Words Fail Me Read online

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  Adjectives (tear-stained, shimmering)and adverbs (palely) are meant to make writing colorful and lively. But too many of them can have the opposite effect. Every time you use a modifier, ask yourself whether you need it: Are you telling your readers more? Do they need to know it? Does it do what Hawaiian did for family or what sullenly did for rose? Try getting by without the modifier, and if it's not missed, lose it.

  Vivid writing doesn't have to be propped up by a lot of modifiers. This sentence from The Witchfinder, a mystery by Loren D. Estleman, has almost no modifiers, but it still gives me goose bumps: "In a little while the streetlights would blink on and then the headlamps, a set at a time like bats awakening, and the city would turn itself darkside out like a reversible jacket, shaking out the creatures that breathed and bred in its folds." Think of all the adjectives and adverbs Estleman might have used and wisely didn't.

  Statesmen aren't known for rhetorical austerity, but Abraham Lincoln passed up many chances to use modifiers when he wrote the opening of the Gettysburg Address: "Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal."

  Of course, he was in a hurry, writing in a train and all, Or so we're told. A writer with more time on his hands might have put it this way: "Fourscore and seven fateful years ago our doughty fathers gamely brought forth on this bonny continent a spunky new nation stoutly conceived in steadfast liberty and pluckily dedicated to the bracing proposition that all men are created utterly equal in perpetuity."

  Which version do you like?

  The Repeat Offender

  Some of us are programmed to dole out modifiers in twos, others in threes, producing prose that has a monotonous regularity. If we're wired for twos, each adjective or adverb is sure to be followed by another. If we're programmed for threes, each modifier is robotically followed by two more.

  The result is assembly-line writing: Lucy's swollen, red cheeks threatened to burst as she stood at the swift, relentless conveyor belt and wildly, desperately stuffed more and more chocolates into her mouth.

  Now let's crank it up a notch: Lucy's swollen, red, aching cheeks threatened to burst as she stood at the swift, relentless, heartless conveyor belt and wildly, desperately, futilely stuffed more and more and more chocolates into her mouth.

  If you consistently use modifiers in irritating, monotonous, and singsong patterns, break the habit promptly, decisively, and completely.

  Rhyme without Reason

  Speaking of singsong patterns, here's another—the echo effect. That's what you get when you use a modifier that jingles or rhymes. Think of combinations like prudent student, delightfully frightful, better sweater, stunningly cunning, ruthlessly truthful, mottled bottle—don't stop me, I'm on a roll—abysmally dismal, feral ferret, cruelly grueling, bizarre bazaar, fearful earful, terse nurse.

  Rhyming modifiers come in two varieties: premeditated and unpremeditated. You can easily avoid unpremeditated ones by going over your writing, mentally listening for unintended sound effects. As for the premeditated ones, they aren't necessarily bad. A writer might use an echo effect because it's pleasing (nicely spiced), humorous (doubly bubbly), or unavoidable (prime time). Jingles and rhymes are also used for emphasis or for catchiness in names and titles (Weed Eater, Roto-Rooter, Famous Amos). Unfortunately, some combinations that may have been just right the first few times around have grown tattered around the edges: dream team, true blue, gender bender, white knight, low blow, deep sleep, brain drain, hell's bells.

  Are your ears ringing yet?

  The lesson is listen. Think about how your modifiers sound alongside the words they modify. If you don't want to call attention to them, don't make them rhyme or jingle. If you do want to attract attention, be certain it's the right kind. You wouldn't want to use the lighthearted term legal eagle, for instance, in a solemn eulogy for a dignified lawyer. Ask yourself: Is this the effect I want? And remember that jingling references to people may have derogatory overtones: fat cat, plain Jane, shock jock, wise guys, rude dude, wheeler dealer, boy toy. Those are just the clean ones.

  Be sure there's a reason for your rhymes. You'll turn out more inviting writing.

  No Assembly Required

  One of the big stories of the 1970's, when I was a copy editor for the Des Moines Register, was the energy crisis. If people weren't at home fiddling with their thermostats, they were waiting in long lines at the gas station. (Luckily, I drove a Beetle.) Everyone seemed to be talking about OPEC and the geography of the Middle East, home of oil-rich Kuwait. No, not Kuwait—oil-rich Kuwait. The name "Kuwait" never appeared alone.

  Oil-rich Kuwait introduced me to a literary phenomenon: the prefabricated phrase that appears on cue, saving writers the trouble of coming up with fresh modifiers. These preassembled packages, as I soon learned, are almost everywhere. In a prefab weather report, for example, plain old hail never falls from the sky, only golf-ball-size (sometimes baseball-size) hail.

  You've probably read articles that sound like this: Hastily summoned, the world leaders seriously considered the broad initiatives and issued a measured response that promised sweeping change to deal with the overwhelming odds that threatened their inextricably linked economies.

  When descriptive writing is prefabricated, the reader is never surprised. A question is searching, a grip is viselike, a bungalow is modest, clouds are threatening, a source is reliable, a transfusion is life-giving, an escape is narrow, a hopeful is either young or presidential, reactions are knee-jerk, and that famous knoll is always grassy. Still, if you insist on using a prefab expression, at least get it right. I recently saw a real estate ad declaring that a house was "one of its kind." Yes, I'm sure it was.

  Modifiers should be fresh, alive, interesting, not predictable. So if a descriptive phrase springs to mind, preassembled and ready to use, put it back in the box.

  Sort of Disposable

  Adjectives and adverbs are supposed to add flavor to your writing, but puny, useless ones only water it down. We toss around these disposable modifiers without really thinking. Come to think of it, really is a good example.

  It's easy to find throwaways in your writing—just use the Search function in your word processor and look for very, a little, a bit, pretty, somewhat, sort of, kind of, really, rather, and actually. If a word does nothing but take up space, it's disposable. So dispose of it.

  Very, in particular, can become a meaningless tic. Imagine a speech before the Chamber of Commerce: I'm very proud, and very honored, to accept this very distinguished award on behalf of Mr. Dithers, who is very sorry that he could not be here on this very special night.

  A latecomer, overly, has started showing up in negative sentences. These days, we aren't overly surprised to read sentences like this: Ariadne's dissertation is not overly original.

  I'm not saying that these words are all bad all the time. If what you're after is an informal, chatty tone, perhaps in first-person fiction or a breezy office memo, then very, a bit, somewhat, and the rest of the crew might be appropriate. And if you're legitimately using them to make a point, go right ahead. How late is Ariadne's dissertation? It's very late.

  When they're overused, though, such words as very are no longer modifiers. They're mere filler, really. (Or do I mean actually?)

  Misplaced Affections

  No matter how we love them, modifiers aren't much good if they're in the wrong place. A word or a phrase may be colorful, even essential, but it can't properly describe something if it's attached to something else.

  Here's the kind of unsuitable attachment I mean: At sixty, those tight swim trunks still make Burt look like a hunk. The descriptive phrase at sixty is supposed to describe Burt, but it's attached to those tight swim trunks. Unless the trunks are sixty years old, the modifier is in the wrong place. Put it closer to Burt: At sixty, Burt still looks like a hunk in those tight swim trunks. (Okay, Burt, you can breathe now.)
r />   That one was easy. You could have guessed that Burt was sixty, not the swim trunks. But some sentences with badly placed modifiers are harder to figure out: Tina surprised Harry wearing her new pumps.

  Who was in the pumps, Tina or Harry? Hey, you never know. Since two people are mentioned before the modifying phrase, wearing her new pumps, the reader has to guess who's being described. One possibility: Wearing her new pumps, Tina surprised Harry. Another: Tina surprised Harry as he was wearing her new pumps.

  Most of the time, poorly placed modifiers are harmless. The writer may look silly, but the reader knows what's meant. Only a mind reader could figure this one out: Paul didn't see Vincent well.

  Try this: Vincent wasn't well when Paul saw him. Or: Paul didn't see well when he met Vincent. For the second meaning, I'd prefer Paul didn't see Vincent clearly.

  Serial Crimes

  Imagine you're a food consultant who's been asked to revive a failing restaurant's bill of fare. Your initial proposal might read: I recommend a radically new menu featuring pumpkin ravioli, fettuccine, and linguine.

  Now read the sentence again, and keep your eye on the pumpkin. Since it comes at the head of the list, it could refer to all the pasta in the series, not just the ravioli. How fond of pumpkin are you? Do you really want to serve pumpkin ravioli, pumpkin fettuccine, and pumpkin linguine? If so, lots of luck. But if there's supposed to be only one pumpkin dish on the menu, this is a ridiculously easy problem to solve. When an adjective garnishes only one item in a list, put that item last: I recommend a radically new menu featuring fettuccine, linguine, and pumpkin ravioli.

  The same problem can crop up with an adverb in a series. You might write this in a brochure for a health spa: Our clients vigorously exercise, diet, and meditate. Or: Our clients diet, meditate, and exercise vigorously. Oh, really? In each case, the modifier, vigorously, seems to cover the whole list. Unless these dynamos believe in doing everything vigorously, even meditating, make it: Our clients diet, meditate, and vigorously exercise.

  Putting the modified item last is usually the best solution. With a list of verbs, though, that's not always possible. Back at the fat farm, suppose you're describing a normal day's routine and you'd like to keep things chronological: After lunch, clients lightly nap, lift weights, and shower.

  Huh? Your patrons probably don't lift weights lightly or shower lightly. But you'd like your list of activities to stay in the same order. In that case, move the adverb (lightly) to follow the verb it belongs with (nap): After lunch, clients nap lightly, lift weights, and shower. There's no way a reader would misunderstand that sentence, even skimming lightly.

  A phrase that's placed inappropriately in a series can contaminate all the items that follow. Here's a sentence you might find on a Web page for gardeners: Fungicides are useless against bacteria that infect plants, viruses, and insects.

  Exactly how helpless are these fungicides? Are they useless only against bacteria—the kinds that infect plants and viruses and insects? Or are they useless against three different plagues: bacteria, viruses, and insects? If we assume the writer means all three plagues, the solution, again, is to move the confusing phrase, that infect plants, to the end of the sentence: Fungicides are useless against viruses, insects, and bacteria that infect plants.

  Superfluous Redundancies

  For some writers, once is not enough. They don't beat a dead horse; they beat a totally dead horse. They use modifiers that say the same thing as the words they modify. For them, every fact is a true fact. They don't expedite; they speedily expedite. They don't smell a stench; they smell a malodorous stench. In other words, they're redundant. Or as they might put it, superfluously redundant.

  You might receive a business memo like this from one of these writers:

  My final conclusion is that preliminary planning and exploratory research by qualified experts have assuredly guaranteed the successful triumph of our latest new product. Now that it's completely finished, and the initial debut is imminently approaching, I'm happily elated to report that any perplexing problems have been definitively resolved. Our only competitor of major significance is rigidly inflexible and indifferently oblivious of market demand. It's not an unexpected surprise that consumers are responding to our campaign drive with positive affirmation. I suggest that we not only doggedly persist in our prearranged strategy but also widely expand it by offering free gifts. Don't you feel like that totally dead horse by now?

  When Words Collide

  Back in junior high, my friends and I used to trade Tom Swift jokes. The pattern was always the same: a remark by the fictional Tom Swift, followed by the punch line—an adverb. One in particular had me rolling on the floor: "That's the last time I'll put my arm in a lion's mouth," said Tom offhandedly. (I was easily amused in those days.)

  Tom Swifties were funny because their modifiers could be read two ways, one of them apparently unintentional. The more outrageous they were, the funnier. But if you don't intend to be funny, beware of descriptive words or phrases that could seem ridiculous if taken literally. Readers will do a double-take if you describe a painting as priceless and then give the price it sold for at auction. Likewise, don't say that an invoice is generally specific, or that a stock fund has gradually skyrocketed, or that a squabbling committee is wholly divided. Unless you're making a play on words (Canapès lead a hand-to-mouth existence), be on the lookout for collisions like these:

  You may leave the table, Dennis, when your plate is fully empty.

  Fashion models are largely size four.

  Dad clearly misunderstood.

  Kirstie finds acupuncture intensely relaxing.

  The gnat is vastly minuscule and its brain is immensely tiny.

  Yves likes his coffee mildly strong.

  Little Ricky will grow taller shortly.

  Boris's intentions became vaguely clearer.

  Marcel will presently fill us in on the past.

  The Blandingses bought the house completely unfinished.

  For the Cratchits, poverty was richly rewarding.

  Madalyn religiously attended Atheists Anonymous.

  The computer crash was a minor disaster.

  Miss Pym offered us a slice of twelve-ounce pound cake.

  In October 1929, the market plunged in an unparalleled spiral.

  Unless you're curiously indifferent, there's more about illogical writing in chapter 17.

  Space Savers

  Do you use macros when you work on a computer? They let us store multiple commands on one key, so we can do several things with a single stroke. Sometimes an adjective or adverb acts like a macro. It lets us compress several words of description into one nifty modifier. These sentences, for example, mean the same thing:

  Courtney wore jeans that were faded and a shirt that was dirty and full of wrinkles.

  Courtney wore faded jeans and a dirty, wrinkled shirt.

  The second sentence, with its tighter adjectives, makes the first seem loose and flabby. Adverbs can be just as efficient at firming up pudgy sentences. These sentences, which say the same thing, show how one word can do the work of four:

  They dismissed her in a thoughtless manner.

  They dismissed her thoughtlessly.

  Of course, you may not always want to cut a description short. If Courtney normally dresses in immaculate Armani suits with nary a thread out of place, you might want to call attention to her dishevelment. Most of the time, though, shorter is better—especially when you're short on room and long on description.

  Words in Flight

  A little imagination can do a lot more for your descriptive writing than a pageful of adjectives and adverbs. Take a closer look at some of your favorite authors. You'll be surprised at how little their vividness depends on modifiers and how much it owes to imagination.

  I'm not necessarily talking about the literary All-Stars. There's imaginative writing in every field, writing that jumps off the page. Whatever your favorite reading is about—birds or c
ooking or fashion or movies or gardening—that's where you should look for descriptions that aren't smothered in adjectives and adverbs.

  Are you a bird-watcher? In one of his field guides, Roger Tory Peterson described the chimney swift as "a cigar with wings" and said the purple finch looked like "a sparrow dipped in raspberry juice."Do you read the fashion pages? Kennedy Fraser, writing about a Balenciaga dress, pictured a woman's legs coming out of the ruffled taffeta "like stamens from a black chrysanthemum."

  Gertrude Jekyll, the English landscape architect, wrote that a blanket of columbines looked like "patches in an old, much-washed, cotton patchwork quilt." And the critic Pauline Kael described a noisy, abrasive action movie filmed in the Big Apple as"an aggravated case of New York."

  In The Smithsonian Guides to Natural America, Suzanne Winckler had this to say of my home state: "Iowa is voluptuous, its landscapes all gentle angles of thighs, elbows, scapulas, vertebrae, and big round buttocks." Wowee!

  The food writer M.F.K. Fisher once sneered at party dips as "mixtures to be paddled in by drinkers armed with everything from raw green beans to reinforced potato chips." If that doesn't make you swear off crudités, nothing will. Good Dog, Bad Dog, a training book by Mordecai Siegal and Matthew Margolis, compared a seated basset hound to "a jacked-up car with a flat tire."

  As I've said before, don't overlook the newspapers. A tribute by Frank DeCaro in the New York Times described the late TV talk-show host Virginia Graham's lacquered hairdo as "an abstract form resembling a Dairy Queen soft-serve crossed with the Nike Swoosh."