I'm Feelin' Ya. I Really Am.

When Pink sings, “Plee-ee-ease don’t leave me,” hearts across America shed a tear. Or two.

Are people crying because they’re feeling sorry for a millionaire with a bad dye job? Are they sad because Pink, well, you know, lucky in song, unlucky in love?

Not so much.

The lyricists behind Please Don’t Leave Me, Pink and Max Martin, have a secret. And that secret is fairly simple. And here it is:
The words don’t need to be syrupy. They don’t need to be a slap in the face. The thoughts don’t need to be so deep that you’re thinking, “What the heck is she talking about?”

Good lyricists know this. As human beings, our experiences are like strands of thread, each one hanging in a row, right next to each other. When writing, you don’t have to yank on those strands. You don’t have to slap them or set them on fire.

Just a gentle touch will do. A soft breeze is all you need to stir those feelings.

Each strand is an emotion, an experience we already have inside us. When Pink sings, “Please don’t leave me,” there are a whole lot of people tearing up because they remember when someone left them. They’re not crying for Pink.

The emotions being tapped are already there. There’s no need to over-write.

The gentle touch is the mark of the real writer. Quentin Tarantino’s screenplays will never last through the ages. He needs to show you the gunshot wound to the head to make you feel it. Tarantino wants you to look at the eyeball rolling on the floor and then hear the squish as it gets stepped on.

In contrast, Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho only needs a shadow to suggest that someone got stabbed by a madman, and all of the sudden, you’re afraid to take a shower when you’re home alone.

When you’re writing a letter or a birthday card or a eulogy, people already know how to feel. Don’t give them a shove when a gentle nudge will do.

Do you have a favorite example of over-writing? Can you point to someone who’s got the gentle touch, the hand of a master? Do tell.