OnWriting

Wellcssao

THE CLASSIC GUIDE TOWRITING NONFICTION

25th Anniversary Edition

William Zinsser

QuillA HarperResource Book

An Imprint of HzrperCollinsPublishers

ON WRITING WELL. Sixth Edition, revised and updated. Copyright © 1976, 1980,1985, 1988, 1990, 1994, 1998, 2001 by William K. Zinsser. All rights reserved.Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or re-produced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the caseof brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information ad-dress HarperCollins Publishers Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.

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Designed by Alma Orenstein.

First HarperResource Quill edition published 2001.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Zinsser, William Knowlton.On writing well : the classic guide to writing nonfiction / William Zinsser. —

25th anniversary ed.p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references.ISBN 0-06-000664-11. English language—Rhetoric. 2 . Exposition (Rhetoric) 3. Report writing.

I. Title.

PE1429 .Z5 2001

808'.042—dc21 2001041623

ISBN 0-06-000664-1 (pbk.)

02 03 04 05 •/RRD 109 8 7 65 4

osso

Simplicity

Clutter is the disease of American writing. We are a societystrangling in unnecessary words, circular constructions, pompousfrills and meaningless jargon.

Who can understand the clotted language of everyday Amer-ican commerce: the memo, the corporation report, the businessletter, the notice from the bank explaining its latest "simplified"statement? What member of an insurance or medical plan candecipher the brochure explaining his costs and benefits? Whatfather or mother can put together a child's toy from the instruc-tions on the box? Our national tendency is to inflate and therebysound important. The airline pilot who announces that he ispresently anticipating experiencing considerable precipitationwouldn't think of saying it may rain. The sentence is too sim-ple—there must be something wrong with it.

But the secret of good writing is to strip every sentence to itscleanest components. Every word that serves no function, everylong word that could be a short word, every adverb that carriesthe same meaning that's already in the verb, every passive con-

8 ON WRITING WELL

struction that leaves the reader unsure of who is doing what—these are the thousand and one adulterants that weaken thestrength of a sentence. And they usually occur in proportion toeducation and rank.

During the 1960s the president of my university wrote a let-ter to mollify the alumni after a spell of campus unrest. "You areprobably aware," he began, "that we have been experiencingvery considerable potentially explosive expressions of dissatisfac-tion on issues only partially related." He meant that the studentshad been hassling them about different things. I was far moreupset by the president s English than by the students' potentiallyexplosive expressions of dissatisfaction. I would have preferredthe presidential approach taken by Franklin D. Roosevelt whenhe tried to convert into English his own governments memos,such as this blackout order of 1942:

Such preparations shall be made as will completelyobscure all Federal buildings and non-Federal buildingsoccupied by the Federal government during an air raid forany period of time from visibility by reason of internal orexternal illumination.

"Tell them," Roosevelt said, "that in buildings where they haveto keep the work going to put something across the windows."

Simplify, simplify. Thoreau said it, as we are so oftenreminded, and no American writer more consistently practicedwhat he preached. Open Walden to any page and you will find aman saying in a plain and orderly way what is on his mind:

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately,to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could notlearn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, dis-cover that I had not lived.

Simplicity 9

How can the rest of us achieve such enviable freedom fromclutter? The answer is to clear our heads of clutter. Clear think-ing becomes clear writing; one can't exist without the other. It'simpossible for a muddy thinker to write good English. He mayget away with it for a paragraph or two, but soon the reader willbe lost, and there's no sin so grave, for the reader will not easilybe lured back.

Who is this elusive creature, the reader? The reader is some-one with an attention span of about 30 seconds—a person assailedby many forces competing for attention. At one time those forceswere relatively few: newspapers, magazines, radio, spouse, chil-dren, pets. Today they also include a "home entertainmentcenter" (television, VCR, tapes, CDs), e-mail, the Internet, thecellular phone, the fax machine, a fitness program, a pool, a lawn,and that most potent of competitors, sleep. The man or womansnoozing in a chair with a magazine or a book is a person who wasbeing given too much unnecessary trouble by the writer.

It won't do to say that the reader is too dumb or too lazy tokeep pace with the train of thought. If the reader is lost, it's usu-ally because the writer hasn't been careful enough. That care-lessness can take any number of forms. Perhaps a sentence is soexcessively cluttered that the reader, hacking through the ver-biage, simply doesn't know what it means. Perhaps a sentencehas been so shoddily constructed that the reader could read it inseveral ways. Perhaps the writer has switched pronouns in mid-sentence, or has switched tenses, so the reader loses track ofwho is talking or when the action took place. Perhaps SentenceB is not a logical sequel to Sentence A; the writer, in whose headthe connection is clear, hasn't bothered to provide the missinglink. Perhaps the writer has used a word incorrectly by not tak-ing the trouble to look it up. He or she may think "sanguine"and "sanguinary" mean the same thing, but the difference is abloody big one. The reader can only infer (speaking of big dif-ferences) what the writer is trying to imply.

10 ON WRITING WELL

is too dumb or too lazy to keep pace with the waitei»le trainof thought. My sympathies are ̂ ntireJLy with him.^-He'a we».— chart» • (ffthe reader is lost, it is generally because thewriter <of tho article has not been careful enough to keephim on the «proper path,

I This carelessness can take any number of different foras.Vi •-

Perhaps a sentence is so excessively long -and cluttered thatthe reader, hacking his way through « M the verbiage, simplydoesn't know what^the.writer neans. Perhaps a sentence hasbeen so shoddily constructed that the reader could read it inany of £w»-orthroe différent ways. »He>thiri«i ho lenowa what«the writer is trying to eay y but ho'o not ouwq.Perhaps thewriter has switched pronouns in mid-sentence, or perhaps hehas switched tenses, so the reader loses track of who istalking /to whemj or exactly when the action took place. Per-haps Sentence B is not a logical sequel to Sentence A. — thewriter, in whose head the connection is perfectly clear, has

fou pi'u»ldin§ the missing link. Per-haps the writer has used an important word incorrectly by nottaking the trouble to look it up and mnho sure» He may thinkthat "sanguine" and "sanguinary" nean the same thing, but}

yeu that(the difference is a bloody bigy ( y g e.,A ttn only 4*y-te> infer :*«* (speaking of big differ-

ences) what the writer is trying to imply.

J Faced withjmeh a- variety ef obstacles, the readeris at first a remarkably tenacious bird. He »ends te blame/himself- )/6 obviously missed something, he thinhi, and he goesback over the mystifying sentence, or over the whole paragraph,

Simplicity 11

piecing i t out l ike an ancient rune, making guesses and moving

on. But he won't do this for long. jHe w i l l oewt ru» eu» ef

patience» V̂ JThe writer i s making him work too hard *^

thaw he should ha»e te work (jand the reader will look fora «rttei^who is better at his craft.

i The writer must therefore constantly ask himself: What amI trying to sayftn «hts sentence? /Surprisingly often, hedoesn't know./ -AmTfhen he must look at what he has Jus»written and ask: Have I said i t? I» i t clear to someone

A Hhe^s ccmififc ween the subject for the f irst time? If i t ' snot elea»y i t is because some fuzz has worked i ts way into themachinery. The clear writer is a person whe to clear-headedenough to see this stuff for what i t i s : fuzz.

i I don't mean te suggest that some people are bornclear-headed and are therefore natural writers, whereas

Sff peeple are naturally fuzzy and will »he»efe»» never writewell. Thinking clearly is,»w entirely conscious act that thewriter mustVweee feretog upon himself, just as i f he were

»u» on any other ktowl Q£ project thatffiflfcfer logic:

adding up a laundry l i s t or doing an algebra problem eGood writing doesn't juefr come naturally, though most

people obviously think 4e's aa'-caey e* walking» The professional

Two pages of the final manuscript of this chapter from the First Editionof On Writing Well. Although they look like a first draft, they hadalready been rewritten and retyped—like almost every other page—four or five times. With each rewrite I try to make what I have writtentighter, stronger and more precise, eliminating every element that's notdoing useful work. Then I go over it once more, reading it aloud, andam always amazed at how much clutter can still be cut. (In later edi-tions I eliminated the sexist pronoun "he" denoting "the writer" and"the reader.")

12 ON WRITING WELL

Faced with such obstacles, readers are at first tenacious.They blame themselves—they obviously missed something, andthey go back over the mystifying sentence, or over the wholeparagraph, piecing it out like an ancient rune, making guessesand moving on. But they won't do that for long. The writer ismaking them work too hard, and they will look for one who isbetter at the craft.

Writers must therefore constantly ask: what am I trying tosay? Surprisingly often they don't know. Then they must look atwhat they have written and ask: have I said it? Is it clear tosomeone encountering the subject for the first time? If it's not,some fuzz has worked its way into the machinery. The clearwriter is someone clearheaded enough to see this stuff for whatit is: fuzz.

I don't mean that some people are born clearheaded and aretherefore natural writers, whereas others are naturally fuzzy andwill never write well. Thinking clearly is a conscious act thatwriters must force on themselves, as if they were working on anyother project that requires logic: making a shopping list or doingan algebra problem. Good writing doesn't come naturally,though most people seem to think it does. Professional writersare constantly bearded by people who say they'd like to "try alittle writing sometime"—meaning when they retire from theirreal profession, like insurance or real estate, which is hard. Orthey say, "I could write a book about that." I doubt it.

Writing is hard work. A clear sentence is no accident. Veryfew sentences come out right the first time, or even the thirdtime. Remember this in moments of despair. If you find thatwriting is hard, it's because it is hard.

CKSSO

Clutter

Fighting clutter is like fighting weeds—the writer is alwaysslightly behind. New varieties sprout overnight, and by noonthey are part of American speech. Consider what PresidentNixon's aide John Dean accomplished in just one day of testi-mony on television during the Watergate hearings. The next dayeveryone in America was saying "at this point in time" instead of"now."

Consider all the prepositions that are draped onto verbs thatdon't need any help. We no longer head committees. We headthem up. We don't face problems anymore. We face up to themwhen we can free up a few minutes. A small detail, you maysay—not worth bothering about. It is worth bothering about.Writing improves in direct ratio to the number of things we cankeep out of it that shouldn't be there. "Up" in "free up" should-n't be there. Examine every word you put on paper. You'll find asurprising number that don't serve any purpose.

Take the adjective "personal," as in "a personal friend ofmine," "his personal feeling" or "her personal physician." Its

14 ON WRITING WELL

typical of hundreds of words that can be eliminated. The per-sonal friend has come into the language to distinguish him orher from the business friend, thereby debasing both languageand friendship. Someone's feeling is that person's personal feel-ing—that's what "his" means. As for the personal physician,that's the man or woman summoned to the dressing room of astricken actress so she won't have to be treated by the imper-sonal physician assigned to the theater. Someday I'd like to seethat person identified as "her doctor." Physicians are physicians,friends are friends. The rest is clutter.

Clutter is the laborious phrase that has pushed out the shortword that means the same thing. Even before John Dean, peo-ple and businesses had stopped saying "now." They were saying"currently" ("all our operators are currently busy"), or "at thepresent time," or "presently" (which means "soon"). Yet the ideacan always be expressed by "now" to mean the immediatemoment ("Now I can see him"), or by "today" to mean the his-torical present ("Today prices are high"), or simply by the verb"to be" ("It is raining"). There's no need to say, "At the presenttime we are experiencing precipitation."

"Experiencing" is one of the ultimate clutterers. Even yourdentist will ask if you are experiencing any pain. If he had hisown kid in the chair he would say, "Does it hurt?" He would, inshort, be himself. By using a more pompous phrase in his pro-fessional role he not only sounds more important; he blunts thepainful edge of truth. It's the language of the flight attendantdemonstrating the oxygen mask that will drop down if the planeshould run out of air. "In the unlikely possibility that the air-craft should experience such an eventuality," she begins—aphrase so oxygen-depriving in itself that we are prepared forany disaster.

Clutter is the ponderous euphemism that turns a slum into adepressed socioeconomic area, garbage collectors into waste-disposal personnel and the town dump into the volume reduc-

Clutter 15

tion unit. I think of Bill Mauldin s cartoon of two hoboes riding afreight car. One of them says, "I started as a simple bum, butnow I'm hard-core unemployed." Clutter is political correctnessgone amok. I saw an ad for a boys' camp designed to provide"individual attention for the minimally exceptional."

Clutter is the officiai language used by corporations to hidetheir mistakes. When the Digital Equipment Corporation elimi-nated 3,000 jobs its statement didn't mention layoffs; those were"involuntary methodologies." When an Air Force missile crashed,it "impacted with the ground prematurely." When GeneralMotors had a plant shutdown, that was a "volume-related pro-duction-schedule adjustment." Companies that go belly-up have"a negative cash-flow position."

Clutter is the language of the Pentagon calling an invasion a"reinforced protective reaction strike" and justifying its vast bud-gets on the need for "counterforce deterrence." As GeorgeOrwell pointed out in "Politics and the English Language," anessay written in 1946 but often cited during the Vietnam andCambodia years of Presidents Johnson and Nixon, "politicalspeech and writing are largely the defense of the indefensible. . . .Thus political language has to consist largely of euphemism,question-begging and sheer cloudy vagueness." Orwell's warningthat clutter is not just a nuisance but a deadly tool has come truein the recent decades of American military adventurism inSoutheast Asia and other parts of the world.

Verbal camouflage reached new heights during GeneralAlexander Haig's tenure as President Reagan's secretary of state.Before Haig nobody had thought of saying "at this juncture ofmaturization" to mean "now." He told the American people thatterrorism could be fought with "meaningful sanctionary teeth"and that intermediate nuclear missiles were "at the vortex ofcruciality." As for any worries that the public might harbor, hismessage was "leave it to Al," though what he actually said was:"We must push this to a lower decibel of public fixation. I don't

16 ON WRITING WELL

think there's much of a learning curve to be achieved in this areaof content."

I could go on quoting examples from various fields—everyprofession has its growing arsenal of jargon to throw dust in theeyes of the populace. But the list would be tedious. The point ofraising it now is to serve notice that clutter is the enemy. Beware,then, of the long word that's no better than the short word: "assis-tance" (help), "numerous" (many), "facilitate" (ease), "individual"(man or woman), "remainder" (rest), "initial" (first), "implement"(do), "sufficient" (enough), "attempt" (try), "referred to as"(called) and hundreds more. Beware of all the slippery new fadwords: paradigm and parameter, prioritize and potentialize. Theyare all weeds that will smother what you write. Don't dialoguewith someone you can talk to. Don't interface with anybody.

Just as insidious are all the word clusters with which weexplain how we propose to go about our explaining: "I mightadd," "It should be pointed out," "It is interesting to note." Ifyou might add, add it. If it should be pointed out, point it out. Ifit is interesting to note, make it interesting; are we not all stupe-fied by what follows when someone says, "This will interestyou"? Don't inflate what needs no inflating: "with the possibleexception of" (except), "due to the fact that" (because), "hetotally lacked the ability to" (he couldn't), "until such time as"(until), "for the purpose of" (for).

Is there any way to recognize clutter at a glance? Here's adevice my students at Yale found helpful. I would put bracketsaround every component in a piece of writing that wasn't doinguseful work. Often just one word got bracketed: the unnecessarypreposition appended to a verb ("order up"), or the adverb thatcarries the same meaning as the verb ("smile happily"), or theadjective that states a known fact ("tall skyscraper"). Often mybrackets surrounded the little qualifiers that weaken any sen-tence they inhabit ("a bit," "sort of), or phrases like "in a sense,"which don't mean anything. Sometimes my brackets surrounded

Clutter 17

an entire sentence—the one that essentially repeats what theprevious sentence said, or that says something readers don'tneed to know or can figure out for themselves. Most first draftscan be cut by 50 percent without losing any information or los-ing the authors voice.

My reason for bracketing the students' superfluous words,instead of crossing them out, was to avoid violating their sacredprose. I wanted to leave the sentence intact for them to analyze.I was saying, "I may be wrong, but I think this can be deletedand the meaning won't be affected. But you decide. Read thesentence without the bracketed material and see if it works." Inthe early weeks of the term I handed back papers that were fes-tooned with brackets. Entire paragraphs were bracketed. Butsoon the students learned to put mental brackets around theirown clutter, and by the end of the term their papers werealmost clean. Today many of those students are professionalwriters, and they tell me, "I still see your brackets—they're fol-lowing me through life."

You can develop the same eye. Look for the clutter in yourwriting and prune it ruthlessly. Be grateful for everything youcan throw away. Reexamine each sentence you put on paper. Isevery word doing new work? Can any thought be expressed withmore economy? Is anything pompous or pretentious or faddish?Are you hanging on to something useless just because you thinkit's beautiful?

Simplify, simplify.