I’ve been told to write concisely—to shave unnecessary words from sentences and sever rambling sentences from paragraphs as if they were infected limbs.
Sure, I get it. A passage void of redundancies is leaner, cleaner, and easier for readers to digest, but is it as beautiful as it could be? Can you describe a sunset succinctly? And even if you can, should you? If writing is an art form—and I believe that it is, in addition to a form of communication—then sometimes the writer should take liberties to paint with his or her words.
Mark Twain was a master of words and stories, but he was not concise. Some of his descriptions linger on and on and on, but I don’t mind, because there is so much intelligence, wit, sensation, and imagination in his writing. Behold the master indulging us with his winding description of watermelons.
“I know how a prize watermelon looks when it is sunning its fat rotundity among pumpkin vines and ‘simblins;’ I know how to tell when it is ripe without ‘plugging’ it; I know how inviting it looks when it is cooling itself in a tub of water under the bed, waiting; I know how it looks when it lies on the table in the sheltered great floor-space between house and kitchen, and the children gathered for the sacrifice and their mouths watering; I know the crackling sound it makes when the carving knife cleaves its way to the other end; I can see its halves fall apart and display the rich red meat and the black seeds, and the heart standing up, a luxury fit for the elect; I know how a boy looks, behind a yard-long slice of that melon, and I know how he feels; for I have been there.”
–Mark Twain from the Autobiography of Mark Twain
Had Twain lived by the strict confines of succinctity, he may have written, “I know watermelons, and I know the way they look, sound, and taste.” I’m glad that brevity wasn’t his strong point. Every now and then, writers need to just let go and let their words flow like hot lava.