Paolo wrote: Sat Aug 11, 2012 5:19 am Adverb abuse.

Watch out for it.

Quick and graceful, I ran to the other room to search frantically but finally successfully for my old grammar book, then, as daintily and carefully as I could, I sat reading about adverb abuse; then with accurate, fast, light-fingered, zippy typing I entered this reply.

Dear overlord please do not viciously and horribly strike me dead for this post.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=14fXm4FOMPM

Schoolhouse Rock - Adverbs

Thanks for the post, which made me smile happily, knowingly and appreciatively.

You're welcome.

Sort of off topic, but the one you'll probably never find is the one with "Wonder Gram, Liter Leader," and someone else.

It was all about measurements, and DC comics went wild and nailed them for making fun of Wonder Woman. (Wonder Gram could change size, weight, etc.) I think that episode only ran for a few weekends, and while I've found several other episodes on Usenet and Youtube, I've NEVER been able to find that one.

For me, detail isn't just about adverbs. It is about description.

The old building loomed over me like a shadow of my past. Two stories of oppression in an otherwise cheery neighborhood. Every crack and line of the crumbling facade told a unique tale of woe for each poor soul that had passed through its doors. The exterior bricks had gone from rustic red and orange, to a mosaic of sickly brown. Here and there mosses and ivy had worn it away. Each new plant dug into stone, seeking any small line or crack to exploit, in an seeming attempt from nature itself to tear the building down, and erase it from the earth. In time the plants might be successful, but not yet, and not today.

Crossing the threshold overpowered me with the smells of rot and stale milk. The faded green paint of the interior, which had once been cheery and warm, had become over time, degraded to the vomit hue now before me. Even the paint was curling and falling away, not wanting to be a part of this place, anymore than I did. I passed doors barely held in place by their rusting hinges, over carpet worn through to the scarred floorboards below. My feet carried me past the long disused elevator, to what remained of the stairs. I navigated the treacherous climb, jumping over steps I knew could no longer bear my weight, and avoided the railing that beckoned me with murderous intent. I noticed where others had tried to hold that railing, and had paid for that mistake, when it had given way under their slightest touch. I wasn't to be so easily fooled.

At last, I completed my trek past the graffiti and garbage littered halls, to the second story room I knew so well. I stopped before the door. It had somehow been spared the blights of the rest of the building, and remained the gloss red that filled my every though. The door stood apart from all around it, solid and eternal. There was no mark upon it to indicate it was even a part of this world. It was something else. Something much more sinister.

It took everything I had to screw up my courage, and extend my hand. The sound of my knock resounded, much louder than I had intended. It seemed the building groaned, and growled, as the echo of it faded away. I heard the steps beyond the door as they approached. I closed my eyes, and heard the locks turning, and the chains falling free. At last the door opened, and before me was the one person I had traveled so far to see. I opened my eyes.

She looked me up and down with indifference. I might have been a stranger. It would have been easier if I had been. So much time separated us, but then again, none at all. Much to my surprise, my voice came clear and defiant.

"Hello, Mother," I said. "I'm home."

Is much more satisfying (for me) to read, than;

I went home to my mother in her run down old building. It was hard for me to do, but I managed it.

I'm aware they both tell pretty much the same thing, but one is a statement, and one is a journey. I like the journey better.

Of course some times I want the story to just get on with it. I get a bit angry when I get too much description that doesn't pay off into anything. If I'm going to invest my time reading something, I want it to go somewhere. I don't want detail, and description just for their own sake, I want it to be important to the overall story being told.

My favorite writers handle that balance masterfully.