“Exactly 180 words?”

“That’s how it’s done,” said the editor of 30-Second Read.

“But 180 words is editorial tyranny. It’s a walking shadow on my rampart of creativity.”

“Yes, I’m sure it knocks you up at night,” he said. “Still, by tomorrow.”

Suddenly, whether you’re in fire, lightning or in rain, the value of each word skyrockets.

Your eyes flicker down to the word counter every few keystrokes. Each favorite turn of phrase is ripe for plucking. Dusty death comes quickly to discards.

You glare at 289 words still on your screen.

You juggle thoughts like daggers. You usurp a meander here, squeeze two thoughts into one, shred cliches there. Out, out, I say.

Now 247 words. Still so much, yet so little.

This 180-word harness on your back drools of deadline. You screw your courage to the sticking point and, with sound and fury, rip out the minor themes – all your little ones, yes, all.

And finally – came wind and wrack – you reach 180 words.

Words may draw blood, yet signify nothing. To the last syllable.

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‘Macbeth,’ the real one, in just 8 minutes