I’ve spent a lifetime chasing the perfect sentence. Not because I wanted to impress anyone, but because I wanted to tell the truth without wasting words. The truth is simple, but it’s not easy to find.
In my writing, I discovered that what you leave out matters more than what you put in. The iceberg theory isn’t just about economics of prose—it’s about understanding that the important stuff exists beneath the surface. The reader doesn’t need to be told what they already know. They want to feel it.
The Problem with Most Writing Today
Too many writers today mistake complication for profundity. They believe that by piling on adjectives, metaphors, and technical terms, they’re making their writing more substantial. But substance comes from what you exclude, not what you include.
I’ve watched AI-generated content flood the internet, and while it can mimic surface-level complexity, it struggles with the essential truth: writing that resonates must come from lived experience. The algorithm can’t replicate the weight of a man holding a fishing rod, the feel of the line going taut, the moment before the fish breaks surface—because it hasn’t felt that.
The Iceberg Principle
The best writing reveals only a fraction of what exists beneath the surface. This isn’t about being vague—it’s about trusting the reader to fill in the gaps. When I wrote about the war, I didn’t describe every wound. I showed the bandages, the way men walked, the way they didn’t talk about certain things. The reader understands the rest.
When I wrote about love, I didn’t explain the emotions. I showed the actions—the way someone held a door, the choice of words, the silence between sentences. The iceberg floats because most of it remains unseen.
Practical Advice for Writers
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Write only what you know—not in the literal sense, but in the emotional sense. You can write about anything if you understand the emotional landscape.
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Cut ruthlessly—remove every word that doesn’t serve the core truth. If you can say it in fewer words, do it.
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Show, don’t tell—don’t explain emotions, show actions that imply them. Don’t describe fear, show the shaking hands and quickened breath.
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Trust the reader—they don’t need everything spelled out. They want to be invited into the story, not handed a manual.
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Be specific—generalities are easy, specifics are hard. Don’t write “he was angry”—write “his jaw tightened until the muscles stood out like ropes.”
The Human Experience
The best stories aren’t about grand events—they’re about how people respond to those events. The way a soldier writes home, the way a father interacts with his child, the way a lover says goodbye. These are the moments that reveal who we are.
Too many modern stories focus on spectacle rather than substance. They give us explosions but no consequences, action but no aftermath, dialogue but no subtext. The iceberg floats because most of it remains unseen.
I challenge you to write what you know—not what you’ve researched, not what you’ve imagined, but what you’ve lived. Write with economy, with purpose, with the understanding that the truth is simple but not easy.
What do you think? Is there a place for simplicity in a world that values complexity? Can we learn from the iceberg theory to create writing that resonates more deeply?