KAPLAN’S STYLE GLITCH GUIDE

KAPLAN’S LAUNDRY LIST OF STYLISTIC GLITCHES

Abstract or imprecise language.
The more specific and concrete your language is, the more powerful. Note the difference between

He picked up something heavy and hit James on the face. James cried out, and fell.

He snatched up a rock and smashed it against James’ nose. James groaned, and sank to his knees.

“Snatched” is both more concrete and more exact than the vague “picked up,” just as “smashed,” “groaned,” and “sank to his knees” are more specific and vivid than the words they replace. And “nose” is much more exact than the vaguer “face”.

Unnecessary words and phrases, especially unnecessary adjectives.
Sometimes called overwriting. It’s ironic. Beginning writers are taught to write exactly and vividly- what I noted above- but sometimes they go overboard and start describing things too minutely and too vividly. Every noun starts to have a modifier, maybe two or three. Unwittingly, the writer is drawing attention to himself: Look, Ma, I’m really writing! Consider the following (words suggested for deletion italicized) :

The morning sun’s silent rays burned Julia’s skin as she walked from the grassy, open field into the deeply forested woods. Immediately the late spring air felt cooler. She sat down on a gray rock, took off her Cordura nylon backpack, pulled open the sticky Velcro fastener from a side pocket, and took out a plastic bottle of soda water. She opened the blue screw-type top,and drank thirstily. Her green and gold speckled kerchief felt sticky against her sweaty skin, so she loosened it. Crows cackled wickedly from somewhere in the dark woods.A small ladybug with one wing tonr off was crawling on the rock’s rough surface*…*

Here, every noun and verb seems to have an adjective or adverb attached to it. We feel there’s a writer really writing. What the writer should be doing is making you forget that. Eliminating about half the adjectives and adverbs here will help a lot. The trick is to decide which ones are essential and which are fluff. Do we need to know that it’s the sun’s rays burning her? Isn’t that what usually burns? Do we need to know the field is open and the woods forested? Aren’t they usually? And aren’t most ladybugs small and most Velcro fasteners sticky? For that matter, do we really need to know that it’s a Velcro fastener, or that the backpack is made from Cordura nylon, or that the bottle top is a screw-type, or that the rock is gray and her kerchief is green and gold? Are all these details really advancing the story or slowing it down?

On the other hand, it does seem important to know that it’s late spring- this situates us in time. And it’s important to know that her kerchief feels sticky, the ladybug has one wing torn off, the crows’ cackling is wicked, and the woods are dark. These descriptive details are unique and add important sensory information and emotional atmosphere to the scene. When an adjective or adverb or descriptive phrase is doing both, it’s essential and should be kept. If not, consider deleting it. If we eliminate the nonessential words, we have:

The morning sun burned Julia’s skin as she walked from the grassy field into the deep woods. Immediately the late spring air felt cooler. She sat down on a rock, took off her backpack, pulled open the fastener from a side pocket, and took a bottle of soda water. She opened it and rank. Her kerchief felt sticky, so she loosened it. Crows cackled wickedly from somewhere in the dark woods. A ladybug with one wing torn off was crawling on the rock…

Now we can see the scene, no the writer.

Kaplan’s Law of Words: Any words that aren’t working for you are working against you. So weed them out. If a word- yes, any single word- isn’t adding something we don’t know and need to know, it’s adding nothing. Worse, it’s distracting. It’s slowing down the prose. Too much, and the reader- consciously or unconsciously- feels she is plodding through thick prosey muck.

Words and phrases of unnecessary specificity
We touched on this somewhat in the section above. Sometimes we belabor the obvious, as in the following:

Elwood turned off the ignition, opened the driver’s side door, picked up the gun with his left hand, got out, and walked up the concrete sidewalk to the house. He pushed the doorbell with his finger, and waited. He pressed his right ear against the door. Hearing no one come from inside the house, Elwood pushed open the front door.

The words in italics are all unnecessarily specific. If you’re driving, what other door will you open to get out but the driver’s side door? Does it really matter whether Elwood picks up the gun with his left or right hand? For that matter, how else do you pick up something than with your hand? And what else do you push a doorbell with but your finger? If Elwood’s going to push it with his nose, surely the writer would tell us this! Why bother us with the obvious? Similarly, if we’re not told differently- that it’s made out of pebbles or alabaster- we probably assume the sidewalk’s concrete. Most are. And what other door would Elwood be walking toward, with a sidewalk and doorbell and all, but the front one, unless we’re told differently? Where else would he be listening for people coming than from “inside the house”? And is it really important to know that it’s his right ear, not his left, that he’s pressing against the door? Too many of these unnecessary words, and the prose starts to slow….down…and readers feel as if they’re again slogging through verbal molasses.

This issue is important enough to warrant a few more examples. Examine the following sentences, all of which contain words or phrases of unnecessary specificity:

 A small frown appeared on her face. (Where else do frowns appear?)
He squinted his eyes. (With what else do you squint?)
She shrugged her shoulders. (With what else do you shrug?)
The child nodded her head. (With what else do you nod?)
After he pulled up the chair, he sat down on the seat. (Where else?)
He held the bird in his hand. (Unless he’s holding it with something like fire tongs, he’s probably using his hand.)
An unknown stranger appeared at the door. (Are there any known strangers?)
Their voices echoed back and forth through the canyon. (That’s what an echo does: it goes back and forth.)
WHen he was alone again, he muttered to himself, “I’ll get even.” (If it’s established that a character is alone, do you need to say that he muttered/spoke/whispered/yelled “to himself”? Who else is there?)
“P-please…c-c-come in,” she stammered with difficulty. (Are there any easy stammers?)
“Come into my parlor,” the spider whispered in a soft voice. (Whispers are by definition soft.)
That’s right, she thought to herself. (Who else do you think to, unless you’re telepathic?)
The horsemen disappeared from sight. (How else?)
A black and white penguin was trundling across the snow. (Are there penguins that aren’t black and white?)
“I’m through with you!” Joyce yelled, “You-”
“Don’t say that,” Kevin interrupted. (We’ve just seen him interrupt- why tell us too?)
“I’m through with you!” Joyce yelled.
“You can’t say that,” Kevin said to her. (If it’s been established Joyce is the only one he’s talking to, then “to her” is superfluous.)

Weasel words
There are some unnecessary words that aren’t ones of undue specificity or overdescription; they’re more outrightly unnecessary. They’re the written equivalent to the “uhs” and “wells” and “you knows” in conversation- space fillers. They convey no useful information and add to the sense of mushy, imprecise prose. I call the “weasel words.” They seem innocent enough, but should always be regarded with suspicion. The following list includes some of the most common ones:
About
Actually
Almost
Almost like
Already
Appears
Approximately
Basically
Close to
Even
Eventually
Exactly
Finally
Here
Just
Just then
Kind of
Nearly
Now
Practically
Really
Seems
Simply
Somehow
Somewhat
Somewhat like
Sort of
Suddenly
Then
There
Truly
Utterly

How do these work as “weasel words”? Consider the following paragraph.

The man was there in the bushes, waiting. When Joan was just three feet away, he kind of tensed, thenleaped out and grabbed her. Joan struggled, but it seemed he was just too strong for her, and finally they fell down. She actually screamed, and evenscratched his face.

All the italicized words aren’t necessary. They create mushy prose. They show a writer insecure about what he’s describing. Take them out, and see how much more vigorous the writing becomes:

The man was in the bushes, waiting. When Joan was three feet away, he tensed, leaped out, and grabbed her. Joan struggled, but he was too strong for her, and they fell down. She screamed, and scratched his face.

Overusing Adverbs
As in the following example:

She slammed the phone down forcefully and muttered, “Damn.” She quickly jumped to her feet and strode over to the china cabinet. She hurriedlyriffled through the papers in the top drawer.

An adverb well chosen is a wondrous thing. But too many in a row (because of the “-ly” ending that most adverbs have) create a sing-song, clickety-clack effect that draws attention to itself. Also, many adverbs are unnecessary because they’re already denoted or connoted by the verbs they modify. How else do you slam a phone down but “forcefully”? How else do you jump to your feet but “quickly”? How else do you riffle but “hurriedly”? And so on. Why belabor the obvious? Take them out. Remember- words that aren’t working for you are working against you.

Overuse of the conditional or past perfect verb tense
We’re talking here about “would” and “had” verb constructions, as in the following:

Every morning that summer, John would get up around six. He would smell the bacon and pancakes his mother would be making in the kitchen, and his stomach would give a little hungry flip. He would jump out of bed and would rush to the bathroom. The tile floor would be cool against his bare feet. He would wash his face quickly.

Or in the past perfect tense:

Every morning that summer, John had gotten up around six. He had smelled the bacon and pancakes his mother had made in the kitchen, and his stomach had given a little hungry flip. He had jumped out of bed and had rushed to the bathroom. The tile floor had been cool against his bare feet. He had washedhis face quickly.

Again, as in overusing adverbs, the “would” and “had” constructions start to grate. How do you solve this? Very simply. Introduce the conditional or past perfect tense at the beginning of the passage, then slip into the simple past. It works, and makes for less intrusive, more graceful prose:

Every morning that summer, John had gotten up around six. He smelled the bacon and pancakes his mother was making in the kitchen, and his stomach gave a little hungry flip. He jumped out of bed and rushed to the bathroom. The tile floor was cool against his bare feet. He quickly washed his face.

Strict grammatical tense agreement is a wonderful thing, but agreeable prose is even better.

Overusing participial phrases
One of the most common errors in beginning writing. They are often overused with verbal tags, as in the following:

“This is a really boring movie,” Susanna said, fidgeting in her seat.
“You said it,” Bob agreed, handing her the popcorn. Considering for a moment, Susanna took a big handful.
“I really shouldn’t be eating this stuff,” she said, her voice dropping.

I don’t know what it is about dialogue tags, but participial phrases just seem to fly to them, like bees to honey. Again, the “-ing” construction creates that self-conscious, clitety-clack rhythm. What to do? Transform some of the participial phrases into sentences in their own right. So:

Susanna fidgeted in her seat. “This is a really boring movie.”
“You said it.” Bob handed her the bag of popcorn. Susanna considered for a moment, then took a big handful.
“I really shouldn’t be eating this stuff,” she said, her voice dropping.

Keeping one participial phrase is fine. But get two or more close together, an they start to draw attention to themselves.

Illogical use of “as” or “while” adverbial constructions.
Consider the following examples:

“Hey Jim! How about another for this guy, and give me a Tequila Sunrise.” While she said this, Anna leaned forward and dropped one leg to the floor.
Jennifer’s head shot up as she looked above her.
“Damned lighter,” Jack said as the dash lighter dropped onto the floor.

The problem with “as” and “while” constructions is often one of logic. It’s unlikely someone would be able to notice a lighter falling and say “Damned lighter” in the half-second it takes one to drop. And how could Jennifer already be looking up at the same time her head shoots up? And isn’t it unlikely that Anna would be giving that long drink order, all the while dropping to one knee? It would have to be a slow-motion drop!

The solution, of course, is to turn each into the discrete action they really are. Thus:

“Hey, Jim!” Anna leaned forward and dropped one leg to the floor. “How about another for this guy, and give me a Tequila Sunrise.”
Jennifer’s head shot up. She looked above her.
The dash lighter dropped onto the floor. “Damn lighter.” Jack said.

Run-on prepositional phrases.
He hardly moved except to puff on his cigar which burned judiciously in the ashtray next to a red glass lantern with a small fluttering candle in front of him.

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack. The prepositional phrases all in a row create a monotonous rhythm and at the same time make the geography of the scene almost impossible to visualize. The solution, of course, is to eliminate or replace phrases that aren’t important, or to rearrange phrases so they don’t all fall in a row, or to think of simple words to replace prepositional phrases, or to break the sentence up into several smaller sentences:

He hardly moved except to puff on his cigar which burned judiciously in the ashtray. In front of him, a small candle fluttered in a red glass lantern.

Repetitious words or phrases.
Another case of the unnecessary, as in the following:

By the time Gabe arrived at Ellsworth’s apartment with Angela, his girlfriend, there were several other friends there. Now that the master of ceremonies was there, the party was all set and the tradition would continue. There was the strangest feeling in the air that night.

Or:

Jay instinctively headed for the back seat of Sarah’s car. He always sat in back on long road trips. This was his time to sit back and gaze out at the landscape.

The solution for both of these is either elimination of some of the repetitious words or substitution of other words for them. Thus:

By the time Gabe arrived at Ellsworth’s apartment with Angela, his girlfriend, several other friends were there. Now that the master of ceremonies had arrived, the part was all set and the tradition would continue. The strangest feeling was in the air that night.
Jay instinctively headed for the back seat of Sara’s car. He always sat there on long trips. This was his time to sit and gaze out at the landscape.

Tortured, convoluted phrasing.
Brevity is the soul of wit, and often writing too. Sometimes less is more. Consider the difference between “Jesus felt tears falling from his eyes” and “Jesus wept.” Or between “You no longer are going to be working here” and “You’re fired.” Or between “I feel a strong affection for you” and “I love you.”

Tortured phraseology is used by bureaucrats, but it has little place in fiction, except for effect (a character who speaks or thinks in bureaucratese, for example). Short, pungent, concrete and specific are key here. So instead of:

The place turned out to be a laundromat.

She launched herself forward at him.

He raised himself from the chair and came to stand by the bar.

Say more simply:

The place was a laundromat.

She jumped at him.

He rose from the chair and stood by the bar.

Weak sentence structure.
Powerful prose is created sentence by sentence, not paragraph by paragraph or page by page. When revising, you should make sure each sentence is written in the most powerful way possible. Keep in mind that the most important part of the sentence is its end- that’s what echoes in the reader’s mind. Ending sentences with prepositional, adverbial or participial phrases is often weak. Look at these:

Chris and Aaron high-fived outside on the back patio.

George knocked after a moment’s hesitation.

Annette saw the accident as she was looking out the window.

“I hate you,” Julia said while picking at her nails.

These sentences end weakly, without punch, with subordinate phrases or clauses. The power words in the first two sentences are the verbs “high-fived” and “knocked.” The prepositional phrases are but modifiers to those verbs; putting them at the end weakens the sentences’ force. The power word in the third sentence is the noun “accident”; in the last one, it’s the statement “I hate you.” Look how much more forceful each becomes when these power words or phrases end the following sentences.
Outside on the back patio, Chris and Aaron high-fived.

After a moment’s hesitation, George knocked.

As she was looking out the window, Annette saw the accident.

Julia picked at her fingernails and said, “I hate you.”

Too picky, you say? Not at all. Anything, no matter how small, affects the imaginative illusion and emotional power of a story. It’s all held together, like the strands of a spider’s web, by each individual word and sentence. Weaken one strand, and the whole intricate lacelike pattern can start swaying dangerously. Weaken two, and the beauty of the design may collapse.

If you’re having trouble developing a good inner ear for sentence strength, the best thing you can do is read your sentences aloud as if they were individual lines of poetry. This will give you a better feel for each sentence’s rhythm and dynamism.

Dialogue tag problems:

Here’s a snatch of dialogue between Mary and her friend Jeanette:

”Did you see that dress Jezebel was wearing?” asked Mary, disbelievingly.
“Did I ever! It looked like some penguin outfit. A very fat, black penguin!” said Jeanette.
“I’m surprised her mother let her out of the house like that,” said Mary, reaching for another blueberry muffin.
“Well, the way her mother dresses…,” replied Jeanette. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah,” said Mary, nibbling on her muffin. “I guess you’re right.”

This dialogue needs polishing. First, there are only two people here, Mary and Jeanette. Why do we need to keep identifying them with verbal tags? We can keep them straight. Don’t overuse tags—use as few as you can get away with. A second problem is the dangling verbal tag in the second paragraph. It’s only after three sentences that we finally see who’s speaking, which is way too long to wait for this information. It seems like an afterthought to boot. Don’t tack on tags at the end of a string of sentences, or God forbid, a lengthy paragraph. Put them near the beginning, even if you have to break up a sentence. A third problem is the overuse of participial phrases, which I’ve discussed before. Either get rid of them, or (better yet) condense a verbal tag and a participial phrase together into a separate sentence, thus solving two problems at once.
Doing all these, our revised dialogue might look like this:

”Did you see that dress that Jezebel was wearing?” Mary asked in disbelief.
“Did I ever,” said Jeanette. “It looked like some penguin outfit. A very fat, black penguin!”
“I’m surprised her mother let her out of the house like that.” Mary reached for another blueberry muffin.
“Well, the way her mother dresses… I don’t know.”
“Yeah.” Mary nibbled at the muffin. “I guess you’re right.”

Impossible, overinflated, hyperbolic imagery:
In prose a good simile, metaphor, or personification adds texture and emotional layering to its referent. A bad image only calls undue attention to itself and to a writer straining to be “literary.” Worse, it almost always produces an unintentional comic effect:

Doubt overwhelmed him, like a plane circling an airport in a storm which grew louder and stronger, until the thunder and lightning drowned out the sound of the engines and no planes could land.
The smell hit him like a swarm of wasps, buzzing and vengeful, ready to fly into his nose and sting him.

The first example is ludicrous. Homer could get away with extended similes, but they were carefully constructed and always came from the same world as their referent. They sustained their logic. But this simile just breaks down. We get lost somewhere in the storm. And the imaginative connection between a nonsubstantial thought and very physical airplanes, with fuselages, wings, engines, and so on is strained at best. The second example has some potential, even though it’s straining a bit to connect the sound of wasps with smells. But it falls off the deep end when it also asks the reader to think of smells as something visual and kinesthetic too (“ready to fly into his nose and sting”). Better would have been to keep the image simple, and confined to only one sensory paradox: “The smells hit him like a swarm of wasps.” Short, sweet and punchy.

Unnecessary phrases of realization and discernment:
Look at the following constructions, quite common in unpolished writing:

He saw that there were three men running over the hill.
He discovered he was not alone in the room.
Barbara realized a sound was coming from the closet.
Tammy noticed that the man had long, dirty blond hair.
He could see that George hadn’t shaved in days. He also saw that he was whispering to himself.
It seemed she was lost.

Most sentences of this ilk can be strengthened simply by eliminating the phrase of discernment (in italics above). It’s often not needed, especially if the point of view has already been established. And the sentence automatically becomes punchier:

Three men were running over the hill.
He was not alone in the room.
A sound was coming from the closet.
The man had long, dirty blond hair.
George hadn’t shaved in days and was whispering to himself.
She was lost.

Overuse of the passive voice:
I know, this isn’t news. It’s something all creative writing instructors and texts emphasize. We all know that “He heard gunshots” is stronger than “Gunshots were heard by him,” and that “She threw off the covers” is stronger than “The covers were thrown off.” But there are also two hidden passive constructions that are often overused, but overlooked: “there are/were/is/was” constructions and self-reflexive constructions. Look at these examples:

There was a hush that fell over the party.
There were two men stumbling down the street.
John found himself trembling.
She thought of herself as a strong person.

These are not as strong as:

A hush fell over the party.
Two men were stumbling down the street.
John trembled.
She thought she was a strong person.
Or even better:

I’m a strong person, she thought.

Unnecessary telling:

Consider the following paragraph:

Fascinated, Sarah watched Mrs. McQuade take the book in her hands, open it, remove the bookmark, and smooth the pages. The teacher adjusted her glasses. Her every movement seemed precise and pure, Sarah thought. Mrs. McQuade began reading the poem by Byron, and Sarah was lulled again by the teacher’s soft warm burr of a voice. She wasn’t listening to the words at all. She was just listening to their sound, and watching the way Mrs. McQuade’s thin, delicate finger traced the lines on the page, the way her eyebrows rose and fell, the slight quiver to her nostril as if the words gave off a fragrance. She was completely hypnotized by the teacher.

We’ve already seen very vividly that Sarah is entranced by her teacher. We don’t need to be told, as in the italicized sentence. Similarly:

If he tries to call me again, Jean thought, I’ll tell him to kiss off. She imagined him saying he was sorry and how this would be the last time he’d ever cheat on her, but this time she wouldn’t give in. “Kiss off,” she’d tell him, or “Go cheat on her, I’ve had enough.” Jean was fantasizing. If he comes to the door, she thought, I’ll slam it in his face. He could stand and talk to it. In fact, he probably would. And she’d just slip out the back door and down the stairs.

We see Jean’s fantasies; we don’t need to be told that’s what she’s doing. In both cases, take out the unnecessary explanatory sentences.

Monotonous sentence rhythm:
We’ve already seen an example of this with the overuse of participial phrases. Monotonous sentence rhythm happens when one or both of two things happens: Sentences are always of the same length without a specific aesthetic reason, and/or sentences are always constructed in a similar way. Often the two occur together, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. An example:

Dan looked at his watch. It said three o’clock. He looked down the street. The street was empty and silent. A neon sign was blinking over the bar. Dan rubbed his chin. A man walked out of the bar. Dan sighed.

The prose sets up that old clickety-clak monotony because the sentences are all of similar length—here, short—and because they’re all similarly constructed: subject/verb/object or adjective/adjectival clause. That example is fairly obvious, but here’s one with the same problems, a bit more disguised:

Pulling back the sleeve of his sweater, Dan looked at his watch. It said three o’clock. When he looked down the street, Dan saw it was empty and silent. Blinking over a bar was a neon sign. As Dan was rubbing his chin, a man walked out of the bar. Dan sighed.

Here, we see more variety in sentence length, but too many too close together feature the same construction: They begin with a participial or adverbial phrase or clause. And again monotony creeps over the prose.
Okay—quiz time. Let’s put what we’ve learned to work. Here’s a sentence ready for polishing. What’s wrong with it, and how can it be revised?

He saw that there were two men just dashing quickly across the field, screaming “Fire!” in loud voices.

We examine. We read aloud. We consider. We realize “He saw that…” is an unnecessary phrase of discernment. “There were” is a hidden passive. “Just” is a weasel word. “Quickly” is unnecessarily specific (“dashing” denotes moving quickly), as is the phrase “in loud voices” (how else do you scream?). Also, that prepositional phrase makes the sentence end weakly. A revised sentence might read like this: Two men were dashing across the field screaming “Fire!”
Punchier, right? But too easy, you say? Let’s look at a more extended example, a section from a story by a student, Michele Kwiatkowski, before revision and after. In the draft below, I’ve indicated by underline and interlinear comment the particular stylistic glitch involved.

St. Nicholas Church was just like Mary remembered. She walked up the concrete steps to the huge, oak doors and reached for the brass handle. The handle(repetition) was cold, sending a chill up Mary’s arm. She pulled on the handle of the (repetition) solid,(unnecessary word) heavy door and couldn’t even(weasel word) crack it open a couple of inches. Mary pushed the sleeves of her sweater up toward her forearm (unnecessary specificity) exposing a melted patch of flesh. (convoluted phrasing) She caught sight (convoluted) of the burn scar (repetition) and quickly pulled the one (unnecessary specificity) sleeve back down to her wrist.(unnecessary specificity) Mary used both hands to open the door, just as she did when she was(convoluted phrasing) a little girl. The weight of the church doors (repetition) always seemed oppressively heavy to her, (unnecessary specificity) sometimes making her feel [as though she weren’t really welcome (convoluted phrasing). She stepped inside the vestibule and let the heavy (unnecessary word) doors shut behind her. The doors (repetition) shut out the outside(unnecessary word) world with one great thump, and entombed her in her childhood church (repetition). Mary discovered (unnecessary phrase of realization) this old church had not changed. It still had (weak sentence structure) two marble basins filled with holy water on each side of the double doors leading from the vestibule to the inside of the church. (run on prepositional phrases; unnecessary phrases) The basins stood like sentinels guarding royalty(unnecessary words). You were not to pass their post(unnecessary words) without their blessing first(unnecessary word). She walked toward the double(repetition) doors slowly (overusing adverbs) at one of the marble (repetition) basins and gently dipped her middle (unnecessary specificity) finger into the cool, calm water and blessed herself before entering the church (weak sentence structure; unnecessary phrase).

Behind the stylistic glitches, there’s good strong prose here. If we correct the glitches, we have a paragraph that could read:

St. Nicholas Church was just like Mary remembered. She walked up the concrete steps to the huge, oak doors and reached for the brass handle. It was cold, sending a chill up Mary’s arm. She pulled on the heavy door and couldn’t crack it open a couple of inches. Mary pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, exposing a scar from a burn. She looked at it and quickly pulled the sleeve back down. Mary used both hands to open the doors, just as she did as a little girl. Their weight always seemed oppressively heavy, sometimes making her feel unwelcome. She stepped inside the vestibule and let the doors shut behind her. They shut out the world with one great thump, and entombed her there. The old church had not changed. Two marble basins filled with holy water stood like sentinels on either side of the double doors. You were not to pass without their blessing. She walked toward the doors, nervously peering into the church. She stopped at one of the basins and gently dipped her finger into the cool, calm water and blessed herself.

Better, right? You see how it works? Cut away everything that isn’t the strong prose. Say exactly what you mean, and no more. Polish, polish, polish.

The Key Concepts
This discussion of stylistic glitches is by no means complete. I’ve described several that pop up frequently. There are many others. The important point is that you grasp a few crucial concepts behind all of this fine-tuning:
Don’t worry about fine-tuning your prose until you’ve got the bigger problems of your story under control. You can’t polish a silver bowl until it’s been smelted and cast. Just so with a story. Of course, you can’t help doing some fine-tuning at the same time you’re solving other, bigger problems. That’s natural. But don’t make it your focus in early revisions. You’ll start seeing trees instead of the forest. Map out the forest first, then start trimming the trees.
When you’re fine-tuning, every sentence, every word, counts. Everything has an effect. Words and sentences are the building blocks of your fictional universe. They’re either working for you or against you. A weasel word here, a passive construction there, and you’ve got a limp, mushy sentence. A few of those sentences, and you’ve got a limp, mushy paragraph. Enough of those paragraphs, and you’ve got a limp, mushy story—and a disinterested reader. Just as you are what you eat, your story is what you write. If you think that’s tautology, think about it again.
So, when you’re fine-tuning, go over your prose with the idea of making each and every sentence as strong as possible.
Go over it again.
Go over it again. A story is finished only when it’s perfect, each and every word. Don’t be in a hurry. Don’t “finish” it before it really is finished. Remember what I said in an earlier chapter about the editor who complained that he saw too many early drafts? Unpolished prose is a sure sign of an early draft.
Most importantly, start becoming aware of your own particular stylistic quirks and glitches, so that you can watch out for them upon revision. You may be prone to overusing the passive voice, for example, or to overusing adverbs. If so, you must become especially sensitive to these infelicities and watch out for them. Every writer has stylistic weaknesses, and it’s no shame to indulge them in early drafts. But only bad writers live with them through the final draft.