Great Writing Isn’t Born—It’s Rewritten

Good writing is often less about what you say and more about what you leave out. This is counterintuitive for many. When you know a lot about something—or care deeply about it—the instinct is to say everything, to explain every nuance. But the paradox of writing is that less can be more. Overexplaining, ironically, can obscure the very ideas you’re trying to highlight.

Why Overexplaining Happens

Most writers overexplain because they don’t trust their audience. They assume the reader needs hand-holding, and that every connection must be laid out step by step. Sometimes this comes from fear—fear of being misunderstood, fear of seeming unclear, fear that the reader won’t get it. But in trying to prevent confusion, overexplaining creates something worse: boredom.

Consider this sentence:
“Her heart raced faster and faster as she nervously reached for the doorknob, which was cold to the touch because it was made of metal and the room was drafty.”

Everything in this sentence is spelt out. But do we need all of it? Does it matter why the doorknob is cold? Does telling us she’s nervous add anything when we already know her heart is racing? This kind of writing treats readers like they can’t think for themselves.

Now compare:
“Her heart raced as she gripped the icy doorknob.”

This version says less but does more. It conveys the same tension while leaving space for the reader’s imagination.

Why Less Is More

Great writing respects the reader’s intelligence. When you leave things unsaid, readers fill in the gaps. This makes them active participants in the story rather than passive recipients. It’s like watching a movie versus reading a book. A movie shows you everything, but a book lets you imagine. The less you tell readers, the more they feel.

Hemingway called this the “Iceberg Theory”: only a fraction of the meaning should be visible on the surface. The rest lies beneath, implied but unspoken. Readers sense the depth even if they can’t see it explicitly.

How to Stop Overexplaining

Stopping the urge to overexplain takes practice. Here are three techniques to help:

1. Cut Redundancies

Redundancies creep in when we describe the same thing in multiple ways. Look for phrases where you’re explaining what’s already obvious.

Before:
“He shouted loudly, his voice echoing through the empty hallway.”

After:
“He shouted, his voice echoing through the hallway.”

The word “loudly” is redundant. If he’s shouting, we already know it’s loud.

2. Show, Don’t Tell

Replace abstract explanations with concrete details or actions.

Before:
“She was sad and felt like crying.”

After:
“Tears welled in her eyes as she stared at the empty chair.”

The second version is more vivid and engages the reader’s imagination.

3. Set a Word Limit

Challenge yourself to describe a scene or idea in 50 words or fewer. This forces you to prioritize what matters. Brevity often sharpens your focus.

A Personal Example

When I was working on an early essay about startups, I wanted to describe the anxiety of launching a product. My first draft was a sprawling paragraph explaining every fear founders feel—fear of failure, fear of competition, fear of disappointing users. It was exhausting to read.

In revision, I condensed it into one sentence:
“Launching feels like jumping off a cliff and building a parachute on the way down.”

That single image captured everything. Readers instantly understood the stakes without needing a long explanation.

Trusting Your Reader

Overexplaining doesn’t just dilute your writing; it insults your audience. It says, “I don’t trust you to figure this out.” But readers are smarter than we think. They don’t need every detail spelled out. In fact, they prefer when you leave room for interpretation.

When you cut unnecessary words, you uncover the essence of your ideas. And that essence is what readers remember.

Closing Thought

The best writing feels effortless—not because it’s easy to write, but because the hard work of rewriting has made it so. As Hemingway said, “If a writer of prose knows enough of what he is writing about, he may omit things that he knows, and the reader… will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them.”

Great writing isn’t born—it’s rewritten. Trust your reader. Trust the power of what’s unsaid.