Most of us in the writing community are still figuring things out. Personally, I’ve self-published one novel, two works of non-fiction, and I’m currently dragging my second novel across the finish line.
This time, I’m shooting for the big leagues: traditional publishing. Step one? Word count. Or, as I like to call it, the first gatekeeping boss fight.
Agents are ruthless. Not mean. Just… efficient. Like sharks in blazers.
It’s easy to want to argue. To say things like, “My story takes as many words as it takes. I’m not cutting perfectly good scenes just to hit some arbitrary number dreamed up by marketing interns with spreadsheets. My favorite authors all write 1,000-page masterpieces.”
Sure, they do. But your favorite authors also have seven-figure deals and a Netflix adaptation in the works. You have a MacBook, a caffeine addiction, and a dream.
Good luck with that.
Agents get buried in queries every month. If you don’t play by the rules, they won’t even open the file. You could’ve written the next Great Gatsby, but if it’s 140,000 words and you’re not F. Scott Somebody, you’re getting ghosted harder than a bad Tinder date.
And it’s not just them. Word count, well, page count, is also a psychological landmine for readers. Imagine someone picking up your debut, flipping it open, and seeing 520 pages. They don’t think, “Wow, what a generous storyteller.” They think, “This feels like homework,” and quietly set it back down while making eye contact with the nearest exit.
So now you’re in a bind. You’ve got a manuscript that’s 20,000 words too long and a delete key that’s starting to look nervous. But before you go full machete and start lopping off chapters like a horror movie villain, try a scalpel.
Zoom in. Line by line. Sentence by sentence. You’d be shocked how much flab you can cut just by tightening your prose. The words you trim this way don’t hurt as much—and they add up faster than you think.
Here are some of the easiest (and most satisfying) targets to gut:
1. Filter Words
Filter words are like that friend who starts every story with, “So I was thinking about going to the store when I realized I might go to the store.” Just go to the damn store.
Before: I heard a scream from the basement and felt my heart leap into my throat.
After: A scream rose from the basement. My heart tried to stage a jailbreak.
Result: Saved 7 words. Also, no one needs to hear that you heard it. You’re the narrator, not the receptionist.
2. Redundancies
Redundancy is when you say the same thing more than once. Repeatedly. Over and over. Again.
Before: He nodded his head in agreement and gave a thumbs up to show he was on board.
After: He nodded and gave a thumbs up.
Result: Saved 8 words. We get it. You’re fine with the plan. Calm down.
3. Weak Modifiers
“Really,” “very,” and “kind of” are the beige paint of writing. Technically words, but spiritually filler.
Before: The house was really old and very haunted, like, sort of extremely cursed.
After: The house was haunted. Probably demonic. Maybe rent-controlled.
Result: Saved 7 words. Turns out, very is just code for “I didn’t commit to the sentence.”
4. Stage Direction
Your character doesn’t need to move like a Sims avatar with a broken pathfinding script.
Before: She turned around, walked to the chair, pulled it out, sat down, crossed her legs, and looked at me.
After: She sat and stared like I owed her money.
Result: Saved 17 words. We’re writing a novel, not blocking a community theater play.
5. The Obvious
If someone just flipped a table, I don’t need you to tell me they’re upset. Unless you’re going for “surprisingly enthusiastic IKEA rep,” it’s implied.
Before: He slammed his fists on the table and screamed at the ceiling. He was clearly upset.
After: He slammed his fists on the table and screamed at the ceiling.
Result: Saved 5 words. If readers can’t figure out he’s mad, your bigger problem is that they might be concussed.
6. Dialogue Tags
Not every line needs to be “exclaimed breathily” or “muttered with a tone of reluctant disgust.” Chill.
Before: “I’m not cleaning that up,” she growled bitterly through clenched teeth.
After: “I’m not cleaning that up,” she said.
Or: “I’m not cleaning that up.”
Result: Saved 6 words. We all read it in a bitter growl anyway, Karen.
7. Bloated Actions
Nobody “stands up out of the chair and begins walking toward the door” unless they’re paid by the word or actively stalling a breakup.
Before: He stood up out of the recliner and began to slowly walk over toward the kitchen.
After: He slunk to the kitchen like a man confronting expired yogurt.
Result: Saved 9 words. The word “began” is a weasel. Use it only when things don’t finish. Like your draft.
8. Frankensteining Sentences
Sometimes, two short sentences are just lonely halves of one better sentence. Stitch ‘em together like Dr. Frankenstein—but, you know, with a lighter touch and fewer pitchforks.
Before: The lights flickered. I froze. Something was wrong.
After: The flickering lights froze me.
Result: Saved 3 words. And you still got the vibe: spooky, concise, and not narrating like a guy reading off cue cards.
Word count doesn’t have to be your nemesis. Just your toxic ex. The kind you tolerate long enough to get through the query process, then quietly block once you’re published.
Cutting at the sentence level isn’t glamorous. It won’t get you a book deal. But it might get you past the first intern who’s been told to reject anything that feels “long.” And that’s a start.
Now go forth. Murder some modifiers. Evict some filter words. And for the love of God, stop describing every single time someone walks across a room.
Your future agent, and your readers, will thank you.
