Wordiness

November 26, 2009 at 10:17 am (Creative commentary) (, , , , , , )

How many words are too many? How important is word count? Do the rules change when you’re an established writer compared to when you’re just starting out? These are some of the questions I tackled completing the 7th draft of my manuscript, Misplaced. It was daunting – I reduced my word count from 130,000 words to 80,000. Is it possible to cut so many words without losing your story? Should we be bringing the razor to our work just because publishers want us to?

A year ago, a writer friend of mine advised me to cut down – I scoffed at her. Cut down? Why? This is my story. After all, the debut novel of one of my favourite writers, Paulina Simmons, is 500 pages and about 200,000 words. If she can do it why can’t I?

The talk at the moment in publishing is that the optimum length for a debut novel is 70,000 words. Publishers have limited budgets for first time writers and producing larger books is too expensive. In a way, it almost doesn’t seem fair. Take Paulina’s ‘Bronze Horseman’ trilogy. The first book was brilliant, around 500 pages. The second was a laborious read – the first half was a rehash of the first book, the second half was entertaining enough. The third book was 900 pages – I couldn’t finish it. Publishers would justify that she has a following and readers that love the first book will buy the others regardless of the wordiness. This is a classic example of the leadway publishers allow established writers.
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The story (a poem)

November 18, 2009 at 5:29 am (Poems (PG rated))

The story must come out,
ripping like hurls of vomit /
of an infectious plague
that locks away
crazy.

It tears at a body
that coughs up in resistance /
green phlegm and acid /
with seized up hands
of sand.

The story must come out /
at the ‘You’re not going in
there, Mummy’ / and the
‘one more cuddle,
Mummy’ /
You’re a shitty mummy,
Mummy / where is your next child,
Mummy / you should clean,
Mummy / or work,
Mummy / stop chasing dreams,
Mummy.

You – are – a – fucking – lousy – mummy,
Mummy.

The story will come out /
against walls of fucking brick /
of ‘no children at
Rosebank – sorry
that’s for
dedicated writers
to finish their manuscripts’ /
and ‘your submission’s
unsuccessful
but please
celebrate our writers’.

The story will punch out /
at the ‘I won’t read your work
you didn’t read mine’ /
at the snubby
elite /
while I drag heaviness
through fields of mud.

Why am I doing this again?
Oh – right – the story’s got to come out.

It shrills out in the night
where wide eyeballs scribble notes /
and voices not mine
scream lost.

Varuna deadlines loom /
‘Why aren’t you coming to my birthday?’
Where’s my sister, Koraly?
My cousin, Koraly?
My wife, Koraly?

Is that Ella in Cyprus or me?
Is that Ella in love or me?
Is that Ella fighting with Harry or me?
Is that Ella slashing her wrists or me?

© Koraly Dimitriadis
First published on the Overland website 8/11/2009

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