Feature article: Put the thesaurus down and back slowly away Why using words you wouldn't say in everyday conversation makes you sound--well, not as smart as you think.

Humor: Headlines that would make the editor at Weekly World News blush Yes, I'm pulling a Jay Leno on you...

Tip of the month

What's wrong with the book title below, featured on Amazon.com's UK site?

You spotted it right away, didn't you? What? You didn't? This is a total gimme!

There is no such word as alot. The proper spelling of the two words comprising this mash-up that will not go away is A LOT. Two words. A. Lot. Meaning "many" or "much."

There's a reason that squiggly red line appears when you type "alot"--it's because your computer is screaming at you that the word doesn't exist.

And don't tell me you're one of those people who just adds another "L" to make the red line go away. Because "allot" means "to divide" or "to give out," as in: "The government will allot one chicken for every pot."

It's simple, people...use your thumb for something besides text messaging, hit the space bar and join the unhooked generation!

*In fairness to the author and publisher of the above-mentioned book, A Lot is spelled correctly on the book's cover.

Put the thesaurus down and back slowly away

Read the following (thanks to Danielle Oviatt, "The Shrew") and tell me what you think:

Out of my orifices of vision crept tentitive (sic) droplets of salinity as I recalled Mama in the waning days of August, thirty-four summers ago. The tears crawled out softly murmuring, 'We know it's not easy to let us go, but until you do--only then can we flow as a river with an angst-ridden memory and cleanse this face of a pain unforgotten.'

Bouncing along to the rhythm of my sobs, seated near the aft of the bus enrout (sic) to work...

Impressed? Wondering if the writer is a Mensa candidate? Electrified by the spectacular prose?

Me neither. You're annoyed, as well you should be. The text has been over-thesaurusized. (Of course, that's only the tip of the purple-prose iceberg, and I'm not jumping into the freezing north Atlantic without a diving bell and a red pen.) The writer fell prey to one of the most prevalent misconceptions in writing: Don't use a one-syllable word if you can find a four-syllable equivalent. Don't use one word when five will do.

Now, I admit that I have, on occasion, succumbed to the siren song of old Roget. In writing my first novel at age 14, I might have, uh, accidentally described a breeze as a "whispered plash." (My face burns at the memory.) So while I understand the temptation, who popularized the idea that using words no one's ever heard of makes you sound smarter? Off with his head, I say. The insanity must stop.

When it comes to writing, shorter is better. Fewer words beats more words. (Remember Hemingway. Even if you hate his obsession with war and bullfighting and fishing.) The simple word trumps the complex.  This is because your goal always is for your reader to continue reading, without stopping to scratch his head, or to mark the passage to laugh at with friends later.

The other side of this same counterfeit coin is the idea that people get tired of reading the same old verbs and nouns all the time--such as said, walk and, as in the above example, eyes and tears. No doubt the writer believed s/he was being creative. But what s/he actually did was write accidental comedy. And as we all know, accidental comedy is sad and pathetic comedy.

So how should the above passage have read? A better rendition might be:

I cried, remembering Mama as she was in the summer of 1973. I sat in the back of the bus on the way to work...

I'm not even going to try to address the issue of crawling, softly murmuring tears. Creeps me out too much.

If you’re still not clear, below is an example of how a thesauro-phile might rewrite one of the most famous poems in the English language:

I have gormandized

the violaceous stone fruit genus Plumus

that occupied dominion in

the refrigeration unit

 

and which

you were expediently ensconcing

for the morningtide collation

 

palliate me

they were ambrosial

nectareous

and hyperborean

To cleanse your palate, the real thing appears below. This Is Just to Say, by the brilliant William Carlos Williams, is a glorious example of simple, elegant language:

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

There. Don't your feel better? I know I do.