Sometimes it feels like the whole internet is a calculated exercise in talking at cross-purposes. Take for instance this post on Bluesky, by author Tom Cox:
“No other word has done more damage to the craft of writing in recent years than “content”. Even if you’re using the word “content” ironically, or as a cute little joke, don’t. When someone calls writing “content” they’re pissing on someone’s hard work & passion. “Content” is Technosatan’s henchword.”
I’ve never really had a problem with the word, because for me it has useful connotations that it doesn’t for others: as a technical term originating from 2000s discussions on web standards, where you’re distinguishing between CSS (visual design) and HTML (content). I just can’t bring myself to have visceral disgust for something that in my world, is rooted in something which helped people: something that made the web far more accessible to a much wider group of individuals.1
To me, the word just doesn’t have an automatic tinge of soulless corporate management-speak. I identify it as a technical term first. Yet I get it: a word which I associate with something helpful, is used these days by many in a fashion which is unhelpful. That’s so many internet arguments in a nutshell; different groups of people approaching a topic from different angles, and being grumpy that not everyone experienced it in exactly the same way.
So when I read this piece by Jeffrey Zeldman2, I am aware that this is probably just another pesky example of talking – thinking? – at cross-purposes. And yet something about it really did give me pause.
“What’s rare — what’s difficult — is knowing when you’ve said enough. Cutting the sentence that’s technically correct but doesn’t earn its place. Trusting the reader. Trusting the idea. Trusting the white space to do work.
Brevity was always a discipline. Now it’s a statement. When everything around you is excessive by default, choosing fewer words takes courage. It says: I thought about this. I edited. I respected your time more than I needed to show my work.”
I really don’t think this is wrong, per se. But I see a lot of advice for writers which focuses on brevity. It has a long and storied history. But I rarely see anybody giving the other side: that it can be incredibly easy to not quite write enough, and to not give your reader vital context.
It’s a problem I’ve run into constantly here on Dirty Feed, and with good reason: my knowledge of television is often deep rather than wide, which is the exact opposite of most people. So when I’m writing about some old show which I love, I’m often quite far into the weeds, because for me that’s where the interesting stuff is. If you know as much about the programme I’m writing about as I do, then you’ll join me with no problem. If you don’t, then you’re going to struggle.
But crucially: with the right bit of context at the beginning, I can sometimes drag more people along for the ride. I never used to have to do this when I wrote about Red Dwarf for Ganymede & Titan; when writing specifically for a fan audience, it’s just far less of a problem. But it gave me bad habits when trying to write about things here, and it took many years to get rid of them. It took a whole decade of writing Dirty Feed before I even started to get better at this.
Even now, I run into problems, on articles which you really would think were plenty long enough already. Take, for instance, this epic five-part series on The Young Ones and its infamous flash frames. In total, those pieces amount to over 15k words; surely I said everything I needed to say on the subject?
But I don’t think so. I think it’s missing a whole part, in fact. A part which gives some proper context to the history of flash frames when it comes to television in general, and comedy in particular. A part which talks about whether flash frames actually do influence audiences in any way, or whether that’s a load of old hooey. When I first published those pieces, one person in particular chastised me a little for not talking about that latter point; I was a bit grumpy at the time, but I think they were right.
15k words, and there needed to be more. I needed to pull back just a little and give more context for a wider audience, and I abjectly failed to do so. If I had, maybe those pieces might have been really successful, not just successful by the standards of this site.3
Brevity can be important. But it’s equally as easy to simply not write enough.
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