The lowly adverb–poison

Adverbs are parts of speech that modify verbs and adjectives (mostly). If you are a writer, sooner or later someone will suggest they are poison.

For those unaware of the debate, this is probably most true. The tendency to abuse them is always amplified by unawareness.

Before I fly to the defense of either view, it’s good to realize that this issue is a little complex. One can’t categorically say yeah they’re good, or no they’re not.

So, what’s the big deal?

To begin with, adverbs are tell. In writer’s English, that means you’re not showing us the story, you’re explaining it. The technique isn’t actors on a stage, but moderators with microphones.

Consider the example below:

Joe angrily walked in the door.

There are two ways to think of this example. One is, hey, I just want to get Joe in the door. Once he’s in there, I’m going to show you things, but for now, I’m happy just telling you he’s not a happy camper and in transit.

On a certain level, I can accept that. Nothing is worse in literature than mindless action that takes us through every trivial motion of a character:

He opened the door. He turned on the porch light. He put his keys on the table. Joe stepped past the threshold and turned around, and looked out the door window. Next, he yelled a curse word. Doors, hum. They always seem kind of… rectangular.

Oh, my god, this is going to take all day. A little of that and one is just dying to read prose like:

He swiftly ran to the car.

Or

The rapidly descending spider hungrily eyed her prey.

Okay, I’m having a little fun with it.

On the other hand, let’s move past the occasional desire for tell and look at angry Joe in better detail.

Joe clutched his fists until white showed at the knuckles. He kicked in the door and strode through.

Now sure, there are other ways of showing this anger, but the operative word here is show. Angrily, suggests the author
is not interested in showing us the details, but prefers to move on past this portion of the story to something more interesting. The writer is deliberately, or accidentally, dumbing down the line. If a writer substitutes angrily for the show too often, the story feels flat and inactive.

Let me revisit that swift move to the car. What happens when we omit the adverb?

He ran to the car.

Isn’t running always swift?

Adverbs are often redundant, begging for omission.

He went to the car.

Now I have a non-specific verb. I feel the need to explain it, so I add an adverb:

He swiftly went to the car.

There, patched back up.

One huge problem with adverbs (or adjectives for that matter) is they convince us that we’ve picked the right verb when we’ve actually picked a horrible verb. Went doesn’t compare to ran, skipped or crawled. Better verbs mean better work.

The biggest offenders are those who insist upon lacing their dialogue with adverbs in tags or action bites. It is a pet peeve of mine because it suggests writers are content with dialogue that doesn’t express itself as fully as it might.

Let’s take a look at some dialogue from one of my novels:

Bibi stood with her head propped on her sister’s shoulder. “Let’s dance, sisss… terrrr.”

“We’ll have to restrain her.” The doctor rushed around the bed.

He bounced off Lilly’s hand as she held her arm out. “All she needs is one of Rahela’s teas, and she’ll be good as new in the morning.”

“That’s ridiculous.” the doctor said.

“Rick, are you going to help me, or just stand there?”

The door imploded.

“Mom! What are you doing? Let Aunt Bibi down; can’t you see she’s hurt!”

When it comes to dialogue, we need to reflect not just words in dialogue, but attitude. The attitude of each actor above is carried, I hope, by the dialogue itself. Bibi is drunk. The doctor is steady. Lilly is forceful, but offhanded. Mitsi, the daughter, is beside herself with both worry and astonishment at how her mother is treating her aunt. The tags and action bites are relegated to simple actions and explaining who is talking. The surrounding text does not communicate these attitudes; the dialogue does that all by itself.

We don’t want to tell the reader what the words should be showing the reader. If we have to tell people the attitude of the speaker, we are taking a major style hit and probably engaging in weak dialogue.

Having written all that, let me put myself in a position, wherein I feel compelled to add adverbs to spoof it up:

Bibi stood with her head limply set on her sister’s shoulder. “Thanks, sis.” She said drunkenly.

“We’ll have to do something.” The doctor expressed professionally. He came around the bed.

He bounced off Lilly’s hand as she held her arm out. With a stoic attitude, Lilly said, “I’ll get her a drink.”

“What do you intend?” the doctor critically intoned.

“What are you doing, Rick?” Lilly asked, desperately seeking his help.

The door opened impressively.

“Mom, what’s going on?” Mitsi said in a scolding tone that quickly implied exceeding concern.

That seems silly, but I read a lot of lines like those above. Adverbs are usually not our friends. Once in a while we need them, but we should educate ourselves regarding their abuses and why they are abusive.