Cut deadwood from a draft for concision, choose diction appropriate to audience and purpose, and identify markers of an emerging personal writing voice.
Wordiness is rarely a vocabulary problem; it is a courage problem. Phrases like "due to the fact that" (because), "in the event that" (if), and "at this point in time" (now) pad a sentence without adding meaning, and cutting them is usually painless once you notice they are there. So is passive voice used out of habit rather than purpose: "The essay was written by the student" buries the actor; "The student wrote the essay" restores it. Concision is not about writing short sentences -- it is about making sure every word is doing real work.
Diction is word choice calibrated to audience and purpose: the same idea can be expressed formally, conversationally, or technically, and a strong writer chooses on purpose rather than by accident. Voice is what remains distinctive once diction and syntax choices repeat across a body of work -- the specific, recognizable presence of a writer on the page. You do not invent a voice by trying to sound impressive; you develop one by writing enough true sentences, in your own diction, that a pattern of judgment and rhythm becomes visible. The essays ahead this year, especially the personal essay, depend on this being genuine rather than performed.
Mastery looks like: They can cut wordy, padded phrasing and unnecessary passive voice from a draft, and can explain what makes their own emerging voice distinctive.
Common stumbles: Confusing concision with simply writing shorter sentences rather than cutting genuinely empty words; equating a more "advanced-sounding" vocabulary with a stronger voice.
See it visually
Interactive, spoken-aloud tools that show this idea in motion.