Ann at The Year(s) of Living Non-Judgmentally blog wrote about brevity last week. It made me think of the monstrosity that was my Coffee-House Applause post a couple of weeks ago. When I hit save, it weighed in at more than 1,000 words.
That’s too much, y’all.
I pared it down to 800-plus and published. I should know better. My mentor, copy editor Harry Pickett, said to make every word fight to stay on the page. On my blog page, words did not fight. They made love and had babies. Dozens of them.
Madison found the T-shirt in Target, which twisted up a familiar put-down and tossed it back in boys’ faces.
“Yeah, I kick like a girl,” it admitted. “Jealous?” You ought to be, boys. I get it. A man will call his boy “son,” name him after himself, or even pass on a II, III or IV. He’s your heir. He’s your pee-in-the-snow partner. He’s your buckaroo; a chip off the old block, even.
He might also become mama’s boy, a lover-not-a-fighter, or, heaven forbid, a Thomas the Tank Engine fan. A man will call his girl many things, but likely, the family name will get wiped out.