"I did see what he meant and, glancing over the letter again and seeing things like I realise that my application is bound to be something of a long shot I experienced successive waves of emotion. First, shame at my crassness; second, gratefulness to my friend for having vouchsafed to me the magic word the key, no doubt, to his own elegance in English. The word was cut."
"Once decluttered, the letter immediately seemed like the work of a plausible individual. It wasn't that I'd suddenly learned how to write; more that I'd learned how not to write. It was a revelation and the first time I realised that my dream of becoming an author might actually be realisable. As an undergraduate, I had occasionally sent articles speculatively to newspapers. They were always rejected, but sometimes with an encouraging reply Do keep us in mind, though that would have me dancing around"
A history student drafted a verbose job application and showed it to a languid friend studying English, who noted there were too many words. The student cut extraneous phrases, simplifying openings and sentences, and the revised letter read as the work of a plausible individual. The experience produced shame, gratitude and revelation, teaching that elegance can arise from omission rather than addition. Subsequent activities included speculative submissions to newspapers and ongoing tinkering with a fiction about a man leading two lives on a train, reflecting early attempts at creative craft.
Read at www.theguardian.com
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