Photo by Stu Spivack
It’s winter time once again, when the weather often keeps us indoors, and we tend to indulge ourselves a little more than we should. Because, well, because we can’t eat just one package of Oreos while staring contemplatively into a pile of logs aflame in the fireplace, can we? And then throw in the holidays and of course who among us can resist the festive tradition that is letting ourselves go?
We writers are no strangers to this affliction and it’s not only our waistlines that require a watchful eye. Have you seen some of the sentences lumbering about this time of year? In between exercising our bodies we must also exercise a little creative restraint.
Case in point, take a look at the chunky fellow I’ve written below:
Was it so unusual to keep the head of a snowman alive in his freezer, he wondered, the coal eyes and the carrot nose moldy with frost from 47 days’ age in cold storage, the Scottish plaid scarf around its no-neck as frigid and stiff as his wife when she left to pick the kids up from school and never came back, or was it a cruel world unsympathetic to a traumatic melt thirty years prior—“puh-uh-uhddles, Mommy!”—that had also dissolved the part of his brain that would have, among other things, prevented him from embezzling from his children’s thriving fruity-chews vaccination business to keep building a corncob pipe collection to find the one pipe, the one pipe, Mr. McShivers wouldn’t spit out of the place on his face where presumably his mouth should be?
Whoa. Talk about junk in the trunk. Does one sentence really need to carry all of that weight? Let’s see what happens when we force it to miss a few meals:
Was it so unusual to keep the head of a snowman alive in his freezer, he wondered.
Better than the paleo diet! Trim, concise and still compelling enough to pull you into the next sentence about the coal eyes and the carrot nose. Speaking of coal eyes and a carrot nose, have you ever wondered where the tradition of building a snowman came from? No, you haven’t? Oh, well, never mind, back to the writing exercise and our slim new opening sentence.
Was it so unusual to keep the head of a snowman alive in his freezer, he wondered, the coal eyes and the carrot nose moldy with frost from 47 days’ age in cold storage, the Scottish plaid scarf around its no-neck as frigid and stiff as his wife when she left to pick the kids up from school and never came back, or was it a cruel world unsympathetic to a traumatic melt thirty years prior—“puh-uh-uhddles, Mommy!”—that had also dissolved the part of his brain that would have, among other things, prevented him from embezzling from his children’s thriving fruity-chews vaccination business to keep building a corncob pipe collection to find the one pipe, the one pipe, Mr. McShivers wouldn’t spit out of the place on his face where presumably his mouth should be?
Whoa! What happened? I take my eyes off you for a minute and you’ve ballooned.
Well you said it, you can’t just eat one package of Oreos. And you know the cookies with the Hershey kisses on top? I had about 70 of those. Also, I’m taking my cereal with eggnog these days.
Oh my. How about celery sticks for a snack instead of all those commas? Maybe a light jog around the park to lose that “or” in the middle?
Was it so unusual to keep the head of a snowman alive in his freezer, he wondered, the coal eyes and the carrot nose moldy with frost from 47 days’ age in cold storage, the Scottish plaid scarf around its no-neck as frigid and stiff as his wife when she left to pick the kids up from school and never came back.
Very nice, now you can see your toes without that big old question mark hanging out. By the way, have you ever wondered about the origin of the question
Hey, pass that tub of frosting over here!
No. Stop it. Put it down. Not with the big spoon!
Was it so unusual to keep the head of a snowman alive in his freezer, he wondered, the coal eyes and the carrot nose moldy with frost from 47 days’ age in cold storage, the Scottish plaid scarf around its no-neck as frigid and stiff as his wife when she left to pick the kids up from school and never came back, or was it a cruel world unsympathetic to a traumatic melt thirty years prior—“puh-uh-uhddles, Mommy!”—that had also dissolved the part of his brain that would have, among other things, prevented him from embezzling from his children’s thriving fruity-chews vaccination business to keep building a corncob pipe collection to find the one pipe, the one pipe, Mr. McShivers wouldn’t spit out of the place on his face where presumably his mouth should be?
Aren’t you at least embarrassed by all the hyphens? You can’t even fasten the top three buttons on your shirt.
You know what? I’m okay with how I look. I’ve got shape, I’ve got rhythm, I feel like a boulder rolling downhill, even though I usually drive. I think I’ve even got room for more words.
Okay, that’s enough.
How about you make me a nice bacon-wrapped Thesaurus?
(Writing) Exercise over!
