Why Writing 250 Words Can Be Harder Than Writing 100,000

You might think that after spending the last 10 years trying to wrangle 100k+ words into working novel manuscripts, sitting down to write 250 words for a children’s book would be a breeze.

That would be nice.

I’m a writer who loves to ‘form-hop’. Having multiple projects on the go is my favourite antidote to writer’s block. And as I move between novels, plays and children’s books, I’m fascinated by how differently each one asks me to think.

A novel is enormous. Even my structure spreadsheets have significant word counts of their own. There are tens of thousands of words to hold together, characters to track, information to reveal, worlds to build, pacing, subplots, timelines — and about one million opportunities to create a plot hole you then have to solve 200 pages later.

The words also have to carry far more of the world-building.

In a play, a huge amount of the story is told by the stage picture. Before anyone even speaks, the set tells us something about the world. When an actor walks onstage, we can see their age, physicality, the way they move, the energy they bring with them.

As a playwright, I’ve had to learn to leave room for that. To resist stuffing the dialogue with information the audience can already see, and to remember that a play is collaborative. If I define every visual detail from the outset, I’m starting to do the job of the director, designer or casting director too.

A novel gives me no actor or set to lean on. If a detail matters, I have to find a way to put it on the page.

And then we come to picture books.

A grand total of around 250 words.

Sounds easy, right?

Except now there are so few words that I can spend a slightly ridiculous amount of time arguing with myself about one of them.

Does it need to be there?

Is there a better one?

Is it doing something the illustration is already doing?

Will it still sound good when somebody has to read it aloud for the 48th consecutive night?

Suddenly, 250 words can feel rather unforgiving.

There is no room to waffle. Which, honestly, as someone who once submitted a manuscript at 113k with at least another 50k in the bin, is possibly good for me.

In some of our books, we also have rhyme to contend with.

Rhyme is wonderful when it works. Kids can start anticipating the words, joining in, remembering what comes next. It gives a book rhythm and playfulness, and there is something incredibly satisfying about a line that lands exactly where you want it to.

The danger is finding a rhyme you’re enormously pleased with and becoming emotionally attached to it.

You drop a full stop on the end of a sentence and think: Oh, that’s good.

Then you realise the sentence only exists because you needed something to rhyme with bear.

Now the character is going somewhere they have absolutely no business going, purely because apparently the bear sits in a chair.

Sad, mad, glad, anyone?

This is generally a sign something has gone wrong.

The rhyme has become the boss.

So Brandon and I have experimented.

Some LB Library books rhyme. Some don’t. We’ve played with different rhythms and structures, and we haven’t locked ourselves into one particular “LB Library sound”.

I like that it’s evolving.

Your Forever uses heartfelt rhyme and more sophisticated vocabulary. Let Me Help! rhymes too, but with a different pattern, shorter words and a cheekier style.

With the two new books, we mixed it up again. Out of the Nest is our first non-rhyming book; we played with rhythm and repetition and let the illustrations carry more of the story. A Tail of Love returns to rhyme, but in its own voice.

I don’t want us to impose a style on a story simply because it worked for the last one.

That’s probably the biggest thing moving between forms keeps teaching me: the form changes what the words have to do.

In a novel, the words build almost the whole world.

In a play, they share that job with actors, designers and the physical space.

In a picture book, they share it with the illustrations — but with so few of them, each one is under a fairly brutal little spotlight.

Writing fewer words doesn’t necessarily mean less work.

Sometimes it just means more scrutiny on every word you choose.

Which is how I can apparently spend half an afternoon thinking about one word in a 250-word book.

Very efficient.