Writers love adverbs the way toddlers love glitter: passionately, indiscriminately, and with utter disregard for the cleanup. They sprinkle those sparkly -ly words everywhere — characters whisper softly, stare longingly, or run quickly — as if verbs can’t be trusted to do their jobs without a chaperone. But adverbs rarely strengthen prose; more often, they weigh it down like a bookmarked anchor. A strong verb is a workhorse, a scene-builder, a full-fledged narrative employee. And an adverb? That’s the micromanaging boss who refuses to let you do your job in peace.
Most writing guides warn that creative prose should avoid adverb usage, and they’re not wrong. Writers should keep adverbs to a minimum. Using them can smother tension, flatten emotion, and make your prose read like it’s wearing too many accessories. Not that this is an absolutist crusade. Adverbs have their place — especially in dialogue, where real people naturally speak adverbially — and the goal isn’t a total eradication, but learning when an adverb earns its keep and when it’s just freeloading in your sentence is crucial for success.
What Are Adverbs?
Before we banish adverbs to the bookish shadow realm, it helps to know their species. They come in several flavors, each pretending to be helpful while quietly pilfering power from your verbs.
Adverbs of Manner: These are the classic offenders — the softly, quickly, sadly crowd. These emotional support animals lurk behind weak verbs, insisting the reader needs to know exactly how something was done. Spoiler: If the verb needs a chaperone, it may not be the right verb.
Adverbs of Time: Think now, later, yesterday, eventually. They show up to tell you when things happen, as if the narrative itself isn’t already handling the timeline. Useful in moderation, but overuse turns your story into an unfeeling calendar.
Adverbs of Place: Words like here, there, everywhere. They’re helpful until they start pointing in vague directions like an indecisive tour guide. If your setting is vivid, your reader won’t need a breadcrumb trail.
Adverbs of Degree: The drama queens: very, really, quite, almost, nearly. They puff up your sentences like insecure bodybuilders flexing in the mirror, but they aren’t doing any work. A sentence with these words is almost always a sentence begging for a rewrite.
Adverbs of Frequency: Always, never, often, sometimes. These fall in the habits-and-routines category for me — useful, but relying on them too much makes my writing sound more vague than I’d like. Oh, the irony.
Sentence Adverbs: Ah, yes, the aristocrats: however, therefore, consequently. These sweep into your prose wearing capes and monocles, announcing simple, logical connections with the grace of a loud, pompous Victorian narrator.
Once you know what each type does, you also know how they sneak into drafts. And like any unruly cast of characters, adverbs are best when rarely used… lest they take over your story like unruly houseguests who never leave and wreck your home.
Apostles Against Adverbs
Stephen King, the reigning king of horror and anti-adverb rhetoric, famously wrote, “The road to hell is paved with adverbs.” In On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, he also calls them the verbal equivalent of dandelions taking over a meticulously manicured lawn. He argues that if a strong verb or detail can carry the meaning, extra modifiers (especially adverbs) dilute the effect.
Elmore Leonard, an American novelist and screenwriter known for novel-to-movie blockbusters like Get Shorty and Three-Ten to Yuma, states in his famous 10 Rules of Writing that we should never use an adverb to modify the verb ‘said.’ He believed adverbs signal weak prose. Christopher Paolini, author of bestsellers like Eragon, wrote this on his website: “Adverbs are tricky little creatures… I have had and continue to have a difficult relationship with them.”
The Modern Language Association (MLA) Style Center lists “adverbs to avoid” and flags intensive adverbs such as very, truly, really, actually, and extremely as suspect. In operation since 1929, Dorrance Publishing says, “An adverb should only be used as a last resort… The vast majority of adverb use comes across as simply lazy or redundant.”
The Advocate’s Voice: Adverbs as a Useful Tool
“When you finish writing, go back and cross out all adverbs.”
R.L. Stine, Strand Magazine
Adverbs may be the villains of polished prose, but they are helpful sidekicks during a first draft, when you’re just trying to get the story down before it evaporates. They can stand in as placeholders, little neon sticky notes that shout, “A feeling goes here!” or “Describe this better later, future you!” They let you sprint through the scene without stopping to get fussy with the details.
First drafts are about momentum, not elegance, and adverbs keep the narrative gears greased while you’re worldbuilding, plotting, and wrangling characters who wander off. Revision phases later allow you to trim them, but adverbs can be your temporary scaffolding in the drafting stage.
“As bad a reputation as adverbs have, they’re handy during a first draft. They allow you to jot down how a character feels or how they say something without losing your momentum. You can keep writing and go back and revise later.”
Janice Hardy, YA Author of Beyond the Red Trilogy
When It’s Perfectly Fine to Use Adverbs (Yes, Really)
Dialogue is a safe place where adverbs have free rein to shine without shame. Characters are supposed to mimic the way people talk in real life, and most people don’t speak in Pulitzer-worthy prose. With all the stutters, stumbles, intensifiers, repeats, and emotional tagging present in our everyday speech, adverbs can truly be at home here. A good example of this is a reluctant character sitting in their first group therapy session saying, “I really, really hate this.”
Adverbs within the actual dialogue help reveal tone, rhythm, social-geographical backgrounds, and emotional stakes of characters. As long as you do NOT attach them to the dialogue tags (“he said angrily”), dialogue adverbs can become one of your sharpest tools for capturing realistic speech and crafting memorable, living voices.
Then there are the moments when you’ve revised, rewritten, reworded, and re-everything’d a sentence… only to realize the adverb you cut was actually the backbone of the whole thing. On rare occasions, removing an adverb doesn’t make the prose stronger; it makes it weird, confusing, or comically overelaborate. When a word provides clarity, nuance, or efficient emotional shading, it’s not clutter; it’s craft. There doesn’t have to be a scorched-earth elimination. If all meaning collapses without the adverb, that adverb has probably earned its rent.
Finally Finished
Adverbs have a scandalous reputation for being tools that demand a discerning hand. Lean on strong verbs, invite adverbs only when they earn their keep, and your prose will stay sharp, clean, and powerful. In the end, your story deserves choices made with craft, not strings of -ly.
Still trying to find your writing voice? Check out my article Voice in Writing: Finding Yours With 14 Famous Styles.
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