“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.

And so we’ve entered that time of year. If you’re near or north of the 45th parallel, your world looks like mine—a vast mosaic of fiery leaves tumbling from gray skies. Yards in my neck of the woods are thickly blanketed in red, orange, yellow and gold.

Last year at this time I helped a neighbor clear his yard of the leaves his three enormous maple trees had released. Equipped with leaf blowers and ear protection we were a couple leaf wranglers corralling the little doggies out to the street. The leaves were flying, but progress was slow. After half an hour we still had a fair amount of work to do. Frustrated, I considered alternatives to the leaf blower. I decided to trade my leaf blower for my rake and was stunned by what I discovered. It turned out that this age-old tool was far more effective and efficient than our leaf blowers. With one sweep I could clear a swath of leaves, revealing the damp, green grass beneath.

This is an interesting example for the blog thread I started two weeks ago about our relationship to the tools we use. I find myself thinking about this topic because our relationships to our tools have implications for how we live, and for our human relationships. Why at first did I not think of using the rake instead of the blower? Somehow I believed the blower was more advanced and suited to the task. Why else would everyone use them?

In this case the ubiquitous presence of leaf blowers (the tool) dictated how I thought about accomplishing a task. But I turned the tables when I began to consider other options that might be superior. In doing so I assumed a right relationship to the tool and subordinated the tool to its rightful place. Even if I had resolved to continue with the blower—if I didn’t own a rake, for example—I would have righted my relationship to the tool so it was advancing, not foiling, my intention.

There are examples like this all around us. We’re surrounded by tools, both rudimentary and sophisticated. I’ll admit that more than once I’ve gone to my computer to check the weather, only to remember I could go outside. Not long ago I went to use my Sawzall to prune a branch only to stop and realize that a little handsaw could do just as well, and was more accessible.

When the tools we rely on prove inadequate to the task—or disappear altogether—we’re forced to be creative. We tap into brilliance which otherwise remains latent. Then if we reintroduce the tool into our world, we can use it to serve our efforts.

Have a pleasant Autumn. Enjoy the leaves!

I asked my young daughter the other day to turn off the dome light above the seat opposite to hers in the rear of our minivan. I was at a stoplight and watched in the rearview mirror as she struggled to reach it. Her arms were too short. Then she produced an empty water bottle, which she used to span the distance and turn off the light. Her face beamed with satisfaction at having found a tool to solve the problem.

I’m fascinated by the relationships humans have with tools. As the story of my daughter demonstrates, the purpose of a tool is to successfully overcome a problem. In fact, such problems as this create opportunities for us to tap our human creativity and ingenuity. We seek out a tool to enlist in our problem-solving efforts.

But in relation to tools, I find one of two realities is possible: I am using the tool, or it is using me. Any time my intent becomes subservient to the tool—rather than the tool serving my intent—that tool is using me.

In education, for example, the intent of a teacher ought to be to help students learn and understand. Curricula, created as tools to enhance learning, can assume a determinative role in the learning process. Instead of tapping curricula as a resource to help deepen student understanding, we defer to the curriculum to tell us what we ought to do. The tool becomes our master.

Tools are meant to avail us of our innate gifts. They are channels for human expression: Jimi Hendrix and his guitar, Pablo Picasso and his brushes, J.K. Rowling and her pen and napkin. A right relationship with a tool promotes the expression of our humanity. When tools use us, less of our unique humanity shines forth for others to see, know, and experience.

If you manage a team of people, you employ tools to build an efficient team of people that trust each other and enjoy working cooperatively. If you are a parent, you may borrow principles and ideas to help you relate to your children. Whatever your context, you have a challenge you are trying to address. Tools can add potency to your efforts. What they can’t do is be a substitute for you.