Mark Twain once apologized for writing a long letter...
Not because it was rude. Not because it was inauthentic.
But because he didn’t have the time to make it shorter.
And that idea has been on my mind this week.
Because it dismantles one of the most seductive lies in the creative world:
That “more” means “deeper”...
We’re conditioned to believe that length equals seriousness.
That complexity equals intelligence.
That if something is hard to follow, it must be saying something important.
So we pile on words.
We stack audio tracks.
We add layers, textures, strokes until the canvas feels heavy enough to justify its existence.
But Mark Twain understood that clarity was actually more difficult than cleverness.
And a long letter wasn’t profound.
It was unfinished.
And this ideas isn't just about making better art.
It's about living better lives.
Because we do the same thing with our days that we do with our drafts.
We say yes to everything.
We pack our calendars like we're afraid of down time.
We collect commitments, relationships, projects, identities thinking that more means we matter more.
But your life, like a letter, can be too long.
Not in years. In noise.
The question isn't "What else can I add?"
It's "What can I remove that isn't me?"
Think about it…
Why didn’t Mark Twain just write a short letter to begin with?
To me, the uncomfortable truth he was pointing at is that simplicity is not the absence of depth.
It’s the result of depth.
A rite of passage.
He had to create a long letter to create a shorter one.
The masters don’t start simple.
They arrive there.
They spend years learning the full complexity of their craft.
Every rule. Every exception. Every hidden lever.
And only after mastering the chaos do they begin removing things.
Not because the extra pieces are bad.
But because they’re in the way.
This is why great art hits you before you can explain it.
It doesn’t argue with your intellect.
It doesn’t ask for permission.
It just lands in your soul.
And that only happens when the signal is clean.
Every unnecessary word weakens it.
Every extra chord scrambles it.
Every decorative idea that doesn’t serve the core introduces noise.
This is why the most enduring creations feel inevitable.
As if nothing could be added.
And nothing could be taken away.
So, I have a challenge for you...one I practice a lot across multiple disciplines.
Take one of your most recent finished pieces.
One you really care about.
Find the part you’re most emotionally attached to.
The line you love. The moment you’re proud of. The detail you defend.
And ask one brutal question:
Does this serve the core, or do I just love it?
Be honest with yourself.
And if you realize the core survives without it…
Remove it.
This is the moment when I usually hesitate.
Because subtraction feels like loss.
But it’s not.
It’s refinement.
It’s the difference between expression and communication.
Between showing what you can do and saying what you mean.
Mark Twain didn’t write shorter letters because he lacked words.
He wrote shorter letters because he respected the truth enough to remove everything that wasn’t it.
What remains after subtraction is not emptiness.
It’s essence.
Stay creative,
