Cutting the Fluff: The Art of Ruthless Editing

Fluff—the wordy cousin of your writing that overstays its welcome at the party. You know those lengthy sentences that feel like they’re wearing too much cologne? That’s fluff. They might seem harmless. They might, alas, be some of your favourite and most erudite bits of writing… but do you really need all six adjectives and a seven syllable word?

The problem with fluff is not that it’s bad writing, per se (though it does have an annoying tendency to go a bit purple and hyperbolic at times)—it’s more that these sentences typically add little to your narrative, hold up the plot, and dilute your message. But don’t worry—this guide is going to arm you with the tools you need to become a ruthless editor of your own work.

What on earth is fluff?

Fluff refers to unnecessary words, phrases, or sentences (sometimes whole scenes—but that’s another story) that add little to no value to your writing. Think of it as the extra cheese on a pizza: delicious in moderation but overwhelming in excess. Sentences packed with fluff can make even the most riveting ideas feel tedious. For example:

Before: “Due to the fact that it was raining heavily, we decided to cancel the picnic.”
After: “It was raining heavily, so we canceled the picnic.”

Now, I’m a writer who has never knowingly written 15 words where nine would do, and my first draft would look like “before.” The second draft is where I prune the fluff—but it was not always thus.

Here’s a passage from the first published version of my debut novel Edge of Heaven:

“There were two empty chairs, one on either side of Corscadden, and Hadaway’s selection of one over the other would almost certainly reveal something interesting to his host that Hadaway would almost certainly prefer him not to know. Moreover, there was probably no way to mitigate against this, and any attempt to do so would undoubtedly make things worse. In the end, he chose the one on the left, because it put the glare at his back and would make it slightly less comfortable for Corscadden to watch his face as they conducted their conversation, but, Hadway thought as he lowered himself into his seat, the chances were not high that Corscadden would see it that way. Certainly his smile was suspiciously bland.”

And here’s what a reviewer had to say about this passage:

“Or, you know, as some hack like Ernest Hemingway might have put it, Hadaway sat down.” [Hubert O’Hearn, January Magazine, July 6, 2016]

Here’s how it appears in the version currently for sale:

“‘Thank you for seeing me,’ said Hadaway, as he lowered himself into one of the two empty chairs around the table. ‘I know you tend not to involve yourself with matters of state these days.’”

I loved that earlier section. I loved how it flowed, and I loved the character beats it illuminated for both men. But it—and its many friends—were sucking the life clean out of the sequence and the novel as a whole. Less fluff means more punch, and more room for the narrative to breathe.

Strategies for identifying fluff in prose fiction

Chances are, you won’t want to identify fluff in your story, because you’ll be attached to it. But if you’re ready to be brutal and start killing your darlings, here are a few quick exercises that leave fluff with nowhere to hide:

Read aloud: Reading your work aloud helps you catch awkward phrasing and repetitive words. If you stumble over a sentence, chances are it’s time for a trim. Many writers skip this step because they assume their work is designed for the page rather than the spoken word, but they forget that authors share their work at public readings all the time. I promise you that you don’t want to run this exercise for the first time at a public reading. Ask me how I know.
Highlighting technique: Grab your highlighter (or digital equivalent). Highlight every adjective and adverb. If it doesn’t enhance meaning, it’s on the chopping block. Three of them in a series? Two of them need to go. You’ll be surprised how many words you’ll cut this way, and how much lighter your MS will feel once you do.
The “So what?” test: Read over your work. After each sentence, ask yourself: “So what?” If you don’t have a good answer, there’s a good chance that sentence is dead weight. (Obviously, this one is more time-consuming than the other two—generally speaking, you’d apply this technique to sections where you’ve already identified elevated quantities of fluff.)

“Reading your work aloud helps you catch awkward phrasing and repetitive words. If you stumble over a sentence, chances are it’s time for a trim.”

Techniques for cutting fluff from your writing

Eliminate redundancies

It’s surprisingly easy to use two words where one will do—and I don’t mean padding out sentences with extra words. Redundancies actually repeat synonyms, one after the other, for reasons known only to the vagaries of this chaotic language we call English. Common redundancies include phrases like “free gift” or “past history,” and they are everywhere.

Replace weak verbs with stronger alternatives

Strong verbs can often eliminate the need for adverbs altogether. Instead of saying “ran quickly,” say “sprinted.” At the risk of starting a war between the factions of “said” and the opposing “all speech verbs are valid” side, I have no idea why one would use “said quietly” when “whispered” exists, and so on. Stronger speech tag alternatives exist for just about every combination of “said + adverb” in existence. Your prose will thank you.

Simplify phrases

Complex phrases can often be simplified without losing meaning: “due to the fact that” becomes simply “because.” My first-draft prose is incredibly guilty of this, so my second-draft revisions often feel like decluttering an overstuffed closet. It’s a good feeling.

Practice makes perfect: how many words can you cut?

Now that you’re armed with strategies, let’s put them into practice. Take a paragraph from your current work (or use this sample):

“In light of recent events that have occurred over the past week regarding our project, I am writing this email to inform you of my thoughts and opinions.”

Edit this down using the techniques above and see how tight you can make it. Perhaps something like:

“Following recent events around our project, I’ve had some thoughts.”

Feel free to share before-and-after snippets in the comments below. Who can lose the highest percentage of words and still maintain clarity? (Are you guys as competitive as I am?)

Embracing the ruthless mindset in prose editing

Editing is about cutting, sure, but it’s not a destructive act: at its core, editing is about enhancing clarity and impact. Being ruthless doesn’t mean being heartless—it means your story has the space it needs to shine.

As Ernest Hemingway once said: “The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shockproof s*** detector.” Trust yourself; if something feels off or unnecessary, cut it out. And don’t, by the way, berate yourself for peddling fluff, either. To quote Hemingway again: “The first draft of everything is s***.” I agree with the letter but not the spirit of that statement. The first draft of everything may be… ahem… less than polished, but that’s its job. Its job is to be as messy as it needs to be so that you have something to edit in draft 2. Can’t cut fluff if you haven’t written a word (for fear of writing fluff), can you?

So, write whatever you need to write. Great writing emerges from the rewriting process. The more you practice cutting the fluff, the sharper your prose will become. Happy writing, and may your editing be ever ruthless.

Go on… what’s the longest sentence you’ve ever written in prose fiction? Did you cut it or keep it? Let me know in the comments!