The Power of Precision

June 27, 2026

"If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out."
--George Orwell (1903-1950), Politics and the English Language (1946)

There's a special kind of elegance in writing that doesn't waste a single word. Orwell, with his relentless focus on clarity and honesty in language, championed the idea that verbosity is often a mask for vagueness or deceit. His well-known essay Politics and the English Language wasn't just a critique of bureaucratic jargon or political doublespeak - it was a call to arms for writers to be clear, direct, and ruthless in trimming the fat.

Orwell's quote might strike new or aspiring fiction writers as stark, even limiting. Isn't creative writing supposed to be expressive, lyrical, and rich in description? Certainly. But Orwell wasn't condemning style; he was warning against padding. When a word does no work, it drags down the ones that do.

His advice finds a close cousin in the classic writing guide The Elements of Style by William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White. That book famously states, "Omit needless words." Like Orwell, Strunk & White advocate for lean writing where every word justifies its place. But there's a crucial distinction: while Orwell's lens was often political and ideological, Strunk & White approached writing from a practical, educational perspective, focusing on clarity in essays, journalism, and business writing.

This is where things diverge a bit for fiction writers.

Strunk & White can be too tight. In fiction, mood, rhythm, and voice sometimes demand extra words. Sentence length may be used for breath, tension, and emotion. Writers like Virginia Woolf, William Faulkner, or Toni Morrison would struggle under The Elements of Style 's microscope. Literary fiction often wants to meander when done intentionally and with care.

Yet, even these masters understood that every word has to serve the story. It's not about being short - it's about being sharp.

Elmore Leonard, a crime novelist known for his clean, snappy dialogue, once said:
"Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip."
First published in The New York Times article “Easy on the Adverbs, Exclamation Points and Especially Hooptedoodle” in 2001. Later published in the small book "Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules of Writing" in 2007.

It's a cheekier way of saying the same thing Orwell said, but with an eye on the reader's engagement. Leonard wasn't minimalist in a theoretical sense; he was practical. He knew pacing, he knew when a scene dragged, and he cut to keep the story moving.

Orwell wasn't alone in this belief.

Mark Twain once famously advised, "The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug."
From a letter to George Bainton, October 15, 1888, and published in George Bainton’s "The Art of Authorship" (1890).

He was referring to accuracy, yes, but also to economy. The "right word" is often a simpler one. A cleaner one. A sharper one. And if you have too many words cluttering the space, the lightning gets lost in the storm.

Newer writers often confuse elaboration with eloquence. They stretch a sentence into a paragraph, thinking that more words will add depth or beauty. But verbosity doesn't impress; it dilutes. Readers don't want to wade through filler to find the meaning. They want to feel it in every line.

Think of a well-cut diamond. Its brilliance comes from what's been carved away, not what's left in. So too with writing. Every revision should be a gentle, ruthless sculpting. Does this word matter? Does it say something new? Does it earn its place? If not, cut it.

That doesn't mean stripping your voice or removing the poetry. Writers like Hemingway and Didion mastered the art of minimalism without losing tone. Their prose is powerful because it is distilled. Each word pulls its weight.

For nonfiction writers, Orwell and Strunk & White offer unshakable guidance: be clear, be brief, be honest.

For fiction writers, the rule becomes more nuanced: cut what doesn't serve the story, but know when rhythm, repetition, or rich language does.

The art of writing is not about following rigid rules; it's about knowing when to break them, and why. Orwell gives us discipline. Strunk & White offer clarity. Leonard reminds us not to be boring. Somewhere in the space between them lies your own voice, sharpened by knowing when less truly is more.

So take Orwell's advice to heart. Write freely in your first draft, but edit like a surgeon. Trim, carve, and pare down. Your story won't suffer; it will shine.