In 1920, the weird fiction writer H.P. Lovecraft published his guidelines for writing good fiction. The list recommended reading good fiction, judicious description, good grammar – and an impressive vocabulary.
Here is his exact recommendation:
The average student is gravely impeded by the narrow range of words from which he must choose, and he soon discovers that in long compositions he cannot avoid monotony. . . . With a little conscientious research we may each day add to our conquests in the realm of philology, and become more and more ready for graceful independent expression.
Though the list is quite good in general, it’s that last rule that we must strike. For about eighty years or so before Lovecraft, and during his career as well (he wrote in the 1920s and ‘30s), writers tended to turn out ornate, pretty prose – think Poe, Henry James, Faulkner, and Lovecraft himself. Unfortunately for poetic souls, this has fallen out of favor.
Let’s take a passage from Lovecraft himself. Here is the concluding paragraph of his short story “The Nameless City,” published in 1921.
And as the wind died away I was plunged into the ghoul-pooled darkness of earth’s bowels; for behind the last of the creatures the great brazen door clanged shut with a deafening peal of metallic music whose reverberations swelled out to the distant world to hail the rising sun as Memnon hails it from the banks of the Nile.
Certainly this is a beautiful passage – if you read Lovecraft in the context of his time, this writing is wonderful. Unfortunately, these days potential publishers wouldn’t touch such writing. I doubt they’d even read beyond the first page.
Many beginning writers fall into the “pretty prose” trap. The feeling seems to be that the bigger and more impressive the words and the more ornate the sentences, the better the prose must be. I certainly did this, and I still haven’t completely shaken the habit of writing overly long sentences. What this sort of writing amounts to today is just wordiness.
What to do? Simplify, simplify, simplify. After you’ve written a piece, print it off and go through it with that dreaded red pen. Did you write, “Presently, the voices, while still chaotic before me, seemed to my beating brain to take articulate form behind me,” when “Soon, the jumbled voices became clear to me” would work just as well? Did you write a string of adjectives such as “a nightmare horde of rushing devils, hate-distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half-transparent”? Clean it up – use just “grotesque devils.”
I know – it hurts you. But as I’ve said before, if it’s bad, kill it. The power of words lies not in their complexity, but in their precision. It’s not impressive to use three adjectives for one; it’s merely blather.