Understanding Coordinate Adjectives: A Simple Guide for Authors of All Realms

Authors love description — especially in SFF, where everything from the sunlight to the swords to the sentient mushrooms needs a little extra sparkle. But when you stack two adjectives before a noun — glittering, venomous dagger or ancient, whispering forest — how do you know whether to use a comma?

That’s where coordinate adjectives come in. This guide explains what they are, why they matter, and how to test them without feeling like you’ve been trapped in a time loop by a mischievous wizard.

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What Are Coordinate Adjectives?

Coordinate adjectives are two or more adjectives that modify a noun equally.
They’re peers. Co‑captains. Two mages of equal rank standing before the same dragon.

Examples:

• a glittering, venomous dagger
• a brooding, storm‑ridden sky
• a stubborn, half‑feral unicorn

If the adjectives are coordinate, you separate them with a comma.

If they’re not coordinate — meaning one adjective modifies the whole phrase that follows — then no comma is used.

Examples of non‑coordinate (cumulative) adjectives:

• three enormous trolls
• ancient dwarven forge
• small crystalline orb

You wouldn’t write three, enormous trolls unless you want your editor to appear in a puff of smoke and glare at you.

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A Brief History: From and to comma

Long ago — in the age of quills, vellum, and spellbooks that occasionally bit their owners — English linked coordinate adjectives with and. You’d see phrases like the long and perilous journey or the fierce and radiant phoenix. It was clear, rhythmic, and perfectly acceptable.

Over time, as written English evolved (and as scribes realized they could save both ink and wrist stamina), the humble comma stepped in as a sleeker stand‑in for and. The structure didn’t change — only the punctuation did. The two adjectives still stand as equals; we’ve simply swapped the conjunction for a mark that takes up less space and doesn’t require chanting.

So when you write long, perilous journey, you’re using a modern shorthand for a very old pattern — one that’s been traveling with English since before dragons went into decline.

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The Three‑Point Test (Editor’s Version)

Here’s the practical test I use — the one I teach clients and apply to manuscripts full of dragons, starships, and morally ambiguous necromancers. If all three are true, the adjectives are coordinate and need a comma.

1. The “and” Test

Can you put and between the adjectives?

• glittering and venomous dagger → yes
• three and enormous trolls → no

If and sounds wrong, stop here. No comma.

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2. The Reversal Test

Can you reverse the adjectives without changing the meaning?

• venomous, glittering dagger → still works
• enormous three trolls → no

If reversal fails, the adjectives are cumulative → no comma.

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3. The Predicate Test

Can you move the adjectives after the noun and join them with and?

• the dagger was glittering and venomous → natural
• the trolls were three and enormous → unnatural
• the forge was ancient and dwarven → no, unless you’re writing parody

If the predicate version sounds natural, you’re dealing with coordinate adjectives.

This third test is your best friend when your editorial ear has been bludgeoned by too many adjective stacks in a row.

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Why Authors (and Editors) Get Confused

When you’re deep in a manuscript full of shimmering portals and eldritch winds, your brain eventually stops registering whether shimmering and eldritch sounds right or whether you’ve accidentally summoned a comma where none belongs.

This is normal. It’s not a grammar problem — it’s just your brain politely asking for a snack and a nap.

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A Burnout‑Proof Workflow

Here’s a streamlined approach that keeps you from feeling like you’re trapped in a cursed labyrinth of adjectives:

Step 1: Run the “and” test first.

If and doesn’t work, you’re done. No comma.

Step 2: If and works, jump straight to the predicate test.

It’s the most objective and least likely to betray you.

Step 3: Use reversal only when you’re still unsure.

Reversal is the most subjective test, so save it for last — like a final boss fight.

This sequence eliminates most of the mental load and keeps your editorial stamina intact.

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Examples in the Wild

Here are a few SFF‑flavored examples to show how the tests play out:

• “the crackling, arcane energy”
• crackling and arcane energy works
• the energy was crackling and arcane works
  → coordinate → comma
• “three towering giants”
• three and towering giants fails
  → cumulative → no comma
• “ancient dwarven forge”
• ancient and dwarven forge sounds wrong
• the forge was ancient and dwarven is awkward unless you’re making a joke
  → cumulative → no comma
• “small crystalline orb”
• small and crystalline orb works
• the orb was small and crystalline works
  → coordinate → comma (though many authors omit it for rhythm)

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Why This Matters for Your Writing

Correct comma use isn’t about being pedantic — it’s about clarity, rhythm, and making sure your prose reads the way you intend. Coordinate adjectives create a specific cadence, while cumulative adjectives build a layered description.

Compare:

• a cold, merciless wind (two qualities of the same wind)
  vs.
• a massive stone golem (a stone golem that happens to be massive)

Understanding the difference helps your writing feel intentional rather than accidental.

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A Final Note for Authors

If you’re an author working with an editor (including me), this guide explains why you’ll sometimes see commas added between adjectives and sometimes removed. It’s not arbitrary, mystical, or based on the phases of the moon — it’s structural.

When in doubt, use the three‑point test. And if you’re still unsure, ask. Editors love clarity almost as much as dragons love hoards.

Pretty Sure, Sure, and Certain: How Qualifiers Trip Up Readers (and How Writers Can Stop Accidentally Sabotaging Their Own Prose)

Readers are generous creatures. They’ll follow you into dragon caves, dystopian wastelands, and awkward family dinners. They’ll suspend disbelief, forgive questionable life choices, and even tolerate a flashback or two.

But there’s one thing readers struggle with:

Sentences that hedge so hard they collapse into semantic oatmeal.

You know the ones. The ones where a character thinks something like:

“There was almost next to no chance anyone was following him.”

And suddenly the reader—who was happily immersed in the story—stops, blinks, and thinks:

“Okay but… is that zero chance or five percent or what are we doing here.”

This is the moment the spell breaks.
And once the spell breaks, the reader has to climb back into the story like someone trying to get back into a hammock gracefully. It’s possible, but it’s not pretty.

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🌊 Readers Want Flow, Not Fog

Readers don’t need mathematical precision. They don’t need charts, graphs, or a probability distribution. They just need clarity.

Qualifiers—almost, nearly, pretty, sort of, basically, next to—are fine in moderation. They’re seasoning. They add tone, voice, and nuance.

But when they pile up, they create fog. And fog is the enemy of immersion.

Readers want to glide through a sentence, not machete their way through a thicket of hedges.

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🧠 Why Qualifier Stacks Break Immersion

Because readers are constantly, subconsciously asking one question:

“What does this actually mean.”

When they hit a phrase like “almost next to no chance,” their brain tries to decode it:

• Is it almost no chance
• Or next to no chance
• Or almost next to no chance
• Is this a rounding error
• Is the character confident or anxious or lying to himself
• Should I be worried
• Should he be worried
• Should we all be worried

By the time the reader finishes this internal audit, the tension of the scene has evaporated like a puddle in August.

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🎭 Readers Read for Emotion, Not Probability

If a character is confident, readers want to feel that confidence.

“No one’s following me.”

If he’s uneasy, readers want to feel that unease.

“There’s a tiny chance someone’s behind me.”

If he’s trying to reassure himself but failing, readers want to feel that wobble.

“There’s probably no one following me… probably.”

But “almost next to no chance” communicates nothing except that the writer couldn’t decide which flavor of uncertainty they wanted.

Readers don’t want indecision.
They want intention.

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🧹 Editors Aren’t Nitpicking — They’re Protecting the Reader

When editors twitch at qualifier clutter, it’s not because we’re allergic to adverbs or secretly enjoy deleting things. It’s because we’re thinking about the reader’s experience.

We’re thinking about:

• the rhythm of the sentence
• the clarity of the thought
• the emotional signal the character is sending
• the ease with which the reader can stay immersed

Editors aren’t the grammar police.
We’re the story’s trail guides, clearing the path so readers don’t trip over linguistic roots.

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🧭 A Simple Reader‑First Rule

When revising, ask:

Does this qualifier help the reader understand the character’s state of mind.

If yes → keep it.
If no → it’s clutter.

Does this qualifier sharpen meaning or blur it.

If sharpen → keep.
If blur → cut.

Does this sentence sound intentional, or like a pile of hedges that accidentally rolled downhill into the same clause.

If it’s the latter, the reader feels the wobble. They can sense the sentence doesn’t know what it wants to be, and that uncertainty pulls them out of the story.

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🎯 Final Thought

Readers want to fall into your story and stay there.
Qualifiers can help them—when used intentionally.

But when qualifiers multiply like gremlins after midnight, readers feel the wobble. They lose the thread. They surface from the story and look around, wondering what just happened.

Your job as a writer is to keep them submerged in the best possible way.

And if an editor twitches along the way, it’s only because we’re trying to keep the water smooth.

Choosing a Character’s Ethnicity When the Plot Doesn’t Dictate It

Writers often get stuck on a surprisingly common question: If a character’s ethnicity doesn’t affect the plot, how do I decide what it should be?

It’s a fair concern. You want to avoid stereotypes, tokenism, and unintentional erasure — but you also don’t want to treat ethnicity like a checkbox.

This is a craft decision. Treat it like one.

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🌍 Start with the story’s world, not a spreadsheet

Even when ethnicity isn’t plot‑critical, it is part of world‑building. Consider:

• Where the story takes place
• Who naturally lives, works, or studies there
• What communities would be present even if identity never becomes a theme

This keeps representation organic rather than bolted on.

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🧩 Consider the character’s function in the story

A character’s ethnicity doesn’t need to be plot‑relevant to be story‑relevant. Think about:

• Their role (mentor, antagonist, friend, rival)
• Their social circles
• Their environment or profession
• Their implied backstory, even if it stays off‑page

This anchors the choice in narrative logic instead of external pressure.

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🎨 Use ethnicity as texture, not a theme

Not every story needs to explore identity. But ethnicity can still add:

• Naming conventions
• Family or cultural details
• Food, holidays, or casual references
• A sense of lived‑in reality

These touches enrich a character without turning it into a subplot.

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🔍 Avoid the “default character” trap

If you don’t choose intentionally, it’s easy to default to whatever you’ve seen most often in media. That’s how casts end up unintentionally homogeneous.

A simple pause — Why this choice? Why not another? — is often enough.

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🌱 Let representation grow naturally

Once you have a cast list, step back and look at the whole:

• Does it reflect the world of the story
• Does it feel lived‑in
• Does it avoid tokenism
• Does it avoid erasure

This isn’t about quotas. It’s about coherence.

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🧘 Don’t overcorrect into anxiety

Writers sometimes freeze because they’re afraid of “getting it wrong.” Fear flattens characters.

A steadier approach:

• Choose intentionally
• Research respectfully
• Avoid stereotypes
• Let ethnicity be one facet, not the defining feature

You don’t need to write a cultural deep dive every time you assign an ethnicity. Sometimes it’s a name, a detail, or a reference — and that’s enough.