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.

With my frosty mocha frappuccino in my left hand and her marked-up manuscript in my right, I looked across the table at my writing buddy and blurted, “You are a master at using bold, expressive verbs.” She smiled and thanked me for the compliment.

I know good writing when I read it, and when I come across an exceptionally well-written excerpt, I dissect the sentences in my mind to determine why the passage appeals to me so much. Most of the time, I find I am attracted to the strong, dynamic verbs the writer chose to depict the main action.

Consider this sentence: Samantha left the house.

Left is such a flat-footed verb. Don’t you wonder how or why Samantha left the house? Now, consider replacing left with a more active verb and adding the preposition from to the sentence.

Samantha raced from the house. Raced, bolted, dashed, darted, sprinted, zipped, or whizzed implies that she is in a hurry.

Samantha skipped from the house. Skipped or bounced implies that she is in a good mood.

Samantha crawled from the house. Crawled, wobbled, or limped implies that she is injured or impaired.

Samantha snuck from the house. Snuck, crept, or slipped implies that she is being secretive.

Samantha sashayed from the house. Sashayed or strutted implies that she is exuding confidence and perhaps wants to impress someone.

I continue to learn how to invigorate my writing using tips from books, blogs, podcasts, and other writers. The more I learn, the more I want to stand on a mountaintop and shout these small writing revelations for all to hear. This blog is my mountaintop—my forum for sharing writing tips and information with my friends, family, and followers. Enjoy!