“Declutter Your Writing” Deer In Headlines II: Professional Edition

By Gery L. Deer

If there’s one universal truth about American writing, it’s this: we’re drowning in our own words. And not the good words—the kind that illuminate, entertain, or cut cleanly to the point. No, we’re suffocating under the other kind: the fluff, the filler, the self-important sludge that oozes into everything from corporate emails to grocery-store signage.

William Zinsser, in his classic book On Writing Well, didn’t mince words about this problem. He opened one chapter with a line I’ve carried around like a pocket-sized gospel for writers: “Clutter is the disease of American writing.”

If you’ve ever read a memo that sounded like the author swallowed a legal dictionary, you know he wasn’t exaggerating.

Zinsser goes on to describe a society “strangling in unnecessary words, circular constructions, pompous frills and meaningless jargon.” That was in 1976. Nearly fifty years later, we’ve added emojis, corporate buzzwords, and AI-generated emails, and the linguistic arteries haven’t exactly cleared up. If anything, we’re one “in regard to your recent telephonic communication” away from full cardiac arrest.

But Zinsser wasn’t being clever. He was sounding an alarm—one many writers still ignore, often because they confuse complexity with competence.

Let me offer the blunt version:
If your reader needs a machete to hack through your sentences, you’ve already lost them.

The Cult of Complication

For reasons I will never understand, many writers—professional or otherwise—feel compelled to dress up perfectly good thoughts in verbal tinsel. We decorate them like a department-store Christmas tree: shiny, overdone, and utterly devoid of meaning.

Take the airline pilot Zinsser mentions, the guy who announces he is “presently anticipating experiencing considerable precipitation.” That’s not communication. That’s linguistic cosplay. Just say it may rain. The passengers will not think less of you for speaking like a human.

The same disease infects business writing. No one needs a “comprehensive strategic realignment of synergistic objectives.” They need: “We’re changing how we do things.” And no bank customer has ever said, “You know what I want today? An eight-page explanation of my new simplified statement.”

Yet here we are.

We do this because we want to sound important, or smart, or official. But here’s the irony: the more fuss we add, the less credibility we have. Clutter isn’t just an annoyance; it’s a barrier. It separates writer from reader like a pane of frosted glass.

Writers, All of Us

You might be thinking, “Well, I’m not a journalist or novelist. This doesn’t apply to me.”

Let me stop you there.

If you write emails, social media posts, proposals, bios, résumés, scripts, grants, instructions, or even the occasional strongly worded note to your HOA, then congratulations—the world considers you a writer. You’re producing words to communicate an idea. That’s writing.

And if you’re writing, you owe your readers clarity—whether that reader is your boss, your spouse, or the poor guy at the hardware store trying to decipher your description of a “twisty metal water-seal thingy.”

Zinsser’s point wasn’t to shame bad writers; it was to remind us that writing is an act of respect. We respect the reader by valuing their time, attention, and mental energy. Every unnecessary word is a tax they didn’t agree to pay.

The Myth of the Fancy Sentence

A lot of writers fall into the trap of thinking good writing must sound like writing—like the dramatic monologue of a Shakespearean lawyer narrating a Victorian opera. But the truth is much simpler:

Good writing disappears.

It becomes a clear window where the reader sees only the meaning, not the mechanics.

That doesn’t mean writing has to be stripped bare of personality or artistry. In fact, clarity is what lets artistry shine. A reader can’t appreciate your wit, your rhythm, your insight, or your voice if they’re still stuck trying to decode your first sentence.

Think of it like music: you can be complex, but don’t be muddy.

Beginning with the Cleaning Supplies

The secret to better writing isn’t a miracle method or a creative muse. It’s a broom.

You start by sweeping out what doesn’t belong:

• Words that don’t do anything
• Phrases that repeat themselves
• Passive verbs that hide who’s doing what
• Adverbs that simply echo the verbs they’re glued to
• Big words where small ones work better

It’s not glamorous work. It’s editing. It’s rewiring sentences so they’re clean, direct, and readable.

But it’s the foundation of every good story ever told.

Letting the Meaning Lead

When I teach writing workshops, I tell people the same thing Zinsser told his students: Say what you mean.

That’s it. That’s the job.

Writing is not a performance. It’s a connection. It’s the simplest form of human telepathy—thoughts moving from one mind to another. The clearer the path, the stronger the message.

So if you want to be a better writer—no matter your field—start by decluttering. Strip out the noise. Let your ideas breathe. Trust that simple, honest sentences are not signs of weakness but of skill.

Because in a culture overflowing with complicated, bloated language, clarity isn’t just good writing.

It’s an act of kindness.

And we could use a lot more of that.