On March 15 a staff writer for The Washington Post filed a story from Houston. It began:

“Russell Yates was standing at the podium in front of the Harris County Courthouse when the light drizzle turned into thick, heavy raindrops, streaking the beige brick walls of the building behind him. It was mid-afternoon on a muggy, overcast day, with the temperature reaching into the 80s. Jackhammers pounded away on the closest street corner, part of Houston’s ongoing attempt to revitalize its downtown. Two blocks down, what was once called Enron Field loomed large in the gloom.”

Let me pause for a question: Could you guess what the staff writer was writing about? I will not keep you longer in suspense. The piece continued:

“The trial of Andrea Pia Yates ended today, bringing to a close a horrible spectacle that started last June, when Yates drowned all five of her young children in the bathtub of the family home here in a Houston suburb.”

The lead paragraph, with its beige bricks and light drizzle, was mush, pure mush. I know. As a young reporter 60 years ago I wrote a good deal of it. Sometimes we writers try too hard.

In January The New York Times’ man in Willie Creek, Australia, filed a dramatic tale. It began:

“Somewhere in the Indian Ocean, before the sun’s rays bounced off the waves on the third day of 2003, something happened aboard the High Aim No. 6, a long-line fishing boat.”

Let me translate. “… (B)efore the sun’s rays bounced off the waves on the third day of 2003” means “before dawn on Jan. 3.” What did those bouncing rays have to do with it?

Roscoe Ellard, one of the all-time great teachers of journalism, used to cite a Horrid Example in his lecture on purple prose. A feature writer had painted a vivid picture: “The sun slipped silently behind the mountains like a great fried egg off a platter.” I remembered that egg when a reader in Cincinnati sent in a quotation from “One Door Away From Heaven” by Dean Koontz: “The sun, as orange as a dragon’s egg, cracked on the western peaks and spilled a crimson yolk.”

The Biloxi (Miss.) Sun Herald carried a paid wedding notice a year or so ago:

“For her special day, Ashley selected an exquisite Mon Cheri ivory Dulciana satin dress adorned in rum pink Italian silk. The striking bodice was a princess cut silhouette that included both a shimmering full skirt accented with dainty Alencon lace and a breathtaking semi-cathedral-length train delicately garnished with alluring beadwork that distinctively captured the light of the cathedral church. The extraditing bodice was also embellished in rum pink Italian silk and hand-beaded with radiant seed pearls and glamorous iridescent cup sequins …”

To repeat: That eruption of adjectives appeared in a paid notice, but it serves well to make a point. There can be too much of a good thing. The bride wore not merely an elegant Juliet headpiece, but “an exceptionally elegant Juliet headpiece.” Her enchanting elbow-length gloves were enriched with “sparkling sequins and charming pearls.” This is fruitcake description, filled with sugared cherries and candied nuts, rum pink and indigestible.

Architect Mies van der Rohe long ago laid down a rule for buildings that may be extended to the writing art: Less is more. The rule has to be observed sensibly. A single telling adjective often will do the work of 10 floppy ones. And the best way to tell a dramatic story is to let the story tell itself.

James Kilpatrick is a syndicated columnist.

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