Go ahead and read this sentence:

“The early morning sunlight, golden and almost syrupy in quality, slowly began to filter through the slightly open, dust-speckled blinds, casting long, dramatic shadows across the floorboards that creaked with the weight of time, while Marla, still groggy and swaddled in the rumpled remains of sleep, reluctantly opened one eye.”

Now read this version that does more with less:

“Sunlight slipped through the blinds, striping the floor. The old floor boards creaked. Marla, half-awake and tangled in sleep, opened one eye.”

What’s the difference, besides 27 fewer words?

The first sentence is bloated, and the goal – communication – got lost somewhere in the commas, adjectives, and an attempt at creating atmosphere. Again: the goal is communication. Connection with the reader happens with sentences that don’t just sound good, but that work.

I’m not saying your writing should be bare and joyless. I’m saying every word should earn its keep. Writers often overwrite because we’re scared. We think if we add just one more adjective, one more clause, the reader will get “it.”  But too many words makes your reader work harder—and they may revolt.

Other times we overwrite because we think it makes us sound smarter. But bloated writing doesn’t make you sound smarter. It makes you sound like a person who is trying to sound smarter, and readers can sniff out a poser. (Adverbs are the easiest example I can give. Don’t write “quietly whispered.”  Just write “whispered.” Don’t write “loudly slammed.” Write “slammed.”)

If your writing is clear, tight, and well-paced, the reader will feel the nuance that the extra words you THINK are describing that nuance are actually kind of hiding.  Good writing lives in the steam that rises from a cup of tea, not in the boiling water.

So: try cutting your favorite word, sentence, or paragraph. Read it out loud. Does the piece still work? If yes, congratulations—you’ve just leveled up. If not, at least you know that paragraph was actually pulling its weight.

In the end, great writing isn’t about saying more. It’s about saying exactly enough.