Free Words Fail Me by Patricia T. O'Conner

could not be here on this
very
special night.
    A latecomer,
overly,
has started showing up in negative sentences. These days, we aren't overly surprised to read sentences like this:
Ariadne's dissertation is not
overly
original.
    I'm not saying that these words are all bad all the time. If what you're after is an informal, chatty tone, perhaps in first-person fiction or a breezy office memo, then
very, a bit, somewhat,
and the rest of the crew might be appropriate. And if you're legitimately using them to
make a point, go right ahead.
How late is Ariadne's dissertation? It's
very
late.
    When they're overused, though, such words as
very
are no longer modifiers. They're mere filler, really. (Or do I mean
actually?
)
Misplaced Affections
    No matter how we love them, modifiers aren't much good if they're in the wrong place. A word or a phrase may be colorful, even essential, but it can't properly describe something if it's attached to something else.
    Here's the kind of unsuitable attachment I mean: At sixty,
those tight swim trunks still make Burt look like a hunk.
The descriptive phrase
at sixty
is supposed to describe Burt, but it's attached to
those tight swim trunks.
Unless the trunks are sixty years old, the modifier is in the wrong place. Put it closer to Burt: At sixty,
Burt still looks like a hunk in those tight swim trunks.
(Okay, Burt, you can breathe now.)
    That one was easy. You could have guessed that Burt was sixty, not the swim trunks. But some sentences with badly placed modifiers are harder to figure out:
Tina surprised Harry
wearing her new pumps.
    Who was in the pumps, Tina or Harry? Hey, you never know. Since two people are mentioned before the modifying phrase,
wearing her new pumps,
the reader has to guess who's being described. One possibility: Wearing her new pumps,
Tina surprised Harry.
Another:
Tina surprised Harry as he was
wearing her new pumps.
    Most of the time, poorly placed modifiers are harmless. The writer may look silly, but the reader knows what's
meant. Only a mind reader could figure this one out:
Paul didn't see Vincent
well.
    Try this:
Vincent wasn't
well
when Paul saw him.
Or:
Paul didn't see
well
when he met Vincent.
For the second meaning, I'd prefer
Paul didn't see Vincent
clearly.
Serial Crimes
    Imagine you're a food consultant who's been asked to revive a failing restaurant's bill of fare. Your initial proposal might read:
I recommend a radically new menu featuring
pumpkin
ravioli, fettuccine, and linguine.
    Now read the sentence again, and keep your eye on the
pumpkin.
Since it comes at the head of the list, it could refer to all the pasta in the series, not just the ravioli. How fond of pumpkin are you? Do you really want to serve
pumpkin
ravioli,
pumpkin
fettuccine, and
pumpkin
linguine? If so, lots of luck. But if there's supposed to be only one pumpkin dish on the menu, this is a ridiculously easy problem to solve. When an adjective garnishes only one item in a list, put that item last:
I recommend a radically new menu featuring fettuccine, linguine, and
pumpkin
ravioli.
    The same problem can crop up with an adverb in a series. You might write this in a brochure for a health spa:
Our clients
vigorously
exercise, diet, and meditate.
Or:
Our clients diet, meditate, and exercise
vigorously. Oh, really? In each case, the modifier,
vigorously,
seems to cover the whole list. Unless these dynamos believe in doing everything vigorously, even meditating, make it:
Our clients diet, meditate, and
vigorously
exercise.
    Putting the modified item last is usually the best solution. With a list of verbs, though, that's not always possible.
Back at the fat farm, suppose you're describing a normal day's routine and you'd like to keep things chronological:
After lunch, clients
lightly
nap, lift weights, and shower.
    Huh? Your patrons probably don't lift weights lightly or shower lightly. But you'd like your list of activities to stay in the same order. In that case, move the adverb