Telling it like it is: avoiding euphemisms

Euphemisms are substitute words or terms we sometimes use to replace other words or terms. Why? Perhaps we are trying to be delicate, to avoid a touchy subject, or perhaps to disguise an awful reality. No matter the purpose, euphemisms should be recognized when other writers use them but strictly avoided in our own writing.

Sometimes the impetus for using a euphemism is simply politeness. Consider the terms “passing” or “passed away” for “death” or “died.” We sometimes use the former terms in order to take the sting out of a traumatic occurrence. So while “passing” or “passed away” is okay in a sympathy card to a friend, go with straightforward words like “death” or “died” when writing an essay

Advertising is riddled with euphemisms. Here’s one I’ve noticed in recent years. When I was younger and wanted to buy a car that was not brand new, I went to a place called the used car lot and purchased a used car. Nowadays, however, dealerships have fallen in love with the term “pre-owned” to describe such vehicles. Why the change in terminology? I guess it just sounds better (and somehow more hygienic) to take possession of a “pre-owned” car versus a car that’s been used and abused and now belongs to you! But let’s not kid ourselves. A pre-owned vehicle is still just a used car.

Have you ever eaten a chicken “drumstick”? That term is also a euphemism. It was coined during the Victorian era of the late 1800s. The notoriously uptight Victorians thought that chicken parts with names like thigh and leg and breast were far too suggestive, and so they invented prudish alternative terms like drumstick to hide their embarrassment.

While the examples of “pre-owned” and “drumstick” border on silliness, euphemisms sometimes derive from more devious motives. Take the term “collateral damage.” When a Pentagon spokesperson announces that a U.S. bombing mission created “collateral damage,” we gather that our bombs blew up buildings (schools? hospitals?) we didn’t mean to blow up and killed people (civilians? children?) we didn’t mean to kill. But the sterile, antiseptic term “collateral damage” bleaches out the visceral horror of what really happened. This type of language abuse is disturbingly reminiscent of George Orwell’s “Newspeak” from 1984.

As a reader, it is important to recognize when others use euphemisms, but when it comes to your own writing, don’t use them. Always mean exactly what you say, and say exactly what you mean!

© 2014 Bob Dial.  All rights reserved.

Breaking the rules? You’ve got some explaining to do!

In her entertaining book about punctuation (no, that’s not an oxymoron) Eats, Shoots & Leaves, author Lynne Truss applies this “rather unfair rule” to student writers tempted to experiment like best-selling novelists with the intentional comma splice: “only do it if you’re famous.”

Intentionally breaking the rules of grammar for stylistic purposes can be a liberating and exhilarating exercise. My advice about this is to reserve experimentation for personal writing or for assignments in a creative writing class. For the traditional college paper, you should obey the rules.

If, however, you believe it is stylistically necessary to break a grammatical rule in your paper, I suggest two courses of action:

1.) Alert your professor about your intention before your paper is due. Point out that intentional sentence fragment or comma splice, and explain your reasons for wanting to use it.

2.) Have a reason for using it! If you break a rule, you must have a superb reason for doing so and be able to articulate that reason to your professor.

Here is a great example from Eats, Shoots & Leaves. Lynne Truss engages in a debate with her publisher about the Oxford comma in one of her sentences. The Oxford, or serial, comma is the last comma before “and” in a series. For example: I like potatoes, hamburgers, hot dogs, grilled cheese sandwiches, and BLTs. The last comma in this sentence is the so-called Oxford comma.

Truss writes:

For example, in the introduction to this book ... I allude to punctuation marks as the traffic signals of language: “they tell us to slow down, notice this, take a detour, and stop.” And, well, I argued for that Oxford comma. It seemed to me that without the comma after “detour”, this was a list of three instructions (the last a double one), not four. And here was a case where the stylistic reasons for its inclusion clearly outweighed the grammatical ones for taking it out. This was a decelerating sentence. The commas were incrementally applying the brakes. To omit the comma after “detour” would have the sentence suddenly coasting at speed again instead of slowing to a final halt.

If you can explain your reasons for making a stylistic decision as clearly and succinctly as Truss does in her remarks above, then I imagine your professor will approve it.

And, as an aside, re-read the first sentence of this blog post (Truss’s “entertaining book about punctuation”). There’s an important lesson implicit in that phrase: Good writing can make even the most prosaic topics interesting; dull writing can make the most interesting subject in the world dreary and boring.

PS -- check out Weird Al Yankovic's new parody song about grammatical errors, "Word Crimes":

© 2014 Bob Dial.  All rights reserved.

Use parallel structure for unparalleled sentences

Source: photo taken by the author.

Source: photo taken by the author's
 father-in-law, Benedict Caccia.

Sometimes a writer needs to think like an architect. Surely, you've seen photographs of classical architecture, with its emphasis on balance and order. If two Doric columns are placed to the left of a doorway, then you can bet two identical columns will be to the right of the doorway too. Then there is modern architecture, where the patterns are more wild and free, like an imitation of nature itself. To continue this analogy, modern architecture makes a good model for some types of contemporary creative writing -- free-verse poetry and postmodern fiction, for example. But if you're writing the traditional college essay, then classical architecture provides a more appropriate model.

This brings us to the idea of parallel structure in writing. Remember the matching Doric columns on either side of the doorway? That same sense of balance applies to sentences and paragraphs too. Here is a simple example: I like to hunt, to fish, and camping. Clearly, this sentence irritates the ear because the final third of the sentence fails to fulfill expectations created by the first two-thirds. Two infinitive verbs (to hunt, to fish) are followed by a gerund (-ing verb), disrupting the anticipated sequence. The sentence above is out of parallel, and should be corrected by writing either I like to hunt, to fish, and to camp or I like hunting, fishing, and camping.

A much more sophisticated example comes from the classic book Walden, when Henry David Thoreau explains why he chose to seclude himself in a cabin in the woods:

I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.

Now look at the same passage below with the relevant words and phrases highlighted that tie the passage together and create parallel structure.

I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.

Thoreau employs the parallel structure of "to [verb] … and [verb]” as in “to cut … and shave” in order to artfully bind his lengthy sentence together. Now it’s your turn to try and write a sentence so skillfully!

Of course, Thoreau's honesty and insight make his writing memorable more than any grammar or technical tricks. That's why Walden, published in the 1850s, still speaks to us in 2014 and continues to be a work of unparalleled power and elegance.

© 2014 Bob Dial.  All rights reserved.

Words can wound

Source: photo taken by the author.

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me. Anyone scarred by life long enough knows how false this children’s chant can be. Words can be used to illuminate, to enlighten, to describe beauty … and also to criticize, to satirize, and to expose injustice. Any of these uses is legitimate. But words can also be used as weapons. Words can wound. And as with any potential weapon, words must be handled with care.

It is telling that when George Orwell ends his classic essay “Politics and the English Language” with a list of rules for clear and honest language, the sixth and final rule is: “Break any of these rules sooner than say anything barbarous.” Orwell was a master prose writer; he understood the power of language, in both its use and misuse.

One area where an inexperienced writer might inadvertently fall into using hurtful language is satire. Just always keep in mind that the ultimate purpose of satire is to identify a problem in society and to propose some sort of change to make the world a better place. Your satiric target should be a person (or institution) of influence. Making fun of the helpless is not satire, it’s cruelty.

As a young newspaper reporter, immature and pretentious, I once wrote a column about Al Campanis, the baseball executive who got into trouble in the 1980s for making televised comments that reinforced racial stereotypes. In my criticism of Campanis, I compared his type of talk to “blue-collar bar room banter.” No doubt, at the time, I was pleased with myself for this glib line with its alliteration. Soon afterward, though, the writer of a letter to the editor took me to task for my shortsightedness in equating blue-collar jobs with stereotypical views about race. That letter writer was absolutely correct, and I learned a valuable lesson.

As a writer, you must learn to cultivate the basic human trait of empathy. Oftentimes, I‘ve used a newspaper column (hyperlinked below) by former USA Today writer Theresa Howard in my classes to provoke discussion about this topic. Howard, the mother of a child with Down Syndrome, writes eloquently about the pain that thoughtless use of the word “retard” has caused her through the years. I find her column especially poignant because Theresa was a student newspaper colleague and friend of mine in college. Her column is well worth reading -- http://usatoday30.usatoday.com/news/opinion/2007-07-04-opcom_N.htm.

© 2014 Bob Dial.  All rights reserved.

In Conclusion, --

Source: photo taken by the author.

Raise your hand if you hate to write conclusions. If you’re sitting in a room somewhere raising your hand right now, then you’re just like me. My first (awful) instinct is usually to write “In conclusion,” followed by a restatement of my introductory paragraph. This may be the worst conclusion in the history of conclusions, so I must always fight my instinct to end that way.

The conclusion is a critical paragraph in your paper. That’s because it creates the final impression that a reader takes away from your essay. Your first nine paragraphs could be stellar, but if your tenth and final paragraph is tepid or repetitive or unsatisfactory in some other regard, it ruins the good will you’ve earned from the reader up to that point.

So if “In conclusion,” followed by a regurgitation of your introduction is a horrible conclusion (trust me, it is), then how can you craft a better way to wrap up your essay? There are a myriad of methods. Here are just a few examples:

1. End with a memorable quotation. Find that perfect quotation that puts a strong punctuation mark on your essay. By the same token, you could end with a few lines of memorable dialogue.

2. Issue a call for action. Many college papers identify a problem and perhaps offer a possible solution(s). End with a “call for action” to solve the problem you’re identified.

3. Make a prediction. Some essays are speculative. Perhaps your conclusion can look forward into the future.

4. Come full circle. If executed poorly, this type of ending can come dangerously close to the horrible “restate your introduction” conclusion. However, if you began with a narrative or anecdotal introduction, then returning the reader to the scene of that original anecdote in your conclusion adds power to your writing. “Coming full circle” is just a brief reminder, however, not a complete restatement of the original anecdote.

There are many other types of conclusions, but what more can I say? In conclusion, I’m done!

© 2014 Bob Dial.  All rights reserved.

Your essay vs. Kim Kardashian

Source: photo taken by the author.

Hey writer, did you know that you’re in competition with Kim Kardashian? Yup. Right now, while you’re in school, your college professor or high school English teacher gets paid to read your compositions. But after your formal schooling ends, no one will ever again have to read what you’ve written. So you better make damn sure your writing is interesting; otherwise, the attention of your potential readers will wander to other obligations or pastimes, whether that pile of laundry that needs washing or the latest issue of People magazine with a cover story about – you guessed it – Kim Kardashian.

Gaining (and holding) the interest of readers is a step-by-step process that begins with your title. Every piece of writing should have a title, and it should be a title that makes someone curious to read what you’ve written. Start with a working title that you know will change later on. Personally, I like to write a piece first, and then search out an interesting phrase or line from my own composition to use as a title. Of course, there are bad titles. Here’s one: “English Composition 101 Comparison-Contrast Paper.” Yawn! Frankly, that title makes me want to crack open that People magazine and see what the Kardashians have been up to lately. You can do better.

My own theory is that a compelling title will persuade a reader to read your first sentence. An interesting first sentence will buy you a reader’s attention through your first paragraph. That captivating first paragraph will convince a reader to read a few more paragraphs. And so on. In this way, you can coax a reader through your piece. The first sentence is the most important sentence, and the first paragraph is the most important paragraph.

One important caveat: Never let cleverness supersede clarity and accuracy. If your writing can be clever in addition to being clear and accurate, then that’s great. But clarity and accuracy ALWAYS come first.

Now, I can only hope you have read all the way to the end of this blog post and that People magazine has remained unopened on the coffee table!

© 2014 Bob Dial.  All rights reserved.

Synonyms aren’t.

Source: photo taken by the author.

English vocabulary is blessed with a plethora of synonyms that provide writers a rich palette for “painting” powerful and vivid images in words. As we all remember from elementary school, synonyms are different words that have the same meaning. We have so many of them because English is a “mongrel language” that began life as a Germanic tongue but was subsequently injected with French, Latin, various Scandinavian languages, and more recently, Spanish (among others). In the 1800s, Mr. Roget thoughtfully codified synonyms for us in his famous Thesaurus. Today, of course, students are much more likely to right-click in Microsoft Word to find a synonym in a pick-list than they are to thumb through a dog-eared Thesaurus, but either way, here’s a dirty little secret about synonyms …

They really aren’t. (Most of them, anyway.) They may have the same (or similar) denotation but most likely don’t have the same connotation. Denotation is the literal, primary definition of a word. If you’re writing directions for taking aspirin, then you’ll want to remain safely in the realm of denotation. Connotation, on the other hand, refers to what a word suggests or implies, oftentimes rooted in a word’s history (or etymology). For example, the word “sinister” means evil or wicked, but it’s also important to recognize that the word derives from the Latin word sinister, meaning left-handed. The nimble word “dexterity,” on the other hand (yes, pun intended), derives from the Latin word dexter, meaning right-handed. You can ruminate on the inherent unfairness of this distinction, but using these words effectively requires some understanding of their respective histories. The key to understanding words is to use a comprehensive dictionary that includes word roots, derivations and etymology. The gold-standard of dictionaries is the Oxford English Dictionary (OED), but any reputable hardcover dictionary is better than a paperback version good only for basic denotations.

Frequently, what a word connotes is charged with emotion. To use two simple examples, take “ground” vs. “earth” and “house” vs. “home.” Ground and earth can both describe the soil under your feet, but clearly you want to choose the word earth if you aim for an emotional connection with the reader. Earth implies growing crops and earthy smells: Mother Earth. Ground is merely ground. Similarly, the word home invokes emotional connotations of family and origin in a way that the sterile word house does not. Home is irreplaceable; house is interchangeable. Sometimes the connotation of "synonyms" can carry value judgments and reveal unfairness. In terms of sexism, consider the slang words "stud" and "'slut," both of which describe a person who sleeps around, but one is accusatory while the other is complimentary.

Diction, the process of making precise word choices, is essential to lively writing. There is ALWAYS one perfect word that will serve your purpose, and many others that will not. As Mark Twain memorably put it, “The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter—’tis the difference between the lightning-bug and the lightning.” So find the absolutely precise words to match your meaning and let your writing strike like lightning!

© 2014 Bob Dial.  All rights reserved.

Avoid clichés like the plague!

Source: photo taken by the author.

Clichés are tired, worn-out, hackneyed expressions. Through decades (or centuries) of overuse, they have lost all of their vitality and originality – like that overplayed song on the radio you can’t stand to listen to anymore. Ironically, today’s clichés began life as yesterday’s striking and original images and metaphors. They were so good, in fact, that they became victims of their own popularity. Today, we understand a cliché like “it’s raining cats and dogs outside” to mean it’s raining heavily outside, but the imagery behind this cliché is lost on us. It has become a meaningless way of simply saying “it’s raining hard outside,” which is better because at least it’s direct and clear.

In first-draft writing, clichés organically pop up like weeds in a garden. That’s because writers tend to plow through first drafts without stopping or censoring themselves, and clichés spring readily to mind. This is ordinary. In revision, however, it is vital to eliminate all clichés. Writing, like gardening, requires the vigilant pulling of weeds.

But how does one go about this process of weeding? There are two techniques. First, you can replace the cliché with a straightforward statement as in the example above. Instead of writing “it’s raining cats and dogs outside,” simply state that “it’s raining hard outside” or “it’s pouring outside.” A more fun and challenging technique is to think of a fresh, creative way to express the thought behind the cliché. To continue the rain example, perhaps you could write “it’s raining down like a boxer’s blows.” This, of course, is not a great example. Given sufficient time and mental exertion, you can think of a better one, but you get the idea.

And in this way, your vivid, original phrase could someday become tomorrow’s cliché to be avoided!

© 2014 Bob Dial.  All rights reserved.

The thing about being vague...

Source: photo taken by the author.

Has your College Composition professor returned one (or more) of your papers marked up with the words “vague” or “too abstract”? Alternatively, perhaps you were urged to be more “specific” or “concrete” in your writing?

Vague writing lacks concrete, specific details and tends to induce sleep in readers. Two words I almost invariably circle in student writing and mark as vague are “things” and “something.” These are the kind of words that slip easily into first-draft writing, but must be hunted ruthlessly while revising and replaced with better words.

In the revision stage of my own writing, whenever I find myself using the word “thing” or “things,” I always ask myself, “What is the thing that I’m thinking of?” The answer to that deceptively simple question will usually be a stronger, more specific word.

For example, take the vague sentence, “This is one of the things that prevents people from achieving their dreams.” Try my method of asking, “What are the things that I’m thinking of?” Are they obstacles? Barriers? Traps? Any of these words is more precise (and therefore better) than “things.”

Two other words I frequently circle as vague are “aspects” and “facets.” These words are often used to describe various sides of an issue. Technically, a “facet” is a face on a cut gemstone. The more facets a diamond has, the shinier it tends to be. Both “aspects” and “facets” have become bland clichés and should be replaced with fresher, more specific language.

I hope this brief discussion will help you avoid being vague. You’re a college writer now. It’s time to be specific!

 © 2014 Bob Dial.  All rights reserved.