Like most writers, I have an eccentric resume.
Upon hearing about yet another unexpected day job, people’s eyes widen.
“You did what now?”
For example, a little over ten years ago, I accepted a position as editor of an auction house catalogue. With my art history degree, this is logical. However, this house sold classic cars. Screamingly expensive and rare ones.

Far from being a car expert, I spent a solid chunk of my childhood listening to my father and brother blabbing about them. My brother went on to co-host a television series on the topic, so I wasn’t going in cold.
I stepped in to manage a team of writers who churned out car descriptions to a specified word count. These articles had to be enticing, accurate, and concise. More often than not, the team wheedled me to let them have extra space for information they believed a potential buyer simply couldn’t live without.
When one year a catalogue bloated to doorstop thickness, the design department came to my rescue. A new layout allowed only about half the words per car, and I was in charge of cuts.
Given that classic car experts are on the extreme end of old dogs uninterested in new tricks, I spent the following months pruning texts without sacrificing meaning.
While it’s unlikely I’ll ever end up with a vintage Ferrari1, I am forever grateful to this job for helping me learn how to prune prose. The resulting text was always sharper and more convincing.
Here are the guidelines I created to get there: