In a world saturated with noise, clarity is a rebellion. For the writer, the act of storytelling is sacred, but all too often, the power of a story is muffled by the weight of excess. Words like very, just, as, really, and it creep in under the guise of rhythm or style. They seem harmless. Polite, even. But when gathered in clusters, these filler words dilute the core of the sentence and dull the edge of your meaning.
To simplify your writing is not to strip it bare, it is to chisel away what does not belong, so that what remains is purposeful and strong. It is the difference between a stone and a statue.
Take, for example, the sentence: It was a very dark night, just as she had feared it would be. There is nothing technically wrong with it. And yet, it meanders. Its weight lies in the repetition, not in the idea. Refined, it might read: The night loomed dark, as she feared. Or better still: The night loomed. Each revision cuts closer to the bone, until all that remains is the beating heart of the sentence.
Every time we reach for very, we are often dodging a better word. Very tired becomes exhausted. Very fast becomes swift. These substitutions are not merely aesthetic. They are efficient. They carry nuance. They respect the reader’s time.
Likewise, the word it deserves scrutiny. Used sparingly, it is functional. Overused, it becomes evasive.
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Likewise, the word it deserves scrutiny. Used sparingly, it is functional. Overused, it becomes evasive. It was cold is less evocative than Frost gnawed the windows. The former tells, the latter shows. By removing abstract pronouns and passive constructions, we invite the reader into a more immediate, visceral experience.
Filler words often emerge from fear, the fear of being too bold, too plain, or too final. Writers worry that simplicity will be mistaken for dullness. But in truth, clarity is bold. Simplicity takes courage. It trusts the story to speak without adornment. Hemingway understood this. So did Orwell. So do the best storytellers in any age. Their words do not shout. They strike.
When a writer pares down, what remains on the page earns its place. Every word must justify its existence. Does it add meaning? Does it build tone? Does it move the scene forward? If not, it must go. This discipline may feel brutal at first, but it is liberating. As you remove the excess, the true shape of your voice begins to emerge.
Simplifying your prose does not mean writing less beautifully—it means writing more honestly. The elegance of your sentence lies not in how long it is, but in how true it rings.
So go ahead. Strike out the “very.” Replace the “it.” Question the “just.” Give your readers the gift of clarity, and they will follow your words anywhere.
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