“The Salinas Valley is in Northern California. It is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the Salinas River winds and twists up the center until it falls at last into the Monterey Bay.” This is how John Steinbeck opens his novel, East of Eden. When I first read these words two years ago they set my imagination ablaze. I wanted nothing more than to follow Steinbeck through his exquisite narrative.

Near the top of the list of more embarrassing things about me is that I graduated from high school, attended a reputable private college, and received a 4.0 GPA at a nationally ranked graduate school–all without being able to discern a verb from a noun, an adjective from an adverb, or a participle from a pronoun. How’s that for self-disclosure? “Your knowledge of Greek is fantastic,” my Greek professor once said, “but your grammar is terrible.”

For the past decade I have sought to better understand not just grammar, but also the art and craft of writing. Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style sits on my bedside table. Along the way I’ve taken up such primers as Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird and Stephen King’s On Writing. “I believe the road to hell is paved with adverbs,” King says, “and I will shout it from the rooftops.” And shout he does. I’ve been scared to use an adverb since reading his reproach.

Using adverbs is lazy, King asserts. Adverbs weaken writing. Don’t say you slammed the door loudly. Slammed is sufficient. Loudly adds nothing. A simple, clear, strong statement allows the reader to fill in the details using his or her own imagination. Poor writing relies on adverbs and extraneous details, elements that ought to spring up from our imagination. King’s point, instructive to aspiring authors, holds broader import for everyone trying to relate effectively to others.

As you seek to communicate in speech and/or writing to those you serve, try to omit adverbs. Like a master writer, seek to introduce enough detail to set aflame God-given imaginations. You need not furnish all the content. To make what you offer as relevant as possible, allow others to contribute their content. If you’re a parent preparing for a difficult conversation with your teen, say what you must–but be clear, concise, and spot-on. Then allow silence and space for your child to respond. There’s no need to ladle on more details than necessary. As in writing, these superfluous details sabotage effectual communication.

When you allow for space you encourage a rhythm of give and take, statement and response–the prerequisite for constructive dialogue. Such honest, measured and fluid dialogue leads to deepening trust, which in turn mortars strong, meaningful relationships. Whether you are trying to communicate to one person, or one thousand, tear a page from great literature for inspiration.