From the Other Side of Brevity

I’ve never been good at being brief. I talk too much, interrupting perhaps for the sake of hearing myself talk; I write too much, smashing words into a sentence the same way I smash potato chips into my mouth, stopping only when I feel full, which is almost never. My writing has a style, a tone, a voice, and an attempted depth, none of which would have developed if it weren’t for a blatant disregard for brevity. I don’t have beef with brevity; in fact, many of the writers I admire are those who are famously skilled in the art of brevity. For instance, when Hemingway was challenged to write a story in under ten words, this is what he came up with: “For sale: baby shoes, never used.” It’s only six words, but it’s a story with a beginning, middle and end. The same professor who told me this Hemingway tale also told me that I would be a much better writer if I cut every other word I wrote. But this professor didn’t understand that my lack of brevity was something I was born with, much like his lisp, which would require many years of therapy for me to correct.

You see, my gene pool is populated with verbose people; I come from a long line of talkers, the kind that start and don’t stop. Take my grandfather, Pop, for instance, who my dad and grandmother lovingly refer to as “ol’ windbags.” Sure, he’s talkative, but it’s more than that because he likes to hear himself talk, but it’s still more than that because he likes to tell animated stories which he draws out with dramatic pauses, characters and voices all because he just likes to entertain. One could age a decade while listening to him tell a story. Although, this is not to say that Pop’s stories aren’t great, sometimes the first few minutes, or hours, seem to drag on, but no one can deny that the man knows how to close—whether it’s a perfectly timed punch-line or a musical number with jazz hands, Pop knows how to end a story with a bang, so much so that you walk away hardly aware of the two hours it took him to tell the story.

While he isn’t quite ready to admit it, my dad has the same windbag gene as Pop. It’s something he’s been growing into for at least the last 25 years. Usually, it comes out when we get into a philosophical, “this is what life is all about” type of conversation, but other windbag triggers I’ve discovered over recent years include, but are not limited to: golf, Jayhawk basketball, his political beliefs, why he disagrees with my political beliefs, the corrupt government, business practices, the corrupt government affecting his business practices, pool maintenance, vacations he took as a child, a few instances in which I performed well at a sporting event, things Tori and I did or said when we were little, and wine* (*easily substituted with anything that he can feign a truly believable expertise in, such as boating or irrigation). Although he is sensitive about his windbagness, he is willing to admit to being a “talker.” But just like Pop, dad knows how to end a story, or an impossibly long joke, in a way that almost makes you want to hear another.

People who know me know that if you don’t keep me on track during a conversation I digress into a story about a story that leads to another story. I learned early on that I have the windbag gene, which is one of my many genetic gifts among bad knees and high blood pressure. While there are many forms of the windbag gene that do not harm one’s ability to be brief, I believe the windbag gene I have has actually mutated with other genetic “issues” (A.D.H.D.), thus making it the strongest brevity-preventing strand yet.

Nevertheless, I have decided to use this blog as my windbag therapy. Here I will practice, and eventually learn, the art of brevity. I will rise above the windbag gene that has been passed down through so many generations in order to perfect a briefer writing style. So, in true Hemingway fashion, here is my six-word story:

Wanted: Brevity, long posts unread.

(Okay, that’s five words…not that I’m trying to one-up Hemingway, I’m just saying…)