“The difference between the almost right word and the right word is
really a large matter—it’s the difference between the lightning bug and the
lightning.” –Mark Twain
If you’ve watched Peter Jackson’s The Return of the King, you may remember the scene where Gandalf instructs
Pippin on how to behave at the court of Lord Denethor. After delivering his
little spiel covering all the things Pippin shouldn’t say, poor exasperated Gandalf
finally tells him it would be better not to speak at all.
Recently, I’ve heard a lot of people offer similar-sounding
advice to aspiring writers, advice I have sometimes given myself. And I’d like
to set the record straight, if I can. First and foremost, writing is strongly a
matter of style. Everyone has his or her own opinion as to what works and what
doesn’t. Some people enjoy bold, fast-paced plots; others prefer
stream-of-consciousness. Some like angsty characters and dark settings, others
don’t. Clearly, then, trying to define universally popular style parameters is
about as effective as flailing around in quicksand. Though maybe not as deadly.
For instance, when authors broach the subject of
dialogue tags, two opposing questions invariably rear their ugly heads. Keep the
tags simple? Or use variety? Many writers will tell you that “he says, she
says” is quite sufficient for the task and that anything more grandiose is
extraneous. Others will disagree. But before we start asking who’s right and
who’s wrong, why don’t we look for a middle ground together? In order to do
that, I think we should start by defining the goals of these two conflicting
rules.
Rule One—Keep Tags Simple: Beginning writers usually do not have the necessary
skill and discipline to recognize when their prose is too wordy and superfluous.
Even experienced authors struggle in this field, so instead of spending hours
explaining to their fresh-faced followers how one colorful dialogue tag is fine
while another is too much, it’s far easier just to lay down a rule. When in doubt, err on the side of sparse. Likewise,
referring to my opening example, Gandalf has no way to predict how Pippin will
behave and whether he will use common sense, so the wizard cannot be certain if
it is wise to trust his friend. Without the addition of one-on-one training and
loads of experience, even the most well-crafted blog post out there is not
likely to turn an inept storyteller into a brilliant one. That takes skill,
discernment, and patience.
Rule Two—Use Variety:
I’ll admit—I tend to camp out on this side. Maybe I’m OCD, but when I
read the word “said” fifty times in a page, I start wanting to poke myself in
the eye with a stick. Why? Well, first and foremost, many writers will tell you
to avoid repeating non-filler terms too often in close proximity, except for
effect (filler terms such as “a”,
“and”, “the”, etc…, however, are fine). Without pointless redundancies, prose
reads more smoothly. But another reason why simplification of tags bothers me
is that “said” is a very flat word. It indicates nothing of tone or emotion or
force. Who knows what’s going on in the speaker’s head? Frankly, the lack of spice
and expression gets boring pretty quickly, not to mention choppy. And because
I’m super-nitpicky, these details can negatively affect my enjoyment of a
story. (But I’m working on that. *sheepish grin*)
If you’re like me, you’ll see right away that both
sides have a point. Simplicity and variety are excellent qualities, but they
are not mutually exclusive. And I’m convinced we can achieve the best of both
worlds. Rather than following the letter of the law, let’s follow the spirit.
In other words, now that we know the intention of both rules, what can we do to
solve the problem? When you dress up to go out, some of you probably use a
touch of perfume or cologne. But surely you don’t pour the entire bottle over
your hair. Likewise in writing, where descriptive language is meant to accent,
not to overpower or distract.
With this in mind, why don’t we move on to adverbs.
Now, these little fellows get a bad rap. Almost everywhere I go, I see people counselling
others to cut them. We have verbs; we have adjectives; who really needs the
foolish little adverb? Personally, I was trained to use them like they were
going out of style, and only in recent years have I come to accept that, as
with the dialogue tags, both sides of the argument have valid issues to bring
to the table. Perhaps once more we can find a middle ground. In my mind, adverb
usage is a lot like tightrope walking, more so than the “he says, she says” conundrum.
For instance, if I were to write a fantastically long sentence completely full
of entirely extraneous and excruciatingly boring adverbs, you might
understandably struggle with the unbearably strong urge to violently punish me.
Yet when an author uses adverbs intentionally and tastefully, he or she
enhances their piece.
Perhaps the adverb’s greatest weakness is that some
writers shamelessly employ it to hide weak wording. I’ll admit—I’m frequently
guilty of that myself. And when I read through my work and stumble upon one of
these unforgivable sins, I have to ask myself what its function is. Is it
pulling its own weight, or is it dragging the story down? Consider this
sentence: “Elsa clumsily tried to open
the door.” Ask yourself, what is Elsa doing? More specifically, what verb am I
using? Compared with some of its cousins like “attempt” and “endeavor” and
“strain” and “struggle”, “trying” is just the weakling on the block. Bolstering
him with an adverb is like feeding a toddler hamburgers so he can lift a car.
Sorry, not happening. So instead of cheating and hoping to slip by with less
than stellar verbiage, I ought to just rephrase myself. Sometimes that involves
stepping out of the box to get a different angle. Now I can write “Elsa fumbled
with the doorknob.” Problem solved. Poor inept Elsa.
Let’s try another shall we? “‘You’re uglier than a
frog,’ Elsa said angrily.” Well I don’t know about you, but when I’m upset, I
don’t say stuff. I sneer, shout, growl, hiss, frown, snap, etc… Adverbs
should never be employed as getaway cars to avoid fixing a feeble setup. There
are about a bazillion (numbers not accurate) wonderful synonyms you can use, each
with its own implication. Which means it’s time to learn your connotations,
baby. Just picture yourself juggling grenades, and you’ll get the idea. (So
that might have been a slight exaggeration.) Believe it or not, bits and bobs like
this really slant the tone of a piece, even when the reader doesn’t understand
why. You may not notice that the descriptive language in a passage is stronger,
but you feel that the scene is more powerful. You may not realize the verbs are
more active, but you love that the story is rife with tension. Every. Word.
Matters. When it comes to writing, the scalpel and the chainsaw are equally
important.
At this point, if you’re of the “Adverbs are Evil”
camp, you’re probably cackling to yourself and wondering how I’m going to dig
myself out of this hole. Clearly I went and forgot which side I’m on. It
happens. Be that as it may, I’m not going to rant any longer about proper and
improper usage, since I myself am still actively learning—as every writer
should be. So here’s my challenge to you. If you have the time, go back and
read this post again, paying special attention to the adverbs I’ve employed.
Ultimately, it’s a matter of opinion, and I’m not going to stand here and claim
that I have the perfect balance or that I’m an expert on the subject. What I
have done, though, is given you an example of how I, personally, believe adverbs should be handled. Now it’s up to
you to decide whether you agree.
