A Word, Please: Less can be more when it comes to adverbs

In the British comedy series “Trying” (highly recommend, by the way), a schoolteacher played by Sian Brooke tries to convince a fellow teacher that she doesn’t have romantic designs on a handsome single dad.

“I am really, genuinely, honestly not interested in him. OK?” Brooke’s character insists.

Her colleague isn’t buying it. “No,” she replies. “One adverb too many. Now I’m sure.”

Years ago, I dedicated a whole chapter of a book to the lesson the “Trying” writers delivered in just one minute of dialogue. The lesson is this: Adverbs, especially used to excess, can backfire, undermining the message and discrediting the person delivering it. Used poorly, they tell your reader or listener: “My nouns and adjectives aren’t adequate on their own. They need bolstering. They need to be beefed up by additional words that drive home the fact that they mean what they’re supposed to mean.”

The evidence is hidden in plain sight in the great writing we enjoy every day. It’s the stuff we don’t notice because it’s not on the page. Take note of how often your favorite writers don’t use adverbs and you’ll see what I mean.

For example, here’s a passage that did not appear in Patrick Radden Keefe’s “London Falling”: “By the time Zac Brettler finally arrived at Mill Hill, he was completely surrounded by the next generation of eagerly aspiring Lebedevs.”

Those adverbs would have done a disservice to this otherwise solid sentence: “By the time Zac Brettler arrived at Mill Hill, he was surrounded by the next generation of aspiring Lebedevs.”

The following passage did not appear in Andrew Ross Sorkin’s “1929”: “Riordan had gently sat down in a generously overstuffed armchair in the corner of his bedroom, gingerly pulled out a pistol he had surreptitiously taken from the bank’s cashier desk, and violently shot himself in his right temple.”

Now see how much more impact the real passage had: “Riordan had sat down in an overstuffed armchair in the corner of his bedroom, pulled out a pistol he had taken from the bank’s cashier desk, and shot himself in his right temple.”

Even an innocuous seeming adverb in a short sentence can weaken the message. Compare, “The boss is extremely angry” to “The boss is angry.” In the latter, the anger is more menacing because it needs no assistant.

The lesson here is not that adverbs are bad. They’re crucial. And when you realize what a huge word category adverbs are, including terms like “therefore,” “tomorrow” and “here,” you see that most of them aren’t even optional. The lesson is that manner adverbs should be used sparingly.

Manner adverbs are those “ly” words we know so well, like “slowly” and “happily,” along with some that don’t end in “ly” but that also modify actions or adjectives, including “fast,” “late” and “very.”

They can be a sign that your verb or adjective is too weak. “She loudly closed the door” would be better as “She slammed the door.”

Or they can be a sign that you think that your verb or adjective is too weak, even though it’s fine: “The views are truly breathtaking.”

Of course, sometimes manner adverbs work beautifully. That’s especially true when they form the predicate of your sentence, as “beautifully” does above. Other times, they carry real meaning. “Extremely wealthy” can tell your reader something “wealthy” alone cannot. “Drove recklessly” can tell your reader something that “drove” cannot. The examples are endless.

So try your sentence without the adverb first. If it loses nothing of substance, keep it out. But if the adverb adds important information that your verb or adjective can’t convey alone, keep it in.

— June Casagrande is the author of “The Best Punctuation Book, Period.” She can be reached at JuneTCN@aol.com.