Cutting Wordiness & Redundancy: Edit Like You Mean It

Here's a line that used to make my red pen itch. A student hands in: It is very important to note that each and every one of us, in the past history of the school, has always been required to complete and finish every single homework task. Twenty-two years of editing later, I still meet the grown-up version most weeks — the work email that lands at 4:55 on a Friday: I just wanted to take a moment to say that, going forward, each and every team member will need to complete and finalise the report before end of play.

Neither is wrong. Both are just long. Nobody's confused about the message — they're tired before the message starts. You've spent a whole paragraph to deliver a door-sign's worth of meaning.

Here's the thing. Wordy writing isn't a crime — it's more like wearing three coats on a warm day. You're still dressed; you're just carrying more than you need, and people notice the effort rather than the point. Cutting that padding is an editing skill, not a new bit of grammar. Nobody's born knowing it. You train your eye for it — the same way you learn to spot a typo when you re-read a text to a mate, or a wobble in a covering letter before you hit send.

And — let's be honest — most of us were taught to sound "clever" or "professional" by adding words, not by choosing better ones. The good news is that unlearning it costs you nothing new. It's a second-pass habit, and this article is where we build it.

Before you read on, here's where we're heading. By the end you'll be able to: - Spot dead openers, doubled phrases, and soft padding — in essays, emails, and everything in between. - Trim a sentence without losing your meaning, or your voice. - Tell intentional, punchy repetition from the accidental kind that bores a reader. - Edit for the real person on the other end: a teacher, a marker, a hiring manager, a tired colleague.

Beginner (Foundation)

Wordiness is simple at root — it's using more words than the job needs. Redundancy is one flavour of it: saying the same thing twice without meaning to. Past history is just history. Each and every is just every. Complete and finish is finish. Once you see the pattern you can't unsee it — free gift, true fact, end result, added bonus, advance planning, basic fundamentals, personal opinion. Half the phrase does all the work; the other half sits on the sofa eating crisps, contributing nothing.

Then there are dead openers — the throat-clearing we bolt onto the front of a sentence while our brains are still warming up. They're the written version of um, and school and work are equally full of them:

• It is important to note that…
• In my personal opinion, I think that…
• I am writing to inform you that…
• The purpose of this email is to…
• Needless to say… (if it's needless, why say it?)

Here's the good news — you can nearly always delete the opener and start with the real sentence. In my personal opinion, I think that the ending of the book is strong becomes The ending of the book is strong. Your opinion was already obvious; you're the one writing. I am writing to inform you that the invoice is attached becomes The invoice is attached. You didn't lose meaning — you lost fog.

Two before-and-afters, one from each side of life. First, a homework sentence:

Before: In order to be able to succeed in the exam, it is necessary for students to carefully revise all of their notes beforehand in advance.

After: To succeed in the exam, students need to revise their notes.

And a landlord email:

Before: I am writing in order to enquire as to whether it would be possible for you to take a look at the heating at your earliest convenience, due to the fact that it is not working.

After: Could you take a look at the heating when you can? It's stopped working.

Same request. Same respect. Half the fog. You didn't become rude — you became readable.

You're not chasing the shortest sentence in history. You're after the shortest sentence that still says what you mean, in a tone that fits the job. We draft long because drafting is thinking — the words and the working-out arrive together. Editing is the second pass, where you take the spare coat off.

Quick recap: - Wordiness = more words than the idea needs; redundancy = saying the same thing twice by accident. - Dead openers (It is important to note…, I am writing to inform you…) can nearly always be cut. - Doubled phrases (each and every, past history, end result) keep only the working half. - The shortest useful version beats the longest fancy one.

Common Mistake: Cutting so hard the sentence goes telegraph-style and rude. Revise notes. Pass exam. isn't better writing — it's just stark. Pay me. Do it now. is short and terrible; Please settle the balance by Friday is short and fine. Keep the grammar that carries the meaning — cut only the fat.

Pro-Tip: Read the sentence out loud. If you run out of breath, or feel yourself wading, something can go. And if it still sounds like you after the cut, you've done it right.

Intermediate (Development)

Once the obvious doubles and dead starts are gone, the real editing begins — the soft packing peanuts in the middle of the sentence. These are the hedges and props we drop in because we're quietly nervous the reader won't believe us.

Start with needless qualifiers: somewhat, rather, quite, a bit, kind of, sort of, really, very, extremely, basically, actually, literally (when it isn't literally true). One of them can colour [US: color] a sentence — three of them gelatinise it. The plot is somewhat really quite interesting, in a way says almost nothing; The plot is surprising says something. At work it's the same trick in a suit: We're somewhat quite keen, in a way, to move forward is a non-decision — We want to proceed is a decision.

Empty intensifiers usually hide a weak word, so instead of propping it up with very, swap the word itself. Very tired → exhausted. Really big → huge. Very important → essential. That's not just shorter — it's sharper, and it stops you crying wolf. When everything is critical and very unique, nothing is. (For the deeper craft of word choice and confusables, that's Pillar 8; this piece stays on the edit habit.)

Then there's the long-phrase fog — the same in the essay and the inbox. These almost always collapse into something plainer:

• due to the fact that → because
• in spite of the fact that → although
• in the event that → if
• at this point in time → now
• for the purpose of → to
• in order to → to
• has the ability to / is able to → can
• make a decision → decide
• give consideration to → consider
• undertake a review of → review
• on a weekly basis → weekly

You're swapping long, noun-heavy phrases for short, working verbs. A homework paragraph, before:

It is clear that, due to the fact that the main character has the ability to face her fears, she is able to make a decision to leave the village at the end of the novel, which is something that is very important.

After:

Because the main character can face her fears, she decides to leave the village — and that choice matters.

Same events, same claim — but one of them is a pleasure to read. And a work update, before:

I just wanted to circle back in order to provide an update on the fact that we have made a decision to postpone the launch, due to the fact that marketing is not ready at this point in time.

After:

Quick update — we're postponing the launch because marketing isn't ready.

You haven't lost status. You've gained a colleague who finishes reading.

Let's be honest — school and work both reward "formal" so hard that people start to believe the long version is the clever one. It usually isn't. Markers are human; they skim. And the people who hire, buy, and cooperate rarely experience length as seniority — they experience it as delay. So reverse your default: cut first, then put back only the softeners you actually need. Might we… can be wise with a senior stakeholder; Might we possibly perhaps consider potentially… is fear dressed as syntax.

Watch, too, the redundant-category habit — red in colour [US: color], large in size, few in number, square in shape. The adjective already holds the category; the logo is red, the room is large, done. And the twin phrases that sound like grandeur but say one thing — first and foremost, rules and regulations, safe and sound. A few are legal fossils you'll meet later (null and void, terms and conditions), kept as fixed phrases. In your own writing, pick a side. First, we need a plan. Enough.

Quick recap: - Needless qualifiers and empty intensifiers rarely strengthen — swap the weak word instead. - Long "official" phrases (due to the fact that, has the ability to) compress into one verb or conjunction. - Formal-sounding length isn't strong writing; clarity wins with markers and managers alike. - Cut first, then put softeners back only where hierarchy or real uncertainty needs them.

Common Mistake: Trimming the wrong thing. In an essay, don't gut a quotation your argument depends on — trim your wrapping words, not the evidence. At work, don't cut a hedge that was doing honest work: if you only suspect a delay, The project may slip into next week beats fake certainty. Trim fat, not truth.

Pro-Tip: Do a "that / which / of / because" sweep. Circle every due to the fact that, the fact that, of a … nature, that is, and which is. Half of them are trapdoors — the sentence stands perfectly well without them.

Advanced (Mastery)

Mastery isn't automatic minimalism — it's control. You're not forbidden long sentences; you're responsible for them. This is the whole heart of Pillar 9: choice and appropriateness, not a ban on length.

Start with the big one — intentional rhetorical repetition, which isn't wordiness at all. When a speech, a protest placard, a poem, a football chant, or a story's refrain rings the same phrase on purpose, the echo is doing real work: memory, emphasis, rhythm, emotion. King didn't need fewer uses of I have a dream — each one lands harder. She waited. She waited at the window. She waited until the lights went out. That's craft. But She waited patiently while she was waiting for the bus is just a loop, and the report notes the aforementioned notes is just padding. Three quick questions tell them apart: Did I mean this echo? Does each return change the force or the image? Would cutting it flatten the effect? If yes, keep it. If you only spot the double on the proofread, it was packing tape, not architecture.

Second — register, and the expected front door. Some genres still want a conventional frame. A formal complaint, a diplomatic note to a client after something's gone wrong, a statutory notice — these often keep an opener that a text or a Slack message would scrap. I am writing to inform you that… can be genre-correct rather than lazy. The advanced move is to ask who this is for, what power sits between you, and what archive might one day store it — then trim inside that frame rather than against it. This judgement sits right beside the emphasis-and-focus choices in 3.1, and the wider style questions in the Pillar 9 hub — length and emphasis tend to travel together.

Third — paragraph-level drift. One wordy sentence rarely ruins anything; four sentences circling the same claim do. Each looks fine on its own, but together they restate a single idea in slightly different hats. Label each sentence's job — claim, evidence, implication, ask — and where two share a job, keep the stronger and fold any orphan detail into it. Busy readers don't mind density of thought; they mind density of restatement.

Fourth — dummy subjects and thick passives. It is recommended that consideration be given to… and There is a need for an improvement of… flatter hierarchy while starving the sentence of a doer. We recommend… or Improve… often wakes it up. Passive isn't wrong — keep it when the actor is unknown, irrelevant, or better kept offstage (The window was broken; The package was damaged in transit), and keep there is when existence itself is the news. The machinery of forming passives and modals lives in Pillar 4; your job here is only whether the form is serving honesty and pace.

Fifth — hedge for honesty, not for fear. Academic, evaluative, and careful professional writing sometimes should soften: suggests, may, tends to, in this sample. That's intellectual modesty, and it's precise. The trouble starts when every sentence wears three seatbelts — It could perhaps be argued that it might kind of seem that… Pick the one hedge your evidence can actually cash. Over-hedging reads as unconfident, or political — not careful.

And a personal aside — I still empty just and I think out of my own notes when the note is a decision rather than an invitation. Old habits. Cutting them doesn't make me less warm; it makes the warmth visible faster.

Quick recap: - Intentional rhetorical repetition earns its keep; accidental restatement doesn't. - Genre and power can justify a conventional opener — trim inside the frame, not against it. - Paragraph-level drift — four sentences restating one claim — is advanced wordiness. - Passive and dummy it/there are tools; hedge once for truth, not three times for nerves.

Common Mistake: Confusing "advanced style" with longer everything. The sophisticated writers are usually the ones who know when to stop — density without purpose is still padding, just denser padding.

Pro-Tip: Keep a personal cut-list of your own five crutches — mine include just, in order to, the fact that, and very. Glance at it before you hand work in or hit send. Habits love an audience.

A quick note on UK vs US

There's no real UK/US split in the grammar of wordiness — the expectations for clear, trimmed prose are shared on both shores. What you'll meet here is cosmetic: spellings like colour [US: color], organise [US: organize], finalise [US: finalize], and everyday swaps such as CV [US: résumé] or uni [US: college]. Any sense that American email runs blunter and British email runs more cushioned is house culture and generation far more than national rule. Edit for your reader — not for a cartoon of either coast.

Key Takeaways

• Wordiness is first-draft weather; clarity is a deliberate second pass.
• Kill dead openers and doubled pairs first — the easy, high-return cuts.
• Compress long "official" phrases into ordinary verbs, and strengthen a weak word instead of propping it up with very.
• Keep length and repetition only when you can name the job they're doing — genre frame, honest hedge, rhythm, deliberate force.
• Readers under time pressure — teachers, markers, recruiters, colleagues — feel clarity as respect.

Check Your Understanding

1. Tighten this: In my personal opinion, I think that the ending was very unique.
2. Which line is intentional craft rather than padding? (a) She ran and she ran until her lungs burned. (b) She ran quickly and rapidly down the street.
3. Compress: We will undertake a review of the policy on a monthly basis, due to the fact that the team has the ability to improve it.
4. You're writing to a senior client after missing a deadline. Why might you keep a slightly fuller opening than you'd use texting a mate or messaging a peer?
5. Find and repair the redundancy: In conclusion, the final end result of our past history with the vendor is that we should not renew.

Answer key

1. The ending was unique — or, stronger, The ending surprised me. Drop very: unique is already absolute.
2. (a) — the echo builds effort and exhaustion; (b) just doubles a synonym for no gain (quickly, rapidly).
3. We'll review the policy monthly, because the team can improve it.
4. Register and relationship. Hierarchy, a documentary tone, and the job of repairing trust can all justify a conventional or fuller frame — cut the cushioning inside that choice rather than scrapping the genre signals that keep the relationship safe.
5. In short, given our history with the vendor, we shouldn't renew. (Final end result and past history both resolved; the in conclusion … final double removed.)

Related Articles (Internal Links)

• Pillar 9 Hub — style, register, and choice.
• 3.1 — emphasis, focus, and how you aim a sentence.
• 2.3 — clarity, and saying precisely what you mean.
• 2.4 — tone, and how word choice changes your relationship with the reader.