Every Word Pregnant—All Killer, No Filler

"Every word pregnant."

A pastor said this years ago, describing the art of concise preaching. Last week, a marketing consultant said it differently: "All killer, no filler."

Same truth, different pulpit.

I used to get paid by the word. The temptation to unnecessarily extend each sentence for financial gain was real. But here's what I‘ve learned: Most books are only killer for about a third of their content. After that? Filler.

Some of the masters know (or knew) better.

Hemingway: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."

Didion: "Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it."

Pressfield: "Resistance is always lying and always full of S&%$."

Tozer: "What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us."

Each word carries weight. Each sentence lands pregnant with meaning.

Yet I remember a pastor who preached long—really long—on single subjects. He'd hammer the same point twenty different ways until it finally broke through your defenses and lodged in your soul. Dickens, paid by the word, gave us David Copperfield—massive, meandering, and wonderful.

So which is it? Surgical precision or generous abundance?

Here's what I know: Intent matters. Dickens wasn't filling space; he was building worlds. That long-winded pastor wasn't rambling; he was ensuring transformation. But most of us? We're just afraid of the period.

Make every word count. Even if you use many.

What's your approach—minimalist or maximalist? Tell me concisely in the comments.

Jeff B. Miller

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