Bloody Well Write

This one has been bugging me for years — decades perhaps. Lo and behold, my mom asked me the other day how data is supposed to be pronounced, and I thought that it’s time I do an entry on it. So here goes.

My gut instinct was that data (sounds like DAY-tah) is the more common usage and, since the AP Stylebook tends to change such things as spellings and pronunciations based on frequency of use, it would probably choose to say DAY-tah.

My other gut instinct was that data (sounds like DA-tah, which slightly rhymes with batter, hatter, tatter) is the more technical usage, one that only scientists and English professors preferred.

Mad scientists don't need data to prove their madness (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/moria/232256824/)

So to research this little gem, I went to Merriam-Webster for clarification. The site has a pronunciation function that allows your computer to talk to you so that you can hear exactly what the word should sound like. And what do you think I found? Two little icons to click on. That means that the first icon (the one on the left) is the prominent, preferred American pronunciation. The one on the right is also acceptable, but it is more like the understudy to the left pronunciation, as well as being the British preference.

So. Data. What’s your guess? I hope that your guess was my guess, because then you’d be correct. Merriam-Webster lists DAY-tah as the primary pronunciation.

Problem solved.

Then there’s the issue of whether data deserves a singular or plural verb attached to it. But you know what? It’s Friday at beer:thirty and that’s a topic for another day — happy weekend to all you data hounds.

Happy trails!

SAK

Thank the gods for a husband who gives you topic after topic for your silly grammar blog.

Not sure what prompted him to think of it (and frankly, I don’t care — I just took it and ran), but my other half thought that I should write about a bald-faced lie versus a bold-faced lie. And wouldn’t you know it, there’s a third suspect in this mess, barefaced lie, and you know what that means: complication!

No, not really. It all makes good sense. Here’s the deal.

William Shakespeare: neither barefaced nor (100 percent) bald, but bold nonetheless (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/baronbrian/4139672758)

Barefaced lie

This is the mother of them all. Dating back to the late 1500s, barefaced started out as a very literal beast. If you had an uncovered face — no mask, no veil, no whiskers — you were barefaced. This very literal meaning easily transformed into the more figurative, eyebrow-raising barefaced lie: Someone who told a barefaced lie was doing so in a very open, unconcealed manner, as if hiding the truth were the last thing on the liar’s mind (quite the cocky son of a gun). Barefaced lie is still the preferred term in Britain.

Bald-faced lie

One theory about the origins of bald-faced lie is that bald and bald-faced were already quite popular in the lexicon of the English speaker. Consider bald eagle, bald mountain and bald-faced (as in an animal with a white face or white mark on its head). Perhaps, the thinking goes, it was just inevitable that the language would evolve toward bald-faced as opposed to barefaced.

Of course, it’s no stretch of the imagination to think that a bald face is quite the same as a bare face, so what’s the big stink? An interesting side note is that Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary only dates bald-faced back to 1943.

Bold-faced lie

Merriam-Webster dates bold-faced back to 1591 (just one year later than its date for barefaced). Its main definition refers to a shamelessness or impudent manner, one in which putting forth a bold face — along with a devil-may-care attitude — makes absolute sense.

Another way to look at a bold-faced lie is to think of words in print. If something has been bold-faced, it has been done so for emphasis. This is not the primary (nor most accepted) meaning, though, so I wouldn’t go around telling your friends that you know something they don’t, na-nee-na-nee-boo-boo.

To complicate things even more, my cherished AP Stylebook makes no mention of any of the variations.

So what’s my recommendation? I’d say that barefaced is a solid choice, as it’s the first and most popular option, especially for the Brits. If it sounds too odd for your delicate ear, go for bold-faced; if William Shakespeare could use it, so can you. And if that’s not the answer you were looking for, try bald-faced; the English language is always evolving, so why not go with the flow?

Just trying to be accommodating — and that’s no lie.

Happy trails!

SAK

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

What color is it?

Well, what are we talking about?

An elephant. An oyster. A moody sky. A town in Maine. A city in Georgia. A brewing company. “What’s-her-name’s Anatomy.” One of the lonelier colors in the big box with the cool sharpener.

That’s right — it’s gray. Or is it grey?

Gray can be gorgeous — no matter how you spell it.

The answer depends on your location. If you’re stateside, the color is gray unless it is a person’s or company’s preferred spelling or if you’ve checked Merriam-Webster’s dictionary for first-mentioned spellings.

There are, as always, a few wild hairs:

• Greyhound (a dog, a cocktail)
• Earl Grey (a tea)
• Grey friar (a Franciscan friar)

If you’ve hopped the pond, however, the colour is grey. While you’re in UK English-speaking countries, feel free to use grey as often as you wish, as it is the preferred British spelling.

If you’re writing with the AP Stylebook in mind, however, it doesn’t matter where you are; gray is the way to go. And you know how I feel about the AP Stylebook, don’t you?

Happy trails!

SAK

Here’s a dodgy problem.

Which one is correct: Toward or towards? Backward or backwards? Forward or forwards?

OK, so it’s not that dodgy. It’s pretty simple, really. Let’s focus on toward vs. towards and realize that the answer will be valid for all -ward words.

According to the Merriam-Webster Online dictionary, as well as a host of other dictionaries and Web sites, both versions are technically correct. But one is — how shall I say it? — more technically correct than the other.

Toward, backward, forward, leftward and any other directionally influenced -ward words are used primarily in the United States. Words that add an “s” at the end are primarily British. One guy even did a Google test to see if this is true and found out that, lo and behold, it stands up to a Google search.

For me, the real test is looking it up in the AP Stylebook — the bible of journalists, ad agencies and many writers — and the answer is clear: Toward is the correct term and towards is unacceptable. End of story.

There you have it — unless you want to sound British for some bloody reason, you cheeky bugger.

Happy trails!

SAK

There’s no such word.

Isn’t that what you hear when one person uses irregardless and another person corrects the first person, saying that the correct word is regardless? Funny thing, though: According to the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary, there is such a word, albeit a not-well-regarded one. Here’s what the online mother of all dictionaries has to say:

Irregardless originated in dialectal American speech in the early 20th century. Its fairly widespread use in speech called it to the attention of usage commentators as early as 1927. The most frequently repeated remark about it is that “there is no such word.” There is such a word, however. It is still used primarily in speech, although it can be found from time to time in edited prose. Its reputation has not risen over the years, and it is still a long way from general acceptance. Use regardless instead.

Aha! Since Merriam-Webster states that it is, indeed, a real word, doesn’t that give you license to use it?

It's not too cool for fashion, either

Nope. That last line — “Use regardless instead” — stands firm. Although plenty of folks say irregardless, that doesn’t make it correct. The theory of its origin is that irregardless is a fusion of irrespective and regardless. It probably started because someone was trying to sound smart in front of some friends and it just caught on, like a bad trend. Just a guess.

Regardless (ahem) of how it started, it would be very cool of you to use regardless instead. You’ll sound smarter if you do.

Happy trails!

SAK

You hear it all the time: “I’m anxious to go out this weekend!”

Whaaat? Why? Are you worried about having a good time? Are you nervous to see your friends? To eat great food and do something extraordinarily exciting for once? What’s to worry about?

The problem is the choice of words. Usually, folks use anxious when they mean eager. Maybe eager sounds too, well, eager. No one wants to seem needy, and eager implies that you really, really need something. So anxious rules the day. But really, everyone needs stuff. That’s just how life goes, so let’s embrace our needs and go out and fulfill them (without stepping on any toes, of course).

Here’s the difference between being eager and being anxious (according to Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary):

Eager — marked by enthusiastic or impatient desire or interest (eager fans)

Anxious — characterized by extreme uneasiness of mind or brooding fear about some contingency : worried (anxious parents)

In addition, a few other adjectives are similar to both eager and anxious but are slightly different in meaning:

Avid — adds to eager the implication of insatiability or greed (avid for new technology)

Keen — implies intensity of interest and quick responsiveness in action (keen on the latest fashions)

Athirst — emphasizes yearning but not necessarily readiness for action (athirst for adventure)

That’s the trouble with using a thesaurus to write your term paper, advertisement or contract: All the synonyms mean basically the same thing but not exactly the same thing. You can probably get away with it, but it’s a real drag when some smarty-patootie calls you on it in front of your peeps. And isn’t it more satisfying to just say what you really mean?

Yes. Yes, it is.

Happy trails!

SAK

A hyphen is that short, little bugger that joins two or more words to form an adjective and, at the very same time, makes middle schoolers’ heads spin. Really, it is nothing more than a clarifier, making the very complicated English language a little less complicated for the reader. At least, that’s its intent. The writer, though, may have something else to say about it. Ahem.

Since the hyphen is trying to simplify our lives, let’s give it a chance by trying to understand where it’s coming from. (Yes, yes, “from where it is coming” is the oh-so-proper way to write but, really, who talks that way anymore? Ending in a preposition is completely acceptable for all but the highest of highbrows. Onward and upward.)

The hyphen is used to form various compound words. If in doubt about adding a hyphen to two words, look for ambiguity that may lurk: Bob will speak to small businessmen sounds as if the businessmen are either vertically challenged or small-boned; the sentence probably should read like this: Bob will speak to small-business men. If adding a hyphen would clear up a misunderstanding, the hyphen probably belongs between the two words.

The problem with this second sentence is that women are presumably not going to be in or allowed at this meeting, which raises other ethical and moral questions. If you are 100 percent sure that no women will be in the audience, leave it as is; but if women will be present, you can change it to Bob will speak to small-business men and women or Bob will speak to small-business owners. Problem solved.

Many combinations that are hyphenated before a noun are not hyphenated when they occur after a noun: A full-time employee gets an assigned parking space. He works full time.

You can also use a hyphen to avoid duplicated vowels and triple consonants: anti-intellectual, shell-like. These are tricky, though, because the AP Stylebook does not always follow Merriam-Webster’s recommended spelling.

For example, AP uses a hyphen in pre-emptive, but Merriam-Webster does not: preemptive. What’s a writer to do? I’d say to use your best judgment. My best judgment says to follow AP, except that AP is sometimes the last style guide to make a change, which leads me to ultimately recommend following Merriam-Webster’s spelling. As an added incentive, the AP Stylebook states,  “… follow Webster’s New World, hyphenating if not listed there.”  I use Merriam-Webster Online; preemptive is there, so that’s what I use.

Hyphens also help to break up a word that must be carried over to the next line due to space restrictions, such as in the short columns of a magazine article. But if you don’t have to use them, don’t, for the simple fact that they tend to clunk up the readability of the piece.

How often should you use hyphens? As often as necessary to make the copy clear and interesting. All those hyphenated words acting as adjectives can spice up your writing, that’s true. But just as too many spices can gunk up the flavor of homemade soup, so can too many hyphenated words make your copy tank. You want your writing to be interesting and engaging, not a just a display of how cleverly you can write.

That being said, I’m a fan of hyphens. Not an over-the-top, need-to-be-medicated kind of fan, but a fan nonetheless. I like to choose clarification over ambiguity. I dig creative, unexpected writing. And the inner designer in me likes the visual aspect of the joined words — sort of breaks up the flow of letters on the page (like my other good friend, the em dash — love the em dash, maybe a little too much).

It’s time to address one of my grammar pet peeves: hyphen usage with -ly words. There are very few instances when a word ending in -ly actually needs a hyphen. Examples:

• A word ending in -ly (such as family) in which the ending -ly is not a suffix added on to make the root word an adverb or adjective: A family-friendly restaurant is correct. (Family is a root word that happens to end in -ly, so it is OK to have a hyphen follow it.)
•  The case of multiple hyphenated words, no matter if there is an -ly word included or not: Sid penned a not-so-creatively-written poem.

Other uses for the hyphen include numerals, such as to separate figures:
• Odds: The odds were 5-3.
• Ratios: The ratio was 10-to-1. It was a 10-1 ratio.
• Scores: KU won 88-64.
• Vote tabulations: The House voted 230-205.

Another rule to consider is suspensive hyphenation. It connects two words or numbers to a noun without losing the reader: He expected to have a 10- to 15-year career in pro wrestling.

Finally, there is e-mail. Yes, with a hyphen. That one, unless the stars realign and the earth swallows up logic and spits it back out as the New Word, probably ain’t gonna change. You see, e-mail stands for electronic mail. That e is a placeholder for a full word. As Bill Walsh of The Washington Post so eloquently put it in his book “Lapsing Into a Comma” (Page 16, if you’re curious):

“No initial-based term in the history of the English language has ever evolved to form a solid word — a few are split and the rest are hyphenated. Look at A-frame, B-movie, …H-bomb, I-beam, … X-ray, Y-chromosome, Z particle and scores of other such compounds.”

Take that, email.

Happy trails!

SAK

Addition to above entry

This post is a terrific example of why I try to choose words carefully. In discussing e-mail versus email, I wrote:

Finally, there is e-mail. Yes, with a hyphen. That one, unless the stars realign and the earth swallows up logic and spits it back out as the New Word, probably ain’t gonna change.

Note the word probably. Good thing, that word. Because in March 2011, the AP Stylebook decided to change the spelling to email, without the hyphen. Really shocking thing, that change, but it just goes to show:

• Nothing but death is certain (yeah, I’m not putting taxes in that equation).
• Public pressure counts for something.

Happy trails!

SAK

I am lucky. I’m surrounded by really smart people. At work, at home, in my personal life — it’s really fantastic. And yet those two words manage to cause serious confusion. Which is correct, affect or effect? Heck, should I use affect or effect? I sometimes have to think about it; it’s not something that necessarily comes naturally to me. So what gives?

Both words are grammatical over-achievers, acting as verbs and nouns. That complicates things. But really, they boil down pretty well. Here’s the lowdown on their meanings:

Affect (noun) = something to avoid in layman’s terms. If you’re a psychologist who understands the following description, by all means, go to town using affect in the noun form (this is directly from Merriam-Webster): the conscious subjective aspect of an emotion considered apart from bodily changes. Also: a set of observable manifestations of a subjectively experienced emotion: The patient showed incredibly unusual affects.

Affect (verb) = to influence: The tasty pasta meal she just ate will positively affect her performance in the half-marathon tomorrow.

Effect (noun) = the result: The effect was spectacular. Also: an impression. He screamed just for effect. Also: a symptom: The effects of the sleeping pills hadn’t worn off by lunch. Also: having legal validity: The seat belt law is still in effect.

Effect (verb) = to cause: He will effect several changes throughout the company.

If you don’t want to memorize definitions, here’s an easy way to remember:

Affect is the action word (the verb). You’re doing something, affecting something. I am cooking chili, affecting the outcome by stirring in cilantro.

Effect is the result of what happens after the thing that you did. The effect of serving the chili for dinner was that my kids had full tummies and slept like babies that night — and that’s a terrific effect!

I hope that the effect of this blog entry is to affect your grammar usage in a most positive way.

Happy trails!

SAK

Those annoying papers that get stuck under your windshield wiper. The free-spirited pilot who likes to go sky sailing on weekends. The wildly painted bus that rumbles down the road. They all are called fliers. Or flyers. Or Flyers.

Well, which is it?

Trusty AP Stylebook guidelines to the rescue! (Please keep in mind that what’s below does not jibe with Merriam-Webster’s definitions; why, I do not know, but I follow AP, so there you go.)

Flier = one who flies (as in an aviator) or a handbill (such as what you find on your windshield when you leave the grocery store)

Flyer = a proper name for certain trains or buses (e.g., American Flyer trains, Washington Flyer bus).

That’s it. Simple. And simple is good.

Happy trails!

SAK