Clearing out the clutter

As part of my effort to improve my writing, I bought On Writing Well by William Zinsser this afternoon. William addressed “clutter” right away, and I decided to de-clutter my most recent post at The Parenting Post. What follows is the opening paragraph as posted at The Parenting Post…

“My little boy is about to mark his second year on God’s green earth. In a mere 24 months, he has gone from a cooing, drooling, Desitin-scented dove to a vindictive and brutal dictator, hell-bent on tormenting his sister and the dog, hurling his body onto the floor from the couch, stuffing sand into his gullet, saying “stinky poo poo” over and over again at Stop & Shop and yelling really, really loudly. “No” and “Don’t like” are now his favorite things to say. (“Don’t like kiss” scored huge points with my wife last week, I’ll tell you.)”

Now, the de-cluttered version:

“William is about to turn two. In that time, my cooing, drooling, Desitin-scented dove has become a brutal dictator. He torments his sister, leaps off of the couch, eats sand and shouts “stinky poo poo” at the grocery store. He also says “Don’t like” often, as in “Don’t like kiss” (which scored huge points with my wife, I’ll tell you.)”

Quite an improvement, no? That 2nd sentence was exhausting. Here is the 2nd and 3rd paragraph, as they originally appaered:

“I’d like to commemorate Sir William’s birthday with a special post directed to him, if you all will indulge me.

Son:

Here you are almost 2 — soon you’ll be 3, then 10, then 16, and by that time Daddy will be too exhausted to nurture you the way he should or even carry on a coherent conversation. So I’m recording my advice to you now, while I still have my wits about me and you’re taking your nap. This is important stuff, son, so pay attention.”

And de-cluttered:

“I’d like to commemorate Sir William’s birthday with a post directed to him, if you will indulge me.

Son:

You’re almost 2. Soon you’ll be 3, then 10, then 16, and by that time Daddy will be too exhausted to nurture you, or even carry on a coherent conversation. So I’m recording my advice to you now, while I still have my wits about me. This is important, son, so pay attention.”

Small changes but definitely less cluttered.

One of the things I’ve learned from this exercise is that I write prose as if I were songwriting. When I was a songwriting major at Berklee College of Music, my lyric writing courses emphasised phrasing and timing, among other things. I still follow those rules subconsciously, as I want my sentences to have the same number of syllables, with accents in the same spots. Funny, no?

Here’s the next paragraph:

“First of all, don’t drink cheap beer.

I’m not talking about when you’re in college and all you can afford is a $5 12-pack of Black Label. No, I’m referring to the years after that, when you’re a hipster grad student in Boston, hanging out at the Trident Bookstore Cafe on Newbury Street, scrawling your meaningful work in the Moleskin notebook that never leaves your side. At that time, pick up a Guinness or a Beamish or even a Watney’s Red Barrel. Those will more appropriately accompany your turtleneck and jacket with the patches on the elbows.”

De-cluttered:

“First of all, don’t drink cheap beer.

I don’t mean when you’re in college and all you can afford is a $5 12-pack of Black Label. I mean years later, when you’re a hip grad student in Boston, hanging out at the Trident Bookstore Cafe on Newbury Street, purposefully writing in the Moleskine notebook that never leaves your side. Order a Guinness or a Beamish or even a Watney’s Red Barrel. Those will more appropriately accompany your turtleneck and jacket with the patches on the elbows.”

Next:

“Secondly, please understand that Van Halen is, and always will be, the greatest rock ‘n’ roll band in the world.

Just look past all the bickering between the brothers, the revolving-door policy regarding lead singers and the dreadful 2004 tour. I want you to get into your (practical, mid-price-range hybrid) car, roll the windows down and play Women and Children First all the way through, really, really loud. I understand that today you’re happy enough to hear the “Higgly Town Heroes” theme over and over again, and that when you’re a teenager you’ll listen to some God-awful noise,* but trust me on this. “Eruption” will blow you away.”

And de-cluttered:

“Look past the brothers’ bickering, the revolving-door policy regarding lead singers and that dreadful 2004 tour. Just get into your (practical, mid-price-range hybrid) car, open the windows and blast Women and Children First all the way through. I understand that today you’re happy to hear the “Higgly Town Heroes” theme over and over, and that when you’re a teenager you’ll listen to some God-awful noise,* but trust me on this. “Eruption” will blow you away.”

The next two, original:

“Lastly (and this is a biggie), there will come a day when you’re standing in the mall with your wife,** and she’ll present you with two pairs of shoes. She’ll ask you which pair you like better. You’ll look at Pair A, then Pair B, and you’ll think to yourself, “I honestly, in my heart of hearts, do not have an opinion on this.”

Do not panic. What you’ll be experiencing is completely normal. It’s very, very hard to see what makes one pair of shoes superior to another, and even more difficult to care. Your job at that moment is to toss an imaginary coin in your mind: Heads, the pair on the right. Tails, the left. Make your choice and stick with it. Remember, it isn’t your job to determine which pair your wife will buy; you’ve just got to be an active participant in the shopping process.”

…and de-cluttered:

“Lastly (and this is a biggie), there will come a day when you’re shoe shopping with your wife.** She’ll hold up two pairs and ask for your preference. You’ll look at Pair A, then Pair B, and think to yourself, “I honestly, in my heart of hearts, do not have an opinion on this.”

Do not panic. What you’ll be experiencing is completely normal. It’s very, very hard to see what makes one pair of shoes superior to another, and even more difficult to care. Your job at that moment is to toss an imaginary coin in your mind: Heads, the pair on the right. Tails, the left. Make your choice and stick with it. Remember, it isn’t your job to determine which pair she’ll buy; you’ve just got to be an active participant in the shopping process.”

Finally, the closing paragraph:

“There you have it. You may want to print this out to refer to when you’re writing that book about what a well-adjusted and successful adult you’ve become, thanks to the tremendous parenting you received. For now, though, all I ask is that you continue to be my sweet little boy. That messy mop of hair, your perpetually shoe-less left foot, pudgy little fists and fearless enthusiasm lift me up in ways you can’t even understand. I love you so much, son. Happy birthday.

*Sorry, son, but it’s my duty to call your music “God-awful noise.” You’ll understand when you’re older.

**Or husband. Who knows.”

…and de-cluttered:

“There you have it. You may want to print this to refer to when you’re writing that book about what a well-adjusted adult you’ve become, thanks to the tremendous parenting you received. For now, though, all I ask is that you continue to be my sweet little boy. That messy mop of hair, your perpetually shoe-less left foot, pudgy little fists and fearless enthusiasm lift me up in ways you can’t understand. I love you so much, son. Happy birthday.

*Sorry, son, but it’s my duty to call your music “God-awful noise.” You’ll understand when you’re older.

**Or husband. Who knows.”

And now, the full (clutter-free) post:

“William is about to turn two. In that time, my cooing, drooling, Desitin-scented dove has become a brutal dictator. He torments his sister, leaps off of the couch, eats sand and shouts “stinky poo poo” at the grocery store. He commands his subjects with “Don’t like,” as in “Don’t like kiss” (which scored huge points with my wife, I’ll tell you.)

I’d like to commemorate Sir William’s birthday with a post directed to him, if you will indulge me.

Son:

You’re almost 2. Soon you’ll be 3, then 10, then 16, and by that time Daddy will be too exhausted to nurture you, or even carry on a coherent conversation. So I’m recording my advice to you now, while I still have my wits about me. This is important, son, so pay attention.

First of all, don’t drink cheap beer.

I don’t mean when you’re in college and all you can afford is a $5 12-pack of Black Label. I mean years later, when you’re a hip grad student in Boston, hanging out at the Trident Bookstore Cafe on Newbury Street, purposefully writing in the Moleskine notebook that never leaves your side. Order a Guinness or a Beamish or even a Watney’s Red Barrel. Those will more appropriately accompany your turtleneck and jacket with the patches on the elbows.

Secondly, understand that Van Halen is, and always will be, the greatest rock ‘n’ roll band in the world.

Look past the brothers’ bickering, the revolving-door policy regarding singers and that dreadful 2004 tour. Just get into your (practical, mid-price-range hybrid) car, open the windows and blast Women and Children First all the way through. I understand that today you’re happy to hear the “Higgly Town Heroes” theme over and over, and that when you’re a teenager you’ll listen to God-awful noise,* but trust me. “Eruption” will blow you away.

Lastly (and this is a biggie), there will come a day when you’re shopping with your wife.** She’ll hold up two pairs of shoes and ask for your preference. You’ll look at Pair A, then Pair B, and think to yourself, “I honestly, in my heart of hearts, do not have an opinion on this.”

Do not panic. What you’ll be experiencing is completely normal. It’s very, very hard to see what makes one pair of shoes superior to another, and even more difficult to care. Your job will be to toss an imaginary coin in your mind: Heads, the pair on the right. Tails, the left. Make your choice and stick with it. Remember, you aren’t meant to determine which pair she’ll buy; you’ve just got to be an active participant in the shopping process.

There you have it. You may want to print this to refer to when you’re writing that book about what a well-adjusted adult you’ve become, thanks to the tremendous parenting you received. For now, though, just continue to be my sweet little boy. Your messy mop of hair, perpetually shoe-less left foot, pudgy little fists and fearless enthusiasm lift me up in ways you can’t understand. I love you so much, son. Happy birthday.

*Sorry, son, but it’s my duty to call your music “God-awful noise.” You’ll understand when you’re older.

**Or husband. Who knows.”

Much better, don’t you think? The main thing I’m learning about writing is: This shit is hard.