"Have you ever finished reading something — or listening to someone — and realized that after all those words, you have almost nothing you can actually use?"
Have you ever finished reading something — or listening to someone — and realized that after all those words, you have almost nothing you can actually use?
You've just encountered prolix. And knowing this word is the first step to never being it.
Prolix means using or containing too many words; tediously lengthy. It comes from the Latin prolixus — extended, stretched out — from pro (forth) + liquere (to flow). Something prolix flows on and on without finding a place to stop. It's the speech that could have been a memo. The memo that could have been an email. The email that could have been a sentence.
Now, prolix is distinct from simply "long." Long writing can be wonderful — dense, rich, worth every word. Prolix writing is different: it's long without being rich. It pads, it repeats, it qualifies endlessly, it circles its own point without landing. There's a kind of anxiety at the heart of prolix writing — the fear that if you stop, you haven't been thorough enough, impressive enough, heard enough.
That's the real root of prolixity: not excess knowledge, but excess insecurity. The prolix writer doesn't trust their words to do the work, so they send more of them. The prolix speaker doesn't trust the listener to get it, so they explain everything three times. The irony is that more words often carry less meaning — the more you surround an idea, the harder it is to find.
The opposite of prolix is not brevity for its own sake. It's precision. It's the willingness to say exactly what you mean and trust it. It's knowing that a well-placed sentence does more than a well-intentioned paragraph. Blaise Pascal said it famously: "I would have written a shorter letter, but I did not have the time." Cutting is harder than expanding. Precision requires more confidence, not less.
Here's the exercise: after you write something, read it again and mark everything that doesn't carry weight. The warm-up sentences at the beginning. The restating you do because you're not sure you were clear the first time. The qualifications that protect you but add nothing. Cut them. What remains is the thing you actually meant. That's the piece. Send that.
Prolix is easy. Precise is an act of respect for your audience — and for your own ideas.
Here's your question: Can you think of something you've written or said recently that was prolix — that you could now cut in half without losing anything important? What would you remove — and why did it go in the first place?
0 Comments