Bloody Well Write

Here’s the deal.

No one knows how to pronounce every word that’s out there. I sure don’t. And even though I have a pretty good grasp on how to pronounce the average word — a big part of my job includes having an understanding of a decent-sized lexicon — I also know that there’s a whole lot (and I mean a serious ton) that I don’t know.

That’s where research comes in — say, a dictionary, especially the new-fangled ones on the Internet that will actually tell you in some bookish man’s voice just what a particular word is supposed to sound like.

Merriam-Webster’s Web site is a fantastic example. Just look up a word and click on the little, red pronunciation icon. Presto! You’ll know how to pronounce the word.

Here’s the thing, though. Sometimes, two icons are shown. What does this mean? It means that there are two possible pronunciations. The primary (i.e., most acceptable) pronunciation can be heard from the first — or left — icon.

Take, for example, the word Italian. Merriam-Webster shows two icons. Click on the first icon, and you’ll hear it pronounced Italian (sounds like i-TAL-yan, with the initial I sounding like the I in it).

I like that. That makes sense to me. When you’re in Florence or Rome, you’re in the country of Italy, not Eyetaly. So why would you put I-talian (instead of Italian) dressing on a salad?

Now, click on the second icon, and you’ll hear it pronounced like EYE-TAL-yan.

Oh, mamma mia!

A couple of things (and no more, because I hear the proverbial nails scratching their way down the chalkboard) about this EYE-TAL-yan pronunciation:

• It’s not the first (i.e., primary, left) listing under Merriam-Webster. And if it’s not the first, then it’s not the favored — in the United States, anyway. Very often, the second sound bite is for European spellings or pronunciations, particularly British. But there are plenty of Brits who would scoff at the mention of anything EYE-TAL-yan. And another thing: That second mention can also represent the pronunciation that’s “out there,” roaming unsuperivsed in public. That absolutely does not make it right. Lots of things are out there and you wouldn’t choose to try them all, correct? Just because your friend wants to jump off a cliff doesn’t mean that … well, you get the drift.
• It butts two strong syllable sounds (EYE and TAL) next to each other. This doesn’t help the flow of the word. And Italian (excuse me, i-TAL-yan) is all about the beauty of the language, the lyrical flow. Emphasizing that initial I (EYE) is just too much to bear.

So you’re going to Italy, going to eat some Italian food and see some Italian cinema. Cool.

Arrivederci!

(That’s happy trails!)

SAK

One of the most popular demographic maps on the Net these days is one that shows how people across the United States refer to the carbonated drinks that help round out the ubiquitous value meals.

Soda.
Pop.
Soda pop.
Coke.
Cola.
Soft drink.
Fizzy drink.
Sugar water.
Tonic.
Dope.
Sludge.

Good grief. Those add up to a lot of descriptors. So what’s the lowdown?

Lucky for me, someone else did the research, polled the peeps and plotted the map; I get to just relay the info. So here are the results of who says what where (click on the map for a detailed view):

Pop vs. Soda Map (image: http://tastyresearch.files.wordpress.com/2006/10/popvssodamap.png)

Soda — derived from soda water (sodium bicarbonate with acid, which is where all the fizz comes from) — is the word of choice for those in the Northeast, Southwest and, oddly enough, the St. Louis area.

Pop — introduced in 1812 by English poet Robert Southey describing “a new manufactory of a nectar, between soda-water and ginger-beer, and called pop, because ‘pop goes the cork’ when it is drawn, and pop you would go off too, if you drank too much of it” — is predominant throughout the Midwest and Northwest, as well as Canada and Britain.

Coke — probably a popular moniker because of the Georgia-based Coca-Cola plant — rules the South.

Other terms are much less popular in the U.S., although some seem to have staying power, such as soft drink, which tends to be used on menus. Australians and New Zealanders prefer soft drink, as well, although lolly water sometimes wins over in Australia. Brits tend to order a pop or fizzy drink, while thirsty Scots order a ginger. Tonic gets the nod in the Northeast, especially in Massachusetts. Sludge wins out for those who think that all of the sodas and colas are a waste of money and terribly unhealthy, no matter where they live.

A cola, by the way, refers to the caramel color of the drink, so clear or other-colored drinks (e.g., Sprite, 7Up, Crush, Mt. Dew) aren’t technically colas.

The AP Stylebook (at least my 2007 copy, anyway) doesn’t mention the soda-vs.-pop controversy specifically, but it does describe several trademarked drinks as soft drinks, so that would be my suggestion if you’re writing or speaking publicly about such carbonated delights.

Me? I was born and raised in the Midwest, lived on the West Coast and in Colorado and adore New York and New England — and I tend to call the carbonated stuff coke.

But I prefer Diet Pepsi.

Happy trails!

SAK

For word wizards and the general public alike, the issue of pronunciation has reached feverish levels ever since the new year crept up on us all. How in the heck are we supposed to pronounce “2010″? Is it “two thousand, ten”? Or “two thousand and ten”? Or “twenty-ten”?

If you’re regular readers of Bloody Well Write, you already know my propensity toward anything AP Stylebook-recommended. This is no exception.

Happy twenty-ten to you and yours (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/neldiogo/2775775175)

Via Twitter, the AP Stylebook has recommended it thus:

Attn. @…, @… and the others who’ve asked:
AP is pronouncing 2010 as “twenty-ten.”

Twenty-ten. There you have it. Happy new year, indeed.

Happy trails!

SAK

I recently stopped by my parents’ house to, among other things, pick up some of my old toys and books so that they could reclaim part of their basement and so that my kids could benefit from new stimulation. An added bonus is that I can get a kick out of seeing them play with my childhood stuff and read the stories that I used to enjoy to my own kiddos.

Concerning the books, I flipped through each one, thrilled that I remembered it. Then I packed up all my old goodies and went home, distributing books according to which ones I thought each child would enjoy. Never mind that the task wasn’t all that hard since I only have two girls; it’s the concept that counts, right?

But then something disturbing occurred. I started reading these stories to my girls. And, while I absolutely remember the artwork — the lazy balloons floating around while the two kids planned a party for their mom in “The Birthday Party” or the puddle-jumper, snoozing bear and struggling seed in “Splish Splash” or the great-great-grandfather wearing the alligator’s skin in “Old Hasdrubal” — I didn’t remember the stories much at all.

So the holiday went by and I woke up one morning, disturbed from a dream about these books. It seemed clear as a bell: Why should I bother writing anything at all? Because when it comes down to it, I don’t remember the words; the pictures are the triggers, the stuff that memories are made of.

Well, that’s a fairly disconcerting feeling for a writer to have, let me tell you. Especially for a writer who can’t draw a picture of anything, save a happy face — and even those don’t always turn out so hot.

So how do I reconcile my realization with my reality?

Well, folks, if you haven’t figured it out by now (and I’d bet that you have), we humans are excellent justifiers. One of our most effective coping mechanisms is justification. So by my reasoning, I should keep on writing for a few reasons:

• I can. This seems pretty important, as it translates across many areas of life. I do this because I am able to, while others don’t necessarily have the opportunity (e.g., physical, emotional, monetary and/or logical disabilities).
• I probably can’t do the other thing, or at least do it well. I can’t become a painter or sculptor (one who could make a decent living at it).
• Someone has to do it. So I can’t paint a face or do an über-modern dance very well; I can write. I’ve been told as much, and I have the training for it and apparently an audience that thinks my writing is somewhat interesting. And it’s not costing me anything except time, so what’s the holdup?
• There are stories to be told, ideas to pass around. I haven’t ventured into fiction writing much, but I’m OK at passing on valid information (thank the gods for the AP Stylebook). Lifelong learning is a good thing for sure, and as I write entries for this blog to help others understand often-dry subject matter, I learn a lot, either about myself or most certainly the topic at hand.
• I have to bring in some cashola. Money talks — yes it does. It ain’t everything, but it’s something.
• I should contribute. Something, somehow. You, me, us — we can’t (or shouldn’t) go through life just gliding along. Trying to further ourselves, our fellow human beings, animal friends and earth should somehow come into play. Not that you should read my blog to your cat or stop your recycler to chat about verb agreement, but you get my drift. Think globally, act locally. You do your part, and I’ll do mine. Whatever it is that you can do, do it well. I can’t tell a joke to save a drowning pup, but I can write, so I write.

So. I still wish that I could be successful with a paintbrush, but I’m OK with my version of art. Writing well can be very technical, but it can also be an art — as is whatever you do well. Keep that in mind.

Happy 2010 to you and yours.

Happy trails!

SAK

I recently went up to Kansas City to see some friends, have some amazing food, catch a few comfy Z’s and see a football game. I did all that, but I also came home with a nice little surprise: a new topic for a Bloody Well Write entry.

First, a quick mention about the food. If you’re ever in Kansas City and are looking for a fantastic Italian meal in a quaint, romantic little ristorante, look no further than Carmen’s in Brookside. Ask to sit downstairs — I prefer the intimate atmosphere — and request some Italian Butter to start; it’s their version of olive oil and herbs, but I tell you that it is absolutely like none you have ever had.

I order off the menu, à la “When Harry Met Sally,” combining the cheese ravioli from one dish with the vodka tomato cream sauce from another, with a little fra diavolo thrown in to spice things up a bit. And ba-da-BING! It’s the tastiest, smoothest Italian around. No lie.

OK, so back to the grammar bit of this entry. So I’m in the hotel room — the one with the lush, fresh-white bedding and soaps the shape of leaves, with the cool city view — and I am piddling around, waiting until it’s time to go meet our friends. And I pick up this water bottle hang tag, with one word on it, for emphasis: revitalize.

That’s pretty cool. Decent marketing, colors fading from blue to snow white (very spalike), with some smallish print across the bottom: Westin® Hotels and Resorts. Nice little water logo. Then more words:

Nestle Pure Life Eco Shaped Bottles
Less Plastic. Better Enviornment.

So — reread that. See how many mistakes you can find in those two little lines.

By my count, I’d say that there are, at the minimum, five mistakes. There are more if you want to keep the lowercase consistency set by the headline (revitalize). And the periods? Don’t get me started. (OK, get me started. the headline doesn’t use a period, and neither does the first line, but the second line has two. Go figure.)

So what are the five mistakes?

1. There is no ® after Nestle.
2. There is no hyphen between Eco and Shaped.
3. The S in Shaped, since it should follow a hyphen, should be lowercase.
4. If there are two periods in the second line, there is no excuse why there shouldn’t be one at the end of the first line. (None of those groups of words are complete sentences.)
5. Enviornment. Seriously? This is for a national chain, for Pete’s sake. I know that it’s a four-syllable word, but my silly spell-checker caught it, so come ON.

I just checked out Nestle’s site to make sure that it uses a registered trademark (®) and, unbelievably, the site does not have one on the main page, even though products (such as Nestle® Cheerios®) have one next to the name. That sort of thing happens all the time. It blows my mind, especially on these enormous accounts.

I’ll end this little study in proofreading by saying that, despite this crazy hang tag, I had a really, really good time in Kansas City. And I’d even recommend the Westin Crown Center hotel to any friend or acquaintance. Just don’t plan on any solid ultra-light reading in the room.

Happy trails!

SAK

So I’m a word gal; this much is true. I find it quite difficult to read books (adult books, anyway) for relaxation or enjoyment because the majority of my day is spent either writing my own words or editing someone else’s words, so I don’t think reading a few chapters at night sound like a whole lot of fun. I guess I’m not the typical word hound, then, since most do tend to like, um, books and, er, reading.

Fine. I’m OK with that.

I do, however, enjoy reading to my two kids at night. Their books are fun, rhyming, colorful short (short!) stories with cool illustrations. And since it’s the holidays, we’re reading a few books that I grew up with — “Rudolph, the Red-nosed Reindeer” and Christmas in Many Lands” — as well as a few new ones, such as “Elf on the Shelf” (we named ours Leo and today he’s perched on top of our refrigerator) and “Olive, the Other Reindeer.”

Ah, Olive. If only your creators knew the difference between every day and everyday, reading would be ever-so-slightly more enjoyable for me, the word dork.

You see, “Olive, the Other Reindeer” starts out by botching the very first word, which means that I have to put on my tattered editor hat throughout the rest of the reading. It’s just innate for me. I can’t get through the book now without cringing on the very first page.

(Technically, it starts off even earlier than the first page: The title has punctuation in it. Ugh. A period is tacked on. Not sure why, it just is. Weird.)

Anyway, the story begins, “Everyday, Olive took her daily dog walk ….” In this instance, everyday should take the adverb form (two words) because it is expressing a manner of time. Were it meant to be an adjective, it would be modifying a noun of some sort. Alas, that is not the case at the beginning of this story.

To keep the adverb-adjective relationship straight, I like to (still) think of the Schoolhouse Rock snippets:

• Adverb — “Lolly, Lolly, Lolly, get your adverbs here. … How, where or when, condition or reason — these questions are answered when you use an adverb.” If it ends in ly and the ly isn’t a regular part of the word (as in family), then it’s probably an adverb. The phrase every day answers the question of when, so it’s an adverb.

• Adjective — These handy, little words “describe the people, places and every last thing” and “are often used to help us compare things. … We hiked along without care. Then we ran into a bear. He was a hairy bear. He was a scary bear. We beat a hasty retreat from his lair.”

Cool, huh?

Back to “Olive, the Other Reindeer” for just a second. The book, written by Vivian Walsh and J. Otto Seibold, is a fun children’s book. The story is cute; it’s about an industrious little dog who thinks that she’s a reindeer, so she goes to the North Pole to help Santa out. The pages are filled with quirky, fun illustrations by Seibold; I especially love the two pages that show the reindeer navigating around the Eiffel Tower. Despite the everyday blunder, this book’s worth the read.

Happy trails!

SAK

This is just a quick entry to welcome you to the new and still-in-the-works Bloody Well Write. All the same information can still be found on this improved version, and it will remain a grammar and all-things-language-related site; only the look of it has changed. I hope you like the upgrade. It should be easier to read — shorter columns are easier on the eye. I like it a lot.

In fact, it’s very similar to my other site, All You Create, which has all the same info (grammar, language, word stuff) plus entries on other topics, such as health, food and exercise. All You Create is the place that I unload all sorts of ideas about all sorts of topics. So if you’re researching language-related stuff, visit Bloody Well Write, and if you’re in the mood to be surprised, check out All You Create. That’s my plug and I’m sticking to it.

Look for a new Bloody Well Write entry shortly. Until then, hope you all had a wonderful Green Bean Casserole Day and are ready for the holidays.

Happy trails!

SAK

OK, so this isn’t the most fun entry to write; it still needs to be addressed, so here goes.

Everyone alive is going to die. That’s just how it is. Not fun, but accurate. However, not everyone alive is going to be killed.

That’s very good news.

The bad news is that those who are killed are the very unfortunate ones who die violently and at the hand of at least one very uncool person. And that is, indubitably, putting it mildly.

Let’s take a look at Bob Marley’s “I Shot the Sheriff.” The storyteller says that he shot the sheriff — but it was self-defense. Self-defense or no, if the sheriff dies due to complications from being shot, that would be considered dying a violent death, in which case anyone writing about it could write, “The sheriff was killed.”

So what about the deputy? Did he (assuming that the deputy’s a male) also die? Did he see the sheriff go down and freaked out so much that he went into cardiac arrest right then and there? If so, he died; he wasn’t killed.

Or is there more to the story? Did he get shot, as well? Did the storyteller shoot the deputy but is now lying about it? Or was there a second shooter? Did anyone check the bullet’s exit wound? Where’s the grassy knoll? If this scenario is valid, then he died, but he was also killed.

As the worst of two evils, killed trumps died.

Here’s another example. Let’s say that John Doe has an incurable disease and passes away from complications of that disease. This means that John has died.

Now let’s say that John has an incurable disease and is walking down the sidewalk to his umpteenth visit with his physician when he gets hit by a car driven by his ex-girlfriend, who just can’t get over him and thinks that he has been stepping out on her (she’s a lunatic, mind you). She thinks that all of John’s visits to the female doctor have been dates, and this ex has had it. So she’s decided to sideswipe John. After all, if she can’t have him, nobody can. So John is hit by the car and dies from his injuries. This means that, yes, John has died, but John has been killed.

I suppose you could argue that certain diseases are violent. I’d probably agree with you and say that just about any way to die is violent; I’m avoiding the whole death thing as best as I can. But it’s up to writers to use distinguishing language that gets across exactly what is meant. Hazy definitions are for weathermen, not writers.

It’s all in the details, folks.

So, to overkill a topic:

• Died = nonviolent death
• Was Killed = violent death

Happy trails!

SAK

Believe you me, I hear — or see in print — those seemingly innocuous little words and phrases, such as honestly, sincerely, frankly, to tell you the truth and believe me, a lot. And when I say a lot, I really mean a lot.

I’m probably guilty of using a few of them in writings. Why? Not sure, really. Perhaps I was trying to emphasize something. To prove that I absolutely knew what I was writing about. To seem über-sincere. To up my word count for ENGL 726.

No matter. I didn’t fool anyone worth fooling. I absolutely didn’t fool my ENGL 726 professor.

The point is, truly (!), that whenever I come across one of those words or phrases these days, I automatically doubt the rest of the story. If it must begin with To tell the truth, what else am I supposed to believe but that everything that has come before is of questionable validity? You’ve been spoon-feeding me a big, fat lie up until this point but, to tell you the truth, the rest of what’s to come is honest-to-goodness true stuff. Yeah, that sounds trustworthy and believable. Hmph.

Honestly, how else am I supposed to react? Those phrases have flim-flam man written all over them.

The idea here is this: Say what you mean to say. Don’t add silly phrases that make you seem insincere; just be sincere. Say what you mean and mean what you say — don’t say that you mean it. Say it, don’t spray it. (Oh, wait a minute. That’s for another entry.)

Happy trails!

SAK

Here’s an ideal example of the way I thought as a young girl growing up.

I thought, for sure, that if I believed in something “hard enough” — as in almost bugging my eyes out while holding my breath or just willing something to happen with my awesome, mind-bending power — I could make something become true. Granted, the thing I was usually willing with all my might was usually something that had been sitting on the proverbial fence, like would the folks let me have some saltwater taffy at the next rest stop? Or would my parents not care that much that my peas were hidden in the tiny mound of mashed potatoes still left on my plate? (I liked the potatoes, otherwise it would’ve been a massive mound of mashed potatoes hiding the rogue peas.) I thought that I could will my body into producing boys when the time came for children. I believed that I could will myself out of paralysis if the situation were to come up. Very Bionic Woman of me, I’d say.

Whoever did this doesn't know how to hide the peas very well (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kevinwhelan/420240541)

I’m getting to the point, believe it or not, so stick with me for just a little while longer.

Up until very recently, I thought that patronize was spelled two ways because it had two meanings. It made perfect sense to me. It should be pronounced PAY-tron-ize if it’s supposed to mean that you are frequenting someone’s shop or buying a company’s stuff on a regular basis. Why? Because you are a patron (PAY-tron), so you are PAY-tron-iz-ing the shop.

It should be pronounced PAH-tron-ize (as in “pat”) if it’s supposed to mean that you are being condescending or are being treated in a condescending manner. Again, it made perfect sense to me. It’s condescending, as if someone were patting you on the head, saying, “Now, now, little Nellie, you just run along and play and the big girls will take care of everything. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.” Patronizing should totally sound like getting patted on the head or, perhaps worse, doing the patting on someone else’s head. That’s linear logic.

But there’s this pesky little thing called research.

I checked into the pronunciation issue on the word. And you know what? I couldn’t will the two pronunciations to mean what I wanted them to mean. Even with all my logic and self-admittedly rock-star Internet research capabilities, I couldn’t come up with facts to back up my beliefs. So disconcerting.

But I’ve decided to bend my mind around the facts at hand. Here’s the real deal on the pronunciation of patronize:

• PAY-tron-ize = American English pronunciation
• PAH-tron-ize = British English pronunciation

That’s it. Just the bloody American vs. English thing again. Doesn’t matter which meaning you’re trying to convey — just which side of the pond you’re on. If you’re in the United States, use the PAY-tron-ize pronunciation; if your primary audience is Britain-bound, use PAH-tron-ize.

Maddening as all get-out. You say “to-MAY-to,” I say “to-MAH-to.” Thank goodness that life goes on.

By the way, I have two lovely, amazing girly-girls. No boys. Go figure.

Happy trails!

SAK