On Overwriting

"Overwriting" exists as a curious problem for new and emerging writers, and for some experienced writers it remains a problem to be guarded against. Much of my own early writing, in particular some of the essays I wrote in the 1990s (see links at left) suffers from what I would now call overwriting -- that is, the inflation of language and description at the risk of losing the reader and losing the meat of a story. At its worst, overwriting calls attention to the language itself through flowery description and wordiness. At its best, and good overwriting perhaps only exists in postmodern fiction, overwriting calls attention to the idea of overwriting and the way that words can mask reality.

Overwriting is not simply writing too much or too long, of course. We may be tempted to call "Paradise Lost" an example of overwriting, but I'm not talking about that kind of genius. Just because something is long or difficult to read does not make it overwritten. I am talking about the way newer writers especially often give in to the temptations of language by "showing off" an adeptness with words and phrases. As an isolated problem, overwriting is not such a bad issue for young writers to have, as it reveals a love of language, and it allows the writer to practice expanding images, providing more detail and description. (Underwriting is a far more common and difficult-to-overcome malady.) But overwriting is absolutely something that must be worked toward solving and guarded against as a writer develops.

The problem with overwriting, and one of the central paradoxical problems of writing, is that the writer uses words to obscure real meaning. Often, overwriting arises from anxiety, or from a deeply held fear that the writer has nothing to say, that the story itself isn't good enough -- so he hides behind words.  So the irony -- and paradox -- of writing is that language itself sometimes gets in the way of what a writer is actually trying to say. Good writing works toward achieving a balance and harmony (just like good cooking) between the language and the story, so that the language works for the story and not the other way around. This does not rule out the possibility of beautiful phrases and images, those things that strike us in stories as "brilliant," because that, too, is part of the reason for the existence of writing. I continue to struggle against overwriting, and I think it's as much a confidence issue as anything else. We must learn to believe in the stories we want to tell.