As both a newspaper journalist and mystery novelist, I fight to write tight. I endeavor to reach a conclusion without using too many words to get there. I prefer lean, muscular prose to corpulent bloviation. 

Compared to some authors, though, I’m a profligate who squanders words the way a drunken sailor spends money.

Consider, for example, Theodor Geisel. Better known as Dr. Seuss, Geisel wrote and illustrated some 60 children’s books that sold a total of more than 600 million copies. More impressive, he did so with few tools at his disposal.

Challenged to write a compelling book using a short list of words deemed important for first-graders to recognize, Dr. Seuss produced “The Cat in the Hat.” He used only 236 different words. He was just warming up.

Bennett Cerf, co-founder of the Random House publishing firm, bet Dr. Seuss $50 he couldn’t write an entertaining children’s book using just 50 distinct words. The result was “Green Eggs and Ham.” Cerf never paid up, but the book sold more than 200 million copies.

I’m envious of those kinds of numbers, small and big. I share one thing in common with Dr. Seuss, though: I realize the benefits of limits. 

Newspaper journalists have only so many column inches on pages for their stories. Novelists enjoy more room to write, but also face limits that vary with genre. Novelists who use 150,000 words to build brave new worlds in science fiction might have to make do with half that for even the steamiest romances. Newspaper websites and electronic books afford additional space. But other limits remain, among them the time of readers. 

Less really can be more, however. Journalists present the most important information first. Novelists tell succinct stories. It’s a refining process — one beginning with a large quantity of raw material, but ending with a smaller amount of something pure and valuable.

No one will ever match Dr. Seuss for his ability to turn a few words and poetic meter into such endearing tales. Least of all me. I could not write it in a box. I could not write it with a fox.

But I’ll continue my fight to write it tight.

Nearly everyone has been asked that question — usually starting in elementary school, if not sooner. Nearly everyone asks that question of themselves — sometimes regardless of age or the stage of their careers. Although there are probably exceptions, I suspect the answers almost always change.

As a kid who grew up in the midst of the space race in the 1960s, I wanted to become an astronaut. Who didn’t? Subsequently inspired by what I read about Isaac Newton and Marie Curie, I wanted to become a scientist and make important discoveries. Those of a certain age will remember the chemistry sets that used to come in metal boxes. I got one for Christmas. And a microscope, too.

Then I discovered something completely different. I took a part-time job in high school covering sports for my hometown newspaper and found out how much I enjoyed writing and reporting. I pursued computer science in college, but switched to journalism at the beginning of my sophomore year and fared considerably better — academically, thank goodness, but also personally.

Although I’m now past 60 years old, my vocational aspirations remain pliable. Every bit as pliable, I suppose, as my definition of what constitutes growing up. I’m still in love with journalism. But I still wonder what I’m going to be when I grow up. 

Fighter pilot is probably no more a realistic goal at this point than lion tamer. Mountain climber sounds exciting, but also dangerous and, even more daunting, like a whole bunch of work. Still other possibilities come to mind. Maybe dive master? Leading scuba diving excursions through warm and clear water to tropical coral reefs seems like an enjoyable way to spend the workday.

If nothing else, I remain determined to change at least one of my job titles — from aspiring novelist to published novelist.

What do you want to be when you grow up?