A cutting exercise
Creative writing prompt
Read the text below.
Set a timer for five minutes. In that time, cut twenty words from that text.
When finished, ask yourself these questions:
What did I cut?
Why did I cut it? (This will tell you something about your editing sensibility.)
Is the resulting piece better or worse?
Now do another round of the above. In fact, do round after round of the above, until you’ve cut the piece from its current length (600 words) to half that (300 words).
600 words (original)
Once there was a stolid friendly man named Bill. One day, Bill walked into the Department of Motor Vehicles, wearing a brown shirt and exuding a sort of paranoia. That is not usual, or inaccurate. The DMV makes anyone sane nervous. Bill’s mind flip-flopped through a series of images that were as hazy as they were anxiety-producing. He saw himself in handcuffs. He imagined someone coming out of the back, with a list of all the cars Bill had bumped, scraped, or nicked with his door, in the various parking lots, over the fifty years of his life: first in Indiana, then California, and now, in Syracuse, New York, where, it seemed to Bill, they had the worst DMV ever, just in terms of provoking anxiety, angled, as it was, on a street of similar low buildings and factories that took a long time to find. And every time he had to find it all over again. He could never remember how he had found it the previous time, which was bad. The office had low ceilings and smelled of smoke, floor cleaning products, and human sweat. And yet there was always the same guy, mopping, mopping endlessly. It almost seemed as if he were mopping with a mix of cleaning product and human sweat, while smoking. But no: over his head was a sign: no smoking. It was all so typical and bureaucratic, really. Everywhere in America were such public buildings: cheap to put up, probably, but incredibly expensive in the drain they exerted on the human psyche of the people forced to visit them. Bill made to approach the desk. But first he had to take a number from a woman with flaming red hair. She was sitting at a desk back by the front door, which Bill had just entered.
“Is this where I get that number thing?” Bill said.
“Yes,” the woman said.
“Nice hair,” Bill said.
“Are you being sarcastic?” the woman said.
Bill didn’t know what to say. He had, yes, been being sarcastic, but now he saw that this was a bad move, just in terms of getting that number. Why was he always so sarcastic? What had this pale, clownish woman ever done to him? He felt even more paranoid. Images floated before his eyes—shapes, really: catastrophic, foetal, and celebratory wiggles and sparks, possibly being caused by an approaching migraine. The room swayed, eddied, then came back into focus. It was so hot.
The clown-woman gave him the number. Bill sat on a bench. A couple nearby was fighting. The woman was claiming the man didn’t wash his rear end well, ever. The poor man looked humiliated. The woman was talking so loudly. The man was shrivelled and old and defenceless. He literally held his hat in his hands. Bill glared at the woman. She glared back. Then the man glared at Bill. He made a menacing gesture with the hat in his hands. Now the couple was united, against Bill, and the man’s unclean ass seemed to have been totally forgotten. This was always the way for poor Bill. Once he had intervened when a man was beating his wife, and the wife had turned on him, and the man had turned on him, and even some people passing by had turned on him. Even a nun had given him a gratuitous kick with her thick nun shoe. A robotic voice intoned Bill’s number, which was 332. Bill approached the desk. To his surprise, he saw Angie, his ex-wife, working there, behind the desk. Angie looked more beautiful than ever.
300 words (cut down by me)
Syracuse, New York. The worst DMV ever. The office had low ceilings and there was always the same guy mopping endlessly with a mix of cleaning product and human sweat. Everywhere in America were such public buildings: cheap to put up, expensive on the psyche.
Bill had to take a number from a woman with flaming red hair sitting by the front door.
“Nice hair,” Bill said.
“Are you being sarcastic?” the woman said.
Bill didn’t know what to say. He had been, but now he saw this was a bad move. He felt paranoid. Images floated before his eyes: foetal wiggles and sparks. An approaching migraine. The room swayed, eddied, came back into focus. The woman gave him the number.
Bill sat on a bench. A couple nearby was fighting, the woman was claiming the man didn’t wash his rear end, well, ever. The poor man looked humiliated. The woman was talking so loudly. The man literally held his hat in his hands. Bill glared at the woman. She glared back. Then the man glared at Bill. He made a menacing gesture. Now the couple was united against Bill, the man’s ass totally forgotten.
This was always the way for Bill. Once he had intervened when a man was beating his wife. The wife, the man, even some people passing by had turned on him. Even a nun had given him a gratuitous kick with her thick nun shoe.
A robotic voice intoned Bill’s number. Bill approached the desk. To his surprise, he saw his ex-wife working there, more beautiful than ever.