Tag: Writing Advice

During the dead week between Christmas and New Year’s, I cut over 24,000 words from my book Poesy (coming November 7, 2026). The book went from 110,000 words down to just 86,000, then I added three more chapters for heightened excitement.

Now, in my natural state, I am a tight writer; 9 Years Yearning gets through nine entire years in just 34,000 words. The problem is that I wanted to query Poesy, and tradpub adores bloat. If you want a chance in hell of getting a fantasy novel published as a debut author, it has to be somewhere between 94,000 and 110,000 words.

I do not adore bloat. Many readers don’t. A tight, lean novel is more likely to capture my attention because I can’t put it down, nor can I skim.

And you, whether you know it or not, are probably much the same. Think about what tends to stick in your head: is it GIFs of a specific scene or an entire movie? The GIF, to be sure.

So, today, I will explain what guided me while I ruthlessly demolished Poesy and made it ten times better. I was going to have an example for every part, but then this post ballooned to a 30-minute read time, so you’ll just have to trust me on some of these. But I did include some examples so you can see what I mean.

As always, I am not omniscient. You might not like my advice, and that’s okay. Still, I hope you’ll find something useful here.

Let a book sit until you can approach it neutrally.

There are a few reasons why people put out super bloated work, and none of them have to do with being a terrible writer. Rather, it (like almost everything in writing) has to do with mindset.

• The author is impatient. They try to edit and publish right after finishing the manuscript, blind to what could be removed.

• They have sunk cost fallacy thinking. Because they worked so hard on the book, they don’t want to “lose” anything by ruthlessly cutting words.

• They want to impress readers. Whether that’s through worldbuilding infodumps, purple prose, or deep character analysis, the author is spinning in circles, begging you to see how smart and cool they are.

• They’re still figuring out their character. This is what I dealt with because most of my infodumps are internal monologue. I created Cerie Korviridi for this book, so I didn’t really know her yet. As such, I was creating her on the page, and that meant a lot of explanations of her thought process.

• The author is not confident. Unconfident authors have to explain everything; confident authors trust you to figure it out. They will hint, intimate, and suggest, which keeps readers hooked.

All of these can be solved through more practice and, most importantly, time. I let Poesy sit for two years before returning to it after finishing six more books. As such, I wasn’t attached to any of the words on the page, knew Cerie intimately, and trusted my readers to understand what I was doing.

If you’re looking at your draft and going, “omg no, all this belongs in there,” then you need more time. Let it sit for another month – or, hell, another year.

And don’t listen to your brain screaming that you have to publish right now. Delayed gratification is one of the best gifts you can have as a writer.

Ensure every scene is unskippable.

I sloughed over 800 words from my book by cutting two useless scenes. The first one was a dream sequence, which I stubbornly told myself I could get away with because it showed Cerie’s tragic backstory. Spoiler: dream sequences are almost never worthwhile unless you’re doing a dream-based book.

Kill your dreams. In your book, I mean. The dream sequences.

I mean, think about it. No one cares about your dreams IRL, so why would they care about a character’s dream?

The other one was a character infodumping about the intermarriages between royal families, which was a total yawn.

To decide whether a scene is useful, ask yourself if the reader would be confused about the overall plot if they skimmed that section. Would they miss a crucial detail or foreshadowing by flipping the page? Then you need that scene – though you may be able to tighten it.

And yes. You can remove a scene if it is pure worldbuilding (which, as we know, I don’t give much of a shit about even as a fantasy writer). You think the pig-based economy is the most exciting thing ever because you came up with it. Your readers likely do not care.

Limit internal monologue to a few sentences.

Internal monologue is my personal demon because I overdo it all the time. Cerie is a very cerebral individual; she’s constantly musing, thinking, plotting.

But here’s the thing. In real life, your thoughts are likely quite truncated and brief while you’re in the moment. If you drop your coffee, you think, “Oh no!” You don’t think, “Oh, this reminds me of when I was five years old and someone poured hot coffee onto a stray cat and I learned about the banality of evil.”

You might think that later, while cuddled up in bed, but it’s not what occurs to you in the moment. That is the whole premise behind l’esprit de l’escalier, where you come up with a witty remark hours after it would be relevant.

So, when an individual is in the middle of an activity, focus the character’s thoughts on the present moment. A sentence or two can do the work of three paragraphs if you’re careful.

Here’s what I mean.

Version 1

Mordrek’s instructions were perfect, down to the door right by the stove. The hall was deserted, though she heard the scuffs of guards moving about in other corridors. Even if they did accost her, she was sure they were strangers; Ono and Rhen worked the day shift, and she didn’t recognize the others. She wouldn’t have to, because she’d soon be on her way home.

Though she knew she should hurry, she took her time on the third floor, relieved that it was deserted. Cerie assured herself this was only out of curiosity, but the truth was that she feared Daiski would be lurking anywhere. Trepidation slowed her steps, and she half-hoped that one of the guards would appear to chastise her like a naughty child.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the door. The bell tinkled crazily, but only the wind outside reproached her. The room was empty, to her great relief, and she closed it with a muttered thanksgiving to her gods.

Her very bed seemed restless, filled with sand; she tossed and turned for an hour as the morning poured over the sea. Never in her life had anything felt so urgent as the conversation she would have with the royal family, agreeing to help them before stabbing them in the back.

She didn’t feel guilty for the ruse but recognized the gravity of failure. Even if they managed to get nearly to Breme, should she let anything slip, her supposed collaborators would execute her or march back to Kulniryi for even worse punishment. Maybe if she insisted on Mordrek’s accompaniment, he’d be able to protect her, but then they would have a bounty on their heads. The man knew too much and was too disloyal for the royals not to suspect his collusion.

Disaster tracked her wherever she looked; she had no one to rely upon for advice in this moment, standing between two paths equally bleak.

But she could do nothing about it right now. Uileac had always told her that when she was worrying about something she couldn’t help, she should put it in a mental pocket to be retrieved when the moment was right; she should envision a little tea tin to put it aside.

Maybe it worked for him, but she couldn’t find a single niche of her brain that wouldn’t vomit out more fears. The inadequate sister as usual, never approaching the esteem of those she admired. And she was the one tasked with remaking history: no cognitive pocket was large enough to tuck away such dismal contemplation.

Instead, she decided to recite an old vulgar poem: the one that she’d told to Irith when begging for her inculcation. It was an irrelevant scraping from the mind of a traumatized teen, still prostrate to the babyish belief that parents live forever.

Word Count: 472

Yes, Cerie’s thoughts here are sorta relevant because she’s planning ahead and letting readers into her fears. But they’re long and meandering. We can sense the gravity of the situation throughout the book because the stakes have already been told to us; we don’t need her reminders.

So I slashed all that.

Version 2

Mordrek’s instructions were perfect, down to the door by the stove; by some miracle, she evaded the guards she heard scuffing down the halls and arrived back in her room.

The very bed seemed restless; she rolled like a sinking ship as the morning poured over the sea. Nothing was more critical than her meeting with the royal family—and nothing could be worse.

Uileac had always told her that when she was worrying about something she couldn’t help, she should put it in a mental pocket to be retrieved when the moment was right. His imagery was a tea tin, or so he said.

Maybe it worked for him, but she couldn’t find a single niche of her brain that wouldn’t vomit out more fears. Instead, she decided to recite an old vulgar poem: the one that she’d told to Irith when begging for her inculcation.

Word count: 146

Here, we still get the comfort of her thinking about her brother Uileac, and this serves as shorthand for the overall stakes. By trying a technique he gave her – and humanizing it with the little tea tin detail – we are reminded of her loyalty to Breme but without having to rehash everything.

Shed words: 326

Remove the “hmm, interesting” worldbuilding.

Fantasy writers are notorious for cramming in stupid details that no one cares about wherever they may make sense. I have also been guilty of this, as is obvious in my following example.

Version 1

A miserable cur: she certainly felt like one, the eagle wounds stinging any time she moved. Over the past two suns, she had ferociously fended off Ono, insisting she was studying the books she had gathered and needed perfect peace to plan.

If she allowed him to bring in meals and pass headache medication through a crack in the door, he was content enough to let her wallow. The long-sleeved tunic he had brought her disclosed nothing of her wounds, and she promised him that only her business kept her glued in her room.

She knew she’d have to get to a doctor soon enough: as soon as she felt able to move more than for a few moments, time spent assuring Ono she was well. Her head was feeling clearer today, her stomach less discontent, so now was the pivotal moment.

The pain was what she should have suspected from performing a powerful art. Part of their training had discussed stanzasi, that sense of stupor-flu that could come upon a poet who had tried to work alone. Illness wasn’t a given, but the stronger the magic, the worse the effects. Everything has a consequence, regardless of whether the actor agrees with the price.

The eagle assault did not help, either.

Cerie slid her sleeve up and surveyed the wounds, trying to figure out what could cause them that was categorically not a bird. They had scabbed up over the past two days, puffy strictures with a small crust of ooze that left her arm sticky. Their cause could still be apparent to anyone with a talented eye.

Word count: 270

Do readers really need to know about stanzasi, which is basically poetry flu? Not really. I don’t mention it ever again in the series, so I chose not to linger on that.

Version 2

A miserable cur: she certainly felt like one, her arms eagle-shredded. The past two suns had been an endless battle to fend off Ono, who was steadily pressing back against her weak excuses. She’d have to see a doctor soon enough, or that damnable guard would drag her screaming through the halls.

The pain was as she had expected from performing poetry on a living thing, perhaps even worse. Every High Poem had a consequence, regardless of if the actor accepted the price.

And the talon scratches weren’t pleasant, either.

Cerie slid her sleeve up and surveyed the wounds, considering what could cause them that was categorically not a bird. They’d scabbed up, puffy strictures with a small crust of ooze: nowhere near the horror of the Sigillum ritual, but quite high on the list.

Word count: 135

Tell readers what they need to know when (or right before) they need to know it. If you have foreshadowing, hint at it – don’t hit the reader over the head. If they’re paying attention, they’ll remember.

I also removed the categorical explanation of every way she was ouchy. We are not Cerie’s doctors and don’t need her medical history. All we must know is that she feels like shit and was torn up by an eagle. Why? Well, you’ll find out in November.

Shed words: 75

Trim “recap” areas.

Alas, we’ve all done it: summed up a time skip so that readers didn’t feel like they missed anything. Writers might spend half a page meticulously explaining what happened before the current scene started before jerking back into the present.

But this is boring. Just tell us the character was busy doing whatever, or show us the tail end of that activity so that we sense the transition but do not need a full monologue about it.

This often comes from writers thinking their readers are stupid and must be handheld through everything – or being worried that readers will think they are lazy. But I promise your readers are intelligent and, most importantly, not thinking about you at all. Ensure they get the context they need from the scene in front of them, and all is well.

Pick emblematic items rather than lists of objects.

As I discussed in my post about writing descriptions, some writers have a bad habit of listing every single thing present in a room: the paintings, the flooring, the colors of the wallpaper, etc etc. Which is why we have the backlash of “sometimes the curtains are just blue.”

Sure. Sometimes the curtains do be blue because the author didn’t make blue important. They wanted to ensure you saw the scene in full color so they threw descriptors in there with wild abandon.

With a good author, colors, textures, etc do matter because they are used sparingly. If it’s mentioned, then it must be symbolic. If an item is pointed out, then it means something. And that is far more interesting to readers than a giant IKEA catalogue of furniture.

The other thing is that this lets readers fill in the scene at their leisure. Thanks to the magic of associative cognition, they will get a picture in their heads based on one singular object – without you doing anything else.

For example, if you say there is a horsehair couch in the corner, readers assume old-timey luxury. A scuffed computer in a college dorm room suggests a broke twenty-something. If you want contrast, then pick two objects that don’t seem to correlate and let them fight for dominance.

Use dynamic verbs in descriptions.

Once you’ve picked out a few important items or images, you can start cutting them further by using dynamic verbs. Not only does this tighten the pace, but it improves tension and immersion. The scene feels alive rather than a set piece because even stationary objects are doing something.

Dynamic verbs also enhance the atmosphere. Having a clock “glowering” on a mantel feels much different than it “perching” there.

Here’s my boring undynamic scene first.

Version 1

The road bent down at a sharp angle, then veered left toward the first level of houses clinging to the cliffs. There were a few on each level of the precarious path, their edifices oddly shallow: no more than a few rough-cut windows tinted with the colorant from glass rubbish, and thick doors stolen off shipwrecks.

These buildings themselves were scrapyard fronts for the structures hewn into the rocks, made with water-warped boards of wood hammered into each other with thick, rusted nails. Some had lanterns pounded above the doors, many of which guttered through years of candle smoke. Before them, so far below it gave her vertigo, was a wide, boat-strewn beach, and then the eternal sea shining sluggish in the light of the moon.

“You can see why I don’t have a horse,” Mordrek explained with a wink as he led Carrot down the steep, narrow path, the animal huffing with clear annoyance. “One of those fancy ponies could never stomach a trail like this.”

Word count: 170

A lot of “this was here,” “this was there,” “this looked like this.” It feels like Cerie just stopped dead and took everything in at once. Not only is that unrealistic, but it takes the reader out of the scene and forces them to memorize details before continuing.

And here’s the improved version.

Version 2

The road bent at a sharp angle, then veered toward the first level of cliff homes. The buildings’ edifices appeared oddly shallow: no more than rough-cut windows glazed from glass rubbish, thick doors brined with spray.

Guttering lanterns stippled the gray rock, dim from years of candle smoke. Below, a boat-strewn beach clung to the sluggish sea; she jerked her gaze up to quell vertigo.

“You see why I don’t have a horse,” Mordrek explained with a wink as Carrot plodded along. “A pretty pony couldn’t stomach a trail like this.”

Word count: 90

Now, everything is doing something: angling, veering, glazing, clinging. We can sense her movement as she takes in each detail; the scene reveals itself slowly and focuses in on emblematic items rather than trying to explain everything at once. Now, readers’ eyes don’t cross – and yours don’t either.

Shed words: 80

Note when your attention wanders while rereading.

You are, in fact, your first and best editor because there are parts you’ll skim while rereading. Like your audience, you want to get to the juicy stuff, so you’ll likely avoid lingering at parts you know are sort of boring.

I often skip past pages to find my favorite passages – and then go back and remove those pages I didn’t care enough to reread.

Even if you tell yourself that you need to keep those things, you know in your heart of hearts that you don’t. Otherwise, why would you skim over your own writing? Cut! Cut!

While the trimming here may not seem drastic, every little bit adds up. 80 words here, 100 words there, and suddenly you’re down dozens of pages – which readers will thank you for.

Now, I know you might be anxious about removing all these things, but here’s your reassurance: you can keep all that in an earlier draft. I make new copies each time I do revisions, labeling them as “D1,” “D2,” and so on.

None of your work is wasted. If you remove huge chunks, you might find that you can reuse that somewhere else, even if it’s just a nice turn of phrase. But if you never touch that section again, you still learned something by writing it.

You did the work, and I’m proud of you – but that work doesn’t necessarily need to be shown on the printed page.

Go forth and desecrate! I’m excited to see how much better your work could be.