting in the wind, an idea that must have buoyancy.

Use vivid, specific words when they add something essential to the story, but don’t be afraid to lean on more straightforward language for clarity and flow.

And if an archaic word tempts you, make sure it adds to the scene without overshadowing it.

Experiment with your word choices and read your drafts out loud. No, really: read them out loud or have an AI read them back to you.

If it sticks in the mouth or chewy, something’s wrong. Your ideas aren’t fully baked yet. Sometimes, you may have to tuck your tiny treasures away for another day. They’re just not going to work to convey meaning.

Finally, I’ve learned that it’s not the reader’s job to divine meaning — that’s my job. You must prepare your manuscript for your intended audience and be mindful of talking above them. It would be best to meet them where they are instead of dragging them along like I wanted to.

You’ll soon find your voice and know when to go big or keep it small.

R

Avoiding “Maid and Butler” Talk for Realistic Dialogue

The monk and the knight huddled near the campfire, their voices low.

"As you know, Brother Aldric," the knight began, "Lord Bingleton, the man we’re after, has been siphoning the villagers’ gold and resources for his twisted ends.”

The monk nodded gravely. "Yes, Ser Edrik, he’s kept the people hungry and destitute. In fact, just last year, he seized the village granaries to feed his private soldiers.”

"And don’t forget," Ser Edrik added, "that Lord Bingleton secretly pledged his loyalty to the Dark King. He offered up the sacred relic of Saint Lysander, hoping it would grant him the king’s wicked blessing.”

"Of course," replied Aldric. "He even built that fortress on Hollow Hill, which, as you know, used to be a sacred site for the Order. He knew the ground itself would twist under his twisted twisty influence."

The knight frowned. "And yet he has guards everywhere, traps along the walls, and enchantments over the gates — all meant to keep us out. It will be no easy feat to reach him, let alone stop him."

Okay, cut!

Jeepers. Wow. Ahem. Where was I?

Oh, yes.

Maid and Butler Talk

If you’ve ever caught yourself writing dialogue that sounds too much like an info dump, you might be dealing with “Maid and Butler” talk.

Don’t panic! It’s a common affliction.

This term refers to a type of dialogue where characters tell each other things they already know purely for the reader's benefit.

Aside from Brother Aldric and Ser Edrik, imagine a scene where one character says:

“As you know, Sarah, we’ve worked together for five years here at Acme Corp.”

Ooo! That’s maid-and-butler talk!

Uh, yeah, real people don’t rehash shared knowledge like that.

It feels unnatural and can take readers out of the moment.

When characters say things only for the reader’s benefit, the conversation feels forced and artificial, breaking your story's flow. Readers want to be immersed in the world you’ve created, and when dialogue doesn’t ring true, that immersion is disrupted.

To avoid this, you must draw upon your powers as an author to find creative ways to show backstory or exposition without relying on stilted dialogue. Use context, subtle hints, and character actions to communicate important information naturally.

For example, instead of having a character say, “As you know, you’ve been my partner since college,” try showing their long history through shared memories, inside jokes, or even an old photo one of them keeps on their desk. These details allow readers to grasp the backstory without overt explanations.

Showing Versus Telling

Killing Maid and Butler Talk goes hand-in-hand with a concept often explored in writing: Showing versus Telling.

Instead of telling the reader directly about Lord Bingleton’s evil deeds in a way that feels like an info dump, the characters can reveal their feelings and shared history through their dialogue, non-verbal responses, and actions, allowing readers to experience the story.

When we say “show, don’t tell,” we encourage writers to immerse readers by letting them deduce meaning through character actions, dialogue, and subtle descriptions rather than spelling everything out. The writer creates tension and emotional depth by drawing readers into the story, engaging them directly with the story rather than explaining it at arm's length.

This approach enriches the narrative by letting readers interpret and connect with the story more deeply. It keeps them active participants, piecing together the story from natural, character-driven cues, and makes for a much more compelling reading experience.

Keep your dialogue realistic and engaging. Where you find Maid and Butler Talk, think about how you’re trying to take shortcuts to tell the reader something rather than show them. It might work in some instances, particularly in cramped stories with word limits, but where you can try to eliminate it.

R

Avoiding Passive Voice

One of the sneakiest pitfalls for new writers is the passive voice.

I wrote a little bit about the subject when exploring verbs last month, but today, I wanted to do a deep dive: active versus passive construction, and why it matters.

Okay. Active. Passive. Constructions. Blech. It all sounds so technical, but here’s the gist: in the passive voice, the action happens to the subject rather than the subject actively doing something.

For example, “The cake was eaten by the child” is passive, while “The child ate the cake” is active. It’s a small change, but there’s a big difference!

Contrasting Passive Voice Against Active Voice

Active voice is a sentence structure where the subject acts directly. This form is typically more precise, direct, and often more engaging, as it emphasizes the doer of the action. In active voice, sentences follow the format of subject → verb → object.

Here are some examples:

1. The chef cooked dinner. The subject (chef) is actively acting (cooking) on the object (dinner).
   

2. The dog chased the ball. The subject (dog) performs the action (chased) on the object (ball).
   

3. The team won the game. Here, the subject (team) is directly responsible for the action (won) applied to the object (game).

In contrast, the passive voice switches the object and subject, often making the sentence feel indirect: “Dinner was cooked by the chef,” “The ball was chased by the dog,” etc.

Passive Voice in Administrative Communication

Passive voice is commonly used in business or administrative language. While it gets a bad rap, it does serve a purpose. In these contexts, passive voice can create a neutral tone, soften statements, or keep the focus on actions rather than specific people or departments.

For instance, saying, “Mistakes were made in the project’s execution” instead of “The team made mistakes in the project’s execution” removes direct blame, making the language less personal and often more diplomatic. Passive voice can also emphasize the action over the actor, which is helpful if the “who” is less important than “what happened.”

That said, we don’t want our fiction or non-fiction stories to sound like business memos, do we?

Passive Voice in Prose

Too much passive voice can make writing feel vague or evasive, and it may lead to reader confusion or frustration if they’re unsure who is responsible for specific actions.

For balance, use passive voice intentionally and sparingly, mainly when neutrality or diplomacy is needed, but switch to active voice when clarity and directness are essential.

Why Does Passive or Active Voice Mater?

In prose, passive constructions can make sentences distant, dull, or confusing. Readers thrive on clarity and energy, and the passive voice weighs down your prose, causing readers to feel detached from the action.

Imagine writing, “The sword was swung by the knight,” rather than “The knight swung the sword.” The second choice is sharper, cleaner, and keeps your reader engaged. It has more energy — it’s immediate, it’s active — and that energy is what we’re after as authors.

Passive voices in fiction can drain energy and immediacy, making descriptions feel detached and characters seem less dynamic.

In storytelling, readers want to feel that they’re part of the action, seeing events unfold in real time. Passive voice, however, disrupts this flow by making events feel like they're happening in the background or after the fact, which can create an unintentional distance between the reader and the story.

For instance, if you write, “The treasure was discovered by the adventurers,” the focus lands more on the treasure than on the adventurers who found it. In fiction, where characters drive the narrative, this construction feels weaker. Switching to active voice, “The adventurers discovered the treasure,” puts readers directly in the moment of discovery, letting them experience the characters’ excitement firsthand.

Going back to administrative communication, another issue with passive voice is its tendency to blur responsibility and reduce clarity. If readers are trying to track action sequences, emotional moments, or crucial plot twists, passive voice can muddle who’s responsible for what, especially in complex scenes.

Take, “The spell was cast, causing the tower to collapse,” which leaves it ambiguous who cast the spell. In contrast, “The mage cast the spell, causing the tower to collapse,” centers the mage’s decisive role, tightening both the action and the stakes.

While passive voice has its place, especially for conveying subtlety or mystery, using it too often in fiction can make your writing feel less immediate, weaken character agency, and slow the story's pacing. An active voice keeps the action front and center, amplifying tension and giving readers the immersive experience they crave.

Spotting Passive Constructions

To spot passive voice, look for versions of “to be” (was, were, is) paired with past tense verbs. Once you find these, flip the sentence so your characters do the action directly. This brings clarity and energy into your storytelling, helping you convey movement and emotion.

The word “was” is often considered a red flag for passive voice because it’s frequently paired with a past participle (a verb ending in -ed, -en, etc.) to form a passive construction. In passive voice, the structure typically looks like “was/were + past participle,” which shows that the action is happening to the subject rather than being actively performed by it.

For example:

• Passive: “The letter was written by Sarah.”

• Active: “Sarah wrote the letter.”

In the passive version, “was written” makes the letter the focus, while in the active voice, “Sarah wrote” places Sarah as the primary actor.

Therefore, a good FIND/SEARCH on your document for “was” can help identify possible passive constructions.

AI can also help. You can paste a sentence into an AI, ask if it is passive, and rewrite it in active voice. You can even paste your entire chapter or short story and ask the AI to locate passive constructions. A real time-saver.

Let’s be clear. “was” itself isn’t always a sign of passive voice. It can also indicate past progressive tense, which describes an ongoing action in the past, like, “She was reading when he called.” In this case, “was reading” shows an active, continuous action.

But “was” is a good starting place to hunt down and root out passive constructions. Look for sentences where “was” or “were” is combined with a past participle, and the subject receives the action rather than performing it.

Noticing this difference can help you avoid passive constructions that weaken your prose and shift to active ones that give your writing clarity and momentum.

Conclusion

Cutting down on passive voice isn’t just about rules; it’s about making your writing come alive and bringing your readers directly into the action.

So keep a keen eye on those passive phrases. Your readers — and editors — will thank you!

R

Drop Hedging Words to Make Your Writing Stronger

One of the most common habits I see in new writers is the overuse of hedging words — those little fillers like “maybe,” “probably,” “seems,” or “kind of.”

In writing, hedging refers to using words or phrases that soften or dilute statements, making them sound less assertive or confident. These words often express uncertainty, caution, or vagueness.

Hedging words are a natural part of everyday conversations to soften statements, express uncertainty, or be polite. We say things like, “I think this might be a good idea” or “It’s probably a good approach” to avoid sounding too direct or overly confident. This conversational habit can seep into our writing, especially in first drafts, where we tend to write as we speak.

In prose, however, hedging words can weaken the impact of our storytelling. Words like “maybe,” “sort of,” and “kind of” make our characters sound hesitant or unsure, which can undercut tension and reduce the clarity of emotions or actions.

For instance, if a character “kind of feels scared,” readers are left questioning the depth of fear experienced by the character. Does the character truly feel scared, or are they unsure? Are they “maybe a little scared” or genuinely terrified?

As authors, hedging words dilutes your writing and weaken your message.

As readers, we only know what the author tells us, and if the author is uncertain, on the fence, unclear, or can’t communicate action or dialogue with precision, we feel it.

Cutting hedging words strengthens your story by letting your descriptions land with more impact. Readers can sense the difference, and a clear, bold choice pulls them in. Strengthening the prose often means choosing direct, clear words that convey precise emotions or actions, giving readers a more vivid experience without the haze of uncertainty. By stripping away the maybes, the kind ofs, the sort ofs, the probablies, the writing becomes more powerful, allowing readers to fully engage in the story without second-guessing the character’s intentions or feelings.

Keep an eye out for these kinds of words. When you find them, ask yourself if they’re necessary, and try the sentence without them. Nine times out of ten, you’ll find that your prose gains a sharper edge and communicates exactly what you mean.

As you gain confidence, you’ll find that your storytelling voice becomes more robust and more distinct — without uncertainty or extra fluff. Readers want to feel they’re in good hands, and a bold, decisive voice does just that.

Less hedging equals more power!

R