“If I’d had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.”
— Mark Twain (kind of)
If I were to engage in self-criticism of my writings, I would remind myself that being concise is most often preferable to wordiness. This is true in writing, as well as in conversation. When I encounter an essay that appears too long, I will often skip it. If I feel a question to a listener might evoke a lengthy and rambling response, I will not ask it. If I am listening to a sermon or a lecture and it rambles, I begin daydreaming, thinking of ice cream and home runs rather than the state of my soul. After all, I am not a strong man.
Writing can be a daunting task, even for those of us arrogant enough to think we can do it. However, editing a piece is painful. Cutting words and phrases laboriously constructed (like this one) is insulting to the writer’s fragile ego. It is reasonable for the carpenter to ask someone to sit in his newly constructed chair before selling it, for the chef to have another taste her food before plating it, for the singer to have a colleague take a listen before recording, and for the writer to employ an objective editor. In my case, I have always relied upon English teachers who have vast reservoirs of red ink and little conscience. Actually, outside of their professional lives, most (some) are nice people, although I would be reluctant to invite them to a party.
Shakespeare said, “Brevity is the soul of wit.” If you will allow me, I will give you a personal example from my recent experience of a story run afoul of The Bard’s axiom with a valued verbose cousin. For protection, we shall call him Sam, as he is a pretentious sort and sensitive to a fault. Sam was attempting to tell me a joke that began, “A priest, a rabbi, and a minister enter a bar …” Here is an actual transcript of Sam’s side of the telling:
“Oh, Kenny, I’ve got a good joke for you! A priest, a rabbi … Judy! (shouting) What night was it that Bill Johnson stopped in and told us that joke about the priest, and the minister, and … It was? … You sure? I think it was Tuesday. I know it was Tuesday because Bill bowls on Monday nights … Bill’s in a league, and not a bad bowler I think he averages over 150 … got his own ball. With my back, I don’t bowl much. Mostly they drink beer anyway … So, anyway, as I was saying, a rabbi, a minister … and … You know what? … It might have been Monday because it was a holiday and the league doesn’t … Don’t you mention it to Judy … I’ll never hear the end of it … I mean if I make a mistake … Now, if she makes a mistake it’s another … OK, so a rabbi, a minister … Let’s just say a Methodist … Bill didn’t say, but I don’t think it matters … better yet, a Presbyterian … man they’ve got some odd ways … and how about those Catholics going to church on Saturday nights? … anything goes I guess. Kenny? You OK? … Judy! (shouting) We going to eat soon? Kenny’s starting to look peaked … What’s that, Judy? … Time to eat! … C’mon! I’ll tell you the joke after dinner … It’s a good one.”
I would tell you the punchline, but Sam never got to it. After dinner he started telling me about each of his 12 grandkids and how they came about getting their middle names, but only after an overview of each shot of his last round of golf. I started to tell him about my most recent hole-in-one when he interrupted and said, “You mean the one you got about three years ago at Duck Creek? I know all about it man.” Silence ensued. I was relating to a brother-in-law about how as a young child I was introverted and seldom spoke. He said, without smile or hint of sarcasm, “Seems like you talk all the time now.” I will refuse to tell either of them about any of my future holes-in-one.
I routinely will be relating a story or an incident in conversation when a dreaded sense of déjà vu hits me full force. I’ve told this story before, possibly multiple times, to the good listener who is politely shaking her head as eyelids droop and small droplets of saliva appear in the corner of her mouth as sleep beckons.
I realize as I drone on and on here that most readers have stopped by this time. And, writing something humorous is particularly difficult, as I am proving here. So, considering my own verbosity, I shall bring this to a clumsy close as I vow to be efficient with my words, messages, and jokes. I remind myself to be kind to people like my cousin Sam — and to writers. They are doing the best they can.
Here’s the thing: Upon rereading I find I said or implied some unkind things about English teachers. I won’t change the words at this point (too much work), but none of it is true. The truth is, I love English teachers. For years I watched them trudge out of school daily with a load of essays too big for a standard backpack. Somehow, I knew they would not be watching “Hawaii 5-0” or “The Bob Newhart Show” that evening. Their dedication as a group is admirable. Their workload is immense. And, what I admire most is that English teachers can take a joke.
ken.ballinger@yahoo.com ———
Editor’s Note: This is one of a series of articles written by a group of retired Billy Kreigh, Marianne Darr-Norman, and Anna Spalding. Their intent is to spur discussions at the dinner table and elsewhere. You may also voice your thoughts and reactions via The News-Banner’s letters to editor.
