I had a professor, once upon a time, a guy named Jim Guetti. He was possibly the best writing coach I've ever had. You took his classes for the privilege of submitting works for him to gut with a red pen. If you turned in a thousand words you'd get 800 back; or 600 if you were a wordy bastard like me. He was without mercy: if the word did not add something worthwhile, he'd cut it out.
In memoria of a magnificent bastard and a fellow Wittgensteinian, here are two wholly unpolished paragraphs from my rough draft folder...Help me find the unnecessary words. (I may not be able to resist jumping in and putting up my own comments...I know that's tacky, but it's taking a ton of self control not to fix the obvious problems.)
I used to love running on the beach. It was best in the winter, when the grey skies and cold air kept the beaches clear. Run as far as you could, marking the perfect sand with the print of your shoes, and then turning, and following your prints home. Alone with the waves and the birds.
I remember running, and finding myself racing a storm. The wind blew hard at my back, but I ran pace with it, so the air seemed still and silent. The world was quiet, and yet the storm was rolling in across the ocean. A violent storm, stacked black clouds walking on stick-legs of lightning. And it was frightening, and yet I laughed with the joy of it. Of being young and fleet and running to beat the wind.
Feel free to be mean. I can learn from mean.
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