Modifiers

We often value modifiers too much--especially modifers that carry emotive baggage or evaluative force. Words like "beautiful," "kind," "right," "wrong," "wonderful" "truthful," "honest," "sincere," "creative," "good," "happy," "big," "real," "unreal" all suggest feelings or opinions, but they only make sense if we have criteria to judge or measure or envision those feelings or opinions. Someone is "creative" if we have a definition of "creative" or criteria for "creative"--nothing is "creative" without a context. No one is "honest" without some explanation. ("He had an honest look on his face" only makes sense if honest people always have recognizable looks--maybe sweat in special places or smiles that we can all interpret without machines connected to special electronic devices.) Should we avoid all such modifiers? Probably not. Certainly they're part of our arsenal for bluffing--but we ought to be careful. If we rely on them too much, we lose credibility:

Charlene was a true heroine of majestic proportions.
Buggsy is a kind, true, wonderful, thoughtful, and conscientious human being. He's also fine, upstanding, charismatic, and polite in a wonderful way. He will make a fine, enthusiastic and valuable employee in the box department of your remarkable firm.
The sky was a wonderful shade of gray.
The event was so very memorable that we stood completely and utterly astonished by its awesome tragic beauty.

(People who write well--even when they describe events or places, often use very few modifiers. They concentrate on subjects and verbs and use modifiers sparingly. Take a look at this description of a boxing match between Joe Louis and Max Schmeling:

There were four steps to Schmeling's knockout. A few seconds after he landed his only punch of the fight, Louis caught him with a lethal little left hook that drove him into the ropes so that his right arm was hooked over the top strand, like a drunk hanging to a fence. Louis swarmed over him and hit with everything he had--until Referee Donovan pushed him away and counted one.
Schmeling staggered away from the ropes, dazed and sick. He looked drunkenly toward his corner, and before he had turned his head back Louis was on him again, first with a left and then that awe-provoking right that made a crunching sound when it hit the German's jaw. Max fell down, hurt and giddy, for a count of three.
He clawed his way up as if the night air were as thick as black water, and Louis--his nostrils like the mouth of a double-barrelled shotgun--took a quiet lead and let him have both barrels.
Max fell almost lightly, bereft of his senses, his fingers touching the canvas like a comical stew-bum doing his morning exercises, knees bent and the tongue lolling in his head.
[Bob Considine]

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