In the world of writing, temptation lurks around every corner. Misplaced commas, incorrect homonyms, typos, and missing antecedents litter the sidewalks of our writing, waiting to trip us up and ensnare our prose. And from poorly lit alleys comes the seductive whisper of our own egos. In the adrenaline rush of finishing a first draft, our egos rejoice. “I did it! I’m a writer! I actually wrote something!” But when we sit down to edit, our ego turns into a Gollum-like voice, sniveling, “I wrote it that way because that’s the right way to write it! Leave it alone!”

We struggle to edit out inflated pride because most sentences don’t leap off the page as self-serving. But once you know what to look for, ego can be beaten like any other writing foible. Let’s explore nine warning signs of ego-driven writing.

1. Vocabulary words

As a word nerd, I’ll admit I’m often guilty of this crime. What a perfect new word! I just have to use it! If you skimmed through my writing in the last five years, you would find words like moribund, petrichor, ineffable, and if I could have worked defenestration in there, you can bet I would have. While exciting to write, pompous words muddle meaning. If you didn’t know what puissant meant until three minutes ago, chances are your reader didn’t either. Sometimes you need a more advanced technical term (obelisk and mitochondria have no viable alternatives), but take these words as the exception rather than the norm.

2. Sentences that only make you feel clever

That brilliant phrase you coined in the shower has to fit somewhere, right? Because “Indeed, Prospero’s metaphysical ruminations prefigure the complex and revolutionary work of theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking” just sounds so smart. Sure, you’re writing about hygienic habits in the time of Shakespeare, but you can squeeze it in, right? Wrong. The “perfect” turns of phrase you bludgeon into the text draw attention to themselves rather than your argument. If the clever phrase arises organically from the context, great; if not, cut it.

3. Detailed explanations and judgments

Trust your readers ability to decipher character motives and intuit emotion from action. They do it every day. Why write, “Jamal slammed the cupboard door because he was angry; in fact he was in such a rage over their phone conversation that he stomped about the kitchen as he made his tea, slamming his mug on the counter because his sister had made him so mad,” when you could write, “Jamal hung up the phone and slammed the cupboard door”?

Similarly, resist the urge to defend points tangential to your argument. A treatise on the scriptural motif of blood sacrifice probably needs to explore the theology of atonement in Hebrews 9–10. But fascinating topics like the authorial dilemma of Hebrews, the Hebrews hall of fame, or the scriptural motif of pomegranates will only distract from your main theme. Explain salient points and leave the rabbit trails for footnotes or a later work.

4. Sentences or subplots only you like

Sometimes brilliant ideas just don’t land with your audience. Do your beta readers keep asking, “But why did he have to burn the painting? Why would he say that? What does this sentence mean?” Try to pin down what isn’t working for your readers. Do the sentences deviate from the tone of the work? Is the plot point arbitrary or driven by motivations that need better fleshing out? Does some aspect of the plot violate their understanding of reality? Story arises from dialogue between the author and the reader. Even nonfiction works as a communication partnership. Is that anecdote from your childhood interesting only to you? Sometimes, for the sake of your message, you have to cater to what works for your audience.

5. “But it’s such a fun scene”

Even fun has to earn its place in writing. Make it do something. Humorous anecdotes to introduce chapters should emphasize the chapter’s theme. Uncle Harry’s disastrous episode with the potato launcher works well as a segue to discussing hubris or absurd family dynamics, but it falls flat introducing more loosely connected subjects like the history of the potato.

In narrative work, jokes that don’t develop character are better saved for a comedy routine, and hilarious scenes that do nothing for the plot are merely self-serving. Even witty banter and dramatic irony must earn its keep as character-building or story-driving.

6. Those long, eloquent descriptions

Yes, you waxed eloquent, and yes, I skimmed it. Lengthy metaphors and poetic dives into the minutiae of Wilhelm Fitzpatrick’s inner turmoil cause readers’ eyes to glaze over. Beautiful prose that doesn’t advance the story or meaning hits the chopping block.

Reedsy, a helpful writing blog, offers an excellent example of what it calls “purple prose”: “The mahogany-haired adolescent girl glanced fleetingly at her rugged paramour, a crystalline sparkle in her eyes as she gazed happily upon his countenance. It was filled with an expression as enigmatic as shadows in the night.” This profusion of words bogs the reader down without contributing to meaning.

7. That anachronism you really like

Few things make me put a book down faster than blatant anachronisms. George Washington didn’t call his wife sexy, modern people don’t spout Shakespeare on the regular, and your academic treatise won’t benefit from allusions to Twilight (unless it’s about modern vampirism, in which case I’ll give you a pass.) Most anachronisms stem from laziness or a shallow commitment to truthful storytelling. Sure, you think, George Washington wouldn’t have said “sexy,” but I don’t know any period-appropriate synonyms, and how do you even look that up? I’ll just have him coin the term. Don’t do it. Your readers trust you to write truthfully, and their good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.

Other anachronisms are more subtle but still malignant. Describing Much Ado about Nothing’s Beatrice as a “powerful, feminist character” tells me how the character appears in a modern context but overlooks her impact on readers in the span of history before feminist movements. Imposing a modern vocabulary on historic ideas may provide a shortcut to communication, but it undermines a more complex and complete understanding. Neither sexy Martha Washington nor feminist Beatrice give me true insight into their characters. Strangle your urge to equate other time periods with your own.

8. That pop song you feel hip for quoting

Including a verse from your favorite Jimmy Buffett song may seem fun, funky, or relatable, but guess what? It’s also illegal. Fair use laws are notoriously sticky, but they generally revolve around what percentage of the work you quote, which means you might get away with a paragraph from War and Peace, but songs, poems, and short stories can get you into deep trouble.

For a more detailed look at how to work around this problem or obtain permissions, check out technical writer John Iovine’s guide.

9. Irrelevant details

This subset of purple prose tempts us with unneeded specificity. Those of you blessed with strong visual imaginations may find escaping this trap especially difficult. You can see the exact hues and movement of the sunrise, each kind of tree the light hits, and the precise direction the wind blows. Strong writing uses sensory details, but an overabundance of scene details create information hurdles for your reader. Every additional descriptor interrupts the story as readers readjust their mental picture. If the color of the wallpaper doesn’t affect the story, don’t tell us about it. Our mental picture doesn’t have to be exactly like yours.

Just Say No

The ego bogeyman has only as much power as we choose to give him. And I’ll be honest: he’s resilient. I won’t tell you how much ego I’ve had to edit out of my writing, even in this article. But in the face of truthful writing, he doesn’t stand a chance. Next time your ego comes lurking down the sidewalk with a trench coat full of temptation, send him packing.