Adjectives and adverbs – an author’s nemesis

All of the articles I’ve read echo my college tutors. “Cut adjectives, avoid adverbs, and keep your work focused.”

When it comes to sentences like “Harry walked slowly, very reluctant to enter the dentist’s surgery, dreading the feel of cold metal poking inside his mouth and unintelligible memos, including tooth identification numbers, muttered to the wretched man’s eager assistant,” I can hear you agreeing with those instructions. “Harry disliked dental checks.” Four words instead of thirty-four.

Readers will base Harry’s feelings on their own experiences. It’s important to decide if you want Harry regarded as a coward (dislike equating to fear) or courageous. Most people don’t look forward to dental treatment, but your character would look strong if you said, “Harry disliked dental checks, but it provided thirty minutes free to consider his wife’s birthday gift.”.

Adjectives and adverbs – an author’s ally

I’d like to share a secret I discovered entering a writing challenge. The prize was being featured on an unknown author’s blog, but any publicity is good.

Rules

Your main character must be an inanimate object.

Humans may feature but they must not speak in words or thought.

You cannot write from the point of view of an animal or plant.

Draft describing a movie scene.

An unemployed worker is trying to enter the factory for one last look. The door is rusty. The hinges make a noise when he goes inside. The windows are broken. He can see abandoned homes and boarded-up shops through them. Startled pigeons are flying around in shafts of sunlight. Empty hooks are still hanging from the conveyor. Shards of glass are all over the floor. He goes to the plating line and sees the empty porcelain immersion tanks. Their copper plumbing had been taken by trespassers. There is a water drip from the leaky roof in the stamping room. Weeds and saplings are using it to grow through cracks in the floor. The foreman’s overlook is still up there, but it’s not watching anything. This factory in what used to be a working-class neighborhood is dead.

Draft using powerful verbs and adverbs.

The rusty door resists entry, its groaning hinges reluctantly admitting an unemployed worker for a last look. Smashed windows frame poignant images of abandoned homes and boarded-up shops. Shafts of bright sunlight stab the gloomy interior, spotlighting a flurry of startled pigeons. Suspended conveyor hooks frozen in death throes reach out, desperate for new parts to grasp. Glass-shard confetti litters the floor. Porcelain immersion tanks stud the plating line, thirsting for another chance to swish unaware scavengers purloined their copper plumbing. A steady drip echoes through the stamping room watering weeds and saplings shouldering their way through cracks in the floor. The foreman’s overlook never stops supervising the scene, but now it stares blankly. Once the heart of a thriving working-class neighborhood, a factory quietly expires.

In my latest book, Mom is facing the school run and needs a caffeine hit. I scrapped “she reached for an empty mug” and used “on the counter, a sleepy mug yawned in anticipation of its morning coffee.”

Friend, foe, or a mixture? Why not experiment as I do?