The scarcity of unity extends to the train concourses, which function as individual microcosms — each

complete with eccentric fonts. Amtrak’s hall has high ceilings, but its waiting area is cramped as if
passengers were the last priority. New Jersey Transit’s concourse, despite a garish color scheme, is the
only tolerable space — in rush hour’s absence. And the Long Island Rail Road’s cross-station artery —
clogged with a mishmash of stores and eateries — is suffering the architectural equivalent of a heart
attack. If train services were amalgamated in old Penn Station’s fashion, this state of disarray would’ve
been instantly eliminated.

Here, I continued to build on the train station’s lack of cohesion, writing about its “scarcity of unity.” This
portion, I recall, was challenging because there was so much to say: Panning Penn Station was simple
(and fun!), but I got carried away. The first draft of this paragraph was double the length of its final
iteration. In deciding what to edit out, I remembered to hone in on the attributes that were most
relevant to the commuters, locals and tourists I mentioned in the beginning. So I focused on the three
concourses instead of the perplexing layout of stores. The purpose was to concentrate on the bigger
picture, not the smaller features.

This paragraph contains one of my favorite lines in the review: “And the Long Island Rail Road’s cross-
station artery — clogged with a mishmash of stores and eateries — is suffering the architectural
equivalent of a heart attack.” Personification is an excellent tool that can animate the inanimate, and
close the distance between readers and abstract ideas. I wanted to relay that Penn Station, not unlike an
actual person, was suffering from a host of symptoms. So, when presenting the congested Long Island
Rail Road concourse, I portrayed it as a body whose “arter[ies]” were “clogged,” thus precipitating its
overload — a “heart attack.”