I have a habit of trying to say too much. Sentences pile up like luggage at a station: necessary items, a few souvenirs, and always one thing I convinced myself I absolutely needed but never use. Writing a short, stubbornly honest reflection forces me to leave the excess on the platform and board with only the essentials. Here’s how I do it — the method I return to when I want something brief, clear and a little blunt about what I think.
Start with a tiny, strange question
Begin with a microscopic curiosity rather than a sweeping thesis. The idea shouldn’t be grand; it should be oddly specific enough to be interesting. Once, mine was: Why do I keep re-reading the same page of a book when I’m only mildly tired? Another time: What does my neighbour’s late-night humming tell me about living alone?
These inconsequential questions are useful because they frame the reflection around observation rather than argument. They invite description, small thought experiments and a kind of confessional intimacy that readers can feel in under 600 words.
Pick a single, honest claim
A short reflection thrives on one clear, unapologetic line you’re willing to hold. Not a full-blown thesis, but a claim: “I am suspicious of optimism that sounds rehearsed,” or “I am most myself in kitchens at 10pm.” Say it early or let it emerge after a scene, but keep coming back to it. This is your spine.
Open with a scene, not a lecture
People remember images. I often begin with a small scene that contains the claim implicitly — the angle light on a kitchen table, the way a cup leaves a ring, the exact sentence from a film that made me pause. Concrete details do the heavy lifting of context so you don’t need to explain everything.
Example: “I noticed the leftover tea had cooled to a hospital-pale brown and realised that I was thinking of my father not as a presence but as a puzzle of habits.” That sentence sets tone, character and the inward pivot I want to explore.
Use the I that actually exists
Write with the version of yourself that made the observation. If you’re wry, allow the line of humour; if you’re awkward, let the awkwardness appear. A short piece needs the authenticity of a single voice. Pretending to be an all-knowing essayist eats word-count fast and leaves the piece feeling hollow.
The modest structure I trust
I stick to a compact architecture that helps resist wandering:
- One opening scene (30–100 words).
- One connective move — a thought, memory or image that links scene to claim (50–150 words).
- One small development — perhaps a counterexample or a moment of self-doubt (100–200 words).
- One brief resolution or recognition that reframes the initial claim (50–100 words).
Each part should be short and purposeful; if a paragraph wants to be an entire essay, either shrink it or let it become the next piece.
Cut with the scalpel of curiosity
Editing a short piece is more about deletion than addition. I read aloud and listen for sentences that merely explain what has already been shown. If a sentence repeats a point, cut it. If it duplicates tone — an extra clever line to show cleverness — cut it. Every word must pull weight. I try to remove at least 20% of the draft on the first pass.
Tools I use: a simple word processor, the “speaker” function on my phone to hear the rhythm, and a count of lines rather than words to keep the piece visually compact. I once found a paragraph that ate 130 words to say what a single sentence could do. Out it went, and the piece felt instantly more honest.
Allow small contradictions
Honesty in short writing often includes letting the contradiction live. You can say, “I love mornings,” and then, “But I become stingy with time before coffee.” That admission — the “but” — makes the voice recognisably human. In a brief form, contradiction replaces exhaustive nuance; it signals complexity without requiring two pages of justification.
Use pacing to make room for a pause
Short pieces benefit from small pauses: a sentence fragment, a one-line paragraph, a brief image. These are like inhalations. They give the reader a moment to feel what you’re feeling without you having to explain it. Think of the space as the reader’s participation.
Be specific about sensory details
Names of ordinary objects — a chipped electric kettle, a supermarket-brand cereal, the particular tack of humidity on a train window — anchor a short piece. They’re economical; a single concrete detail can imply a hundred words of backstory. I rarely avoid brand names if they help: saying “a battered Bodum mug” triggers a different aftertaste than “a mug.”
Resist the tidy moral
Short reflections gain honesty by refusing to tie everything up. Instead of a neat moral, offer an observation or a small question that lingers. Let the last line be an image, an uneasy admission, or a tiny, surprising metaphor. It should feel like the end of a conversation rather than a lecture hall dismissal.
Practice with constraints
Set a deliberate limit: 300 words, 450 words, “no sentence longer than 20 words.” Constraints sharpen choices. I often write to the counter on my phone and stop when it hits 500 words; the pressure forces prioritisation. If you publish on a blog like W Oswald Co or in a newsletter, readers will often thank you for the brevity.
Finally, read short pieces that sting. Joan Didion’s compact essays, the brief meditations of Anne Carson, or a well-cut column in The New Yorker can model what a tight, truthful voice sounds like. Then write badly for a bit, because most drafts will be indulgent. The honesty comes in the cutting.
