Bloody Well Write

Facebook may be a pariah of the Internet to some folks, but I find it a great connector and writing tool. Take, for example, my previous blog entry. I posted a link to it on my Facebook page, and a gal I knew in high school (back in the day, don’t ya know) commented on it and, in doing so, mentioned her great love for onomatopoeia. PRESTO! I had a new blog topic.

Now, onomatopoeia is one of those words that you either cringe at when you see it in print because it means you’ll have to whip out the ol’ dictionary to figure out what the heck it means or you giggle with glee because there’s no way to forget what this enormous word means once you’ve learned it. Or, as is my experience, you giggle because you know you’ve looked it up before and you think you know what it means but you go ahead and look it up again, cringing, just in case your memory has failed you.

Luckily for my ego, my memory was functioning just fine, this time.

So. What exactly is this crazy-looking word?

Onomatopoeia. Hmph — that must be Greek. Or Latin. Or maybe pig latin.

It stems from the first two. Onomatopoeia (Sounds like on-uh-mah-tuh-PEE-uh) comes from the Greek word onomatopoiia: onomat-, onoma means name and poiein means to make. Merriam-Webster defines it as the naming of a thing or action by a vocal imitation of the sound associated with it, and also the use of words whose sound suggests the sense.

It’s a word that sounds like the thing it’s describing: imitation in organic form.

Onomatopoeia is a poet’s tool, as well as a novelist’s and a copywriter’s. It’s a playful, descriptive way to get across the drama of what’s happening. If a picture paints a thousand words, then onomatopoeia is the written word’s powerful counteractive punch — WAMMO! Perhaps some of the most recognizable instances are in comic strips, cartoons, the art of Roy Lichtenstein and the archetypal “Batman” TV episodes from the 1960s.

"Batman" bedsheets

Let’s look at some fun examples of onomatopoeia (and really, all the examples are fun, aren’t they?):

Animal Noises
Oink • Woof • Bark • Meow • Purr • Ribbit • Croak • Neigh
Baaa • Moo • Quack • Roar • Buzz • Cuckoo • Cheep
Hiss • Howl • Yada yada (humans are animals, too)

Source sounds
Boom • Thwack • Thud • Zap • Zing • Zipper
Bang • Clang • Clip • Click • Zoom • Swish • Swoosh
Pop • Klopp • Sizzle • Dribble • Kaboom • Tick tock
Bash • Vroom • Honk • Beep • Whoop • Wham • Pow
Biff • Oof • Zounds • Untz • Crash • Kerplunk
Kaboom • Mumble • Ping • Zoom • Splosh • Ring
Clang • Boing • Plop • Hiccup • Hush • Screech
Ka-ching • Woosh • Snip • Zoinks

Such words, in the cartoonish uses, tend to be written in all uppercase letters, with exclamation marks aplenty (e.g., SPLOSH! THWIP!! WOOSH!!! KABOOM!!!!). Overkill tends to work for these descriptors, unlike the rest of the written word, so use ‘em while you can.

In advertising, onomatopoeia is often used to help consumers recall specific products. Kellogg’s Rice Krispies commercials showed three little dudes named Snap, Crackle and Pop, driving home the sounds that the cereal makes when it lands in a big bowl of milk. Alka-Seltzer’s memorable “Plop, Plop, Fizz, Fizz” campaign sold a lot of cold medicine over the decades. And the “Click It or Ticket” push for U.S. drivers and passengers to wear seat belts has created a lot of, well, buzz for the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration.

Another point to consider:

Used too often, onomatopoeia takes on that cartoon quality — which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Use your judgment. But a rare and well-placed zinger just might vault your writing — or your sales — to the moon. Ker-POW!

Happy trails!

SAK

Ah, homophones: They are the average speller’s Achilles’ heel. A homophone is a word that is pronounced like one or more other words but has a different meaning, derivation or spelling. A most frequent example: To, too and two all sound alike, but they have different meanings. Here is a short list of frequently misused homophones, with simplified definitions that are — most obviously — in my vernacular (and yes, this is a short list, believe it or not):

Stationery = something you write obligatory notes on
Stationary = when something doesn’t move

Complementary = when something makes something else look good
Complimentary = when something is included, free of charge, or when someone offers a compliment (How you doin’?)

Hay = stuff that is supposed to be fun to jump in but scratches like the dickens
Hey = a casual greeting that I use way too much

Prays = what John Q. Public does when he’s choosing lotto numbers
Preys = something that a hungry tiger does on the antelope trail
Praise = what B.F. Skinner called positive reinforcement

Sleigh = Santa’s version of an SUV
Slay = the act of killing something or someone, with lethal weapon or with wit

Patients = those folks in hospitals and doctor’s offices
Patience = what Axel Rose needed back in the day

Maid = someone who makes your bed, disinfects your toilet and dusts your stuff — but doesn’t do windows
Made = something you created or put together

Aid = helping someone or something
Aide = the fantastic person helping you

Wade = trying to walk through something that hinders movement, such as a pool of water or tub of pudding
Weighed = what you did this morning — buck-naked, butt-naked or just plain naked, after emptying your bladder and exhaling but before drinking a cup o’ joe

Brake = the thing on your car that lets you stop (more than one if you’re lucky)
Break = gimme a ________, or when you drop a plate of your mom’s good china

Stake = the thing in the ground if you’re lucky, in your heart if you’re not
Steak = something vegetarians gladly do without

Vein = the bluish lines in your forearm
Vain = Carly Simon sang about it, famously, though it wasn’t about you
Vane = a thing that helps show direction

Bass = a low, low singing voice, or an instrument that gives your fingers serious calluses
Base = the bottom or first part of something, or placement on the baseball field, or which one you’re on depends how lucky you are

Naval = something to do with the sea
Navel = something to do with your tummy, or a kind of orange

Wave = in an ocean or a pool, or hi-ya, or shoo-fly
Waive = when you give up your rights

Hair = on your head and/or your legs
Hare = rabbit

Peak = the tippy-top of something, such as Pike’s Peak in Colorado
Peek = a quick or sheltered look at something you probably shouldn’t be looking at anyway
Pique = irritating someone else, or getting someone’s attention, sometimes annoyingly

Piece = a part of something, or a weapon
Peace = not a weapon

Here = not there
Hear = what?

Flier = an aviator, or something that gets slipped under your windshield wiper when you run into the store for 15 seconds
Flyer = the official name of some transportation and sports teams, as well as a maker of little red wagons

Cord = a long, ropelike item, or a bunch of wood, or an emotional tug
Chord = the usually lovely sound of several notes being played on an instrument at the same time

Your = not mine
You’re = contraction of you + are
Yore = long, long ago

There = not here
Their = not mine or ours
They’re = contraction of they + are

Its = not mine or yours, but ____
It’s = contraction of it + is

Palette = the classic image: what the painter holds as he/she is painting a masterpiece
Pallet = a small, hard bed, or something of that size that you stack a bunch of stuff on

Cannon = goes BOOM
Canon = church dogma, or a group of related works, or a particular type of musical composition

Capitol = a particular federal or state building (uppercase when referring to a specific building, such as the U.S. Capitol in Washington, D.C.)
Capital = the city where a seat of government is located, or money, stuff and/or property used in a business

Mat = a flat piece of carpet-like fabric that you wipe your feet on
Matte = a sheen that’s not shiny in the least

Council = a group of folks sitting around, drinking coffee, making decisions
Counsel = giving advice, usually asked for

Retch = ooh, not feeling so good
Wretch = a sorry sucker, down on his/her luck

Desert = can be hot, dry, barren
Dessert = can be cold, wet, loaded with goodies

Accept = to take something as your own, whether it’s a lost puppy or an idea
Except = to exclude, whether it’s a lost puppy or an idea

Chile = a country, or something originating from that country
Chili = a type of pepper, great in guacamole, or a steaming bowl of seasoned beans and/or ground beef
Chilly = boo-coldies

Gorilla = big, hairy ape (not your boyfriend)
Guerrilla = warriors who don’t play nice

Immanent = something inherent (beauty is immanent, so they say)
Imminent = something at the ready (old age is imminent, so they say)

Principal = the boss at school, or the most important thing
Principle = a fundamental idea, or the origin of something

Discrete = the distinctness of a thing
Discreet = showing great judgment in the face of adversity, or modesty, or unobtrusive behavior

Bazaar = a groovy place to shop
Bizarre = weird, wild stuff

Altar = a raised structure on which some people offer sacrifice, literally or figuratively
Alter = to change something, such as a hemline or an attitude

Phew — and that’s the short list!

Happy trails!

SAK

Bo Diddley did. At least that’s what he said he did in his 1956 song “Who Do You Love?” A whole host of singers, songwriters and bands claimed the same: The Doors, The Dead, The Stones, Patti Smith, Golden Earring and, most famously, George Thorogood. And they all belted out that song with heart, with gusto, with love, with improper terminology.

Yes. Grammatically speaking, the song should be “Whom Do You Love?”

“Come ON,” you gasp in horror. “Give it a rest already.”

Yeah, I hear you. I wouldn’t change those lyrics for all the money in your dwindling 401(k). The song rocks, as is, and that’s that.

Except for the purpose of this blog entry.

Hypothetically and only hypothetically, and only briefly for this grammar topic, I would change the title to “Whom Do You Love?” because the first word refers to the object of the expected reply: “Whom do I love, you ask? I love Bo.”

“I (subject) love (verb) Bo (object).” When you can turn the sentence around like that and determine if the who/whom word is the subject of the sentence, you use who. If the word is an object of the sentence, you use whom.

You’d like an explanation of subject and object? Here goes: A subject is the active thing in the sentence, the thing doing the action (the verb). In the above example, I is the subject because I is the one doing the loving (the verb). Bo is the object of the sentence because he is on the receiving end of the action (the verb); Bo is the one being loved.

It boils down to this:
Subject = who
Object = whom

The other thing to take into consideration is that who refers to humans and animals with a name (implying that you know a particular animal’s sex). Rover, who ate my shoe, is in big trouble. (Rover is the subject: Rover ate my shoe and Rover is in big trouble.) If you don’t know the name or sex of the dog that just wandered into your house and ate your shoe, you might say, “The dog that just ate my shoe is in big trouble.” (That replaces who because you don’t know the dog’s name — yet.) But if that’s the only thing you say, I don’t think grammar is your most pressing issue.

It is important to note that who is strictly for humans and named animals — not inanimate objects. Your car is an it, no matter if you name it “Rocket” or “Baby” or “Susie Q.” Please don’t refer to your 2005 yellow Bug or 1973 green Nova as a she. The same goes for countries, ships, airplanes and anything else without a physical pulse. They are things — glorious, heart-pound-inducing things worth celebrating. But not with poor pronoun choices.

They deserve better, don’t they?

Of course, Diddley’s song speaks of the nitty-gritty. It speaks to the bared soul who listens with intent. It gets down and dirty. It lays it all down on the line and doesn’t beg for nuthin’. “Who Do You Love?” is what it is: a song for the ages. And I don’t mess with that kind of heavy.

Happy trails!

SAK

So you’re writing about how much something costs. Let’s say your topic is widgets. But not just any widgets; your widgets are headed to the U.S. government warehouses. So we know that these are extraordinarily special widgets, since they cost somewhere between $3 and $7 million dollars per box of 20.

Wait. What did that say? How much are those widgets, exactly?

Here’s a problem that occurs in all sorts of writing. Can some of those boxes of widgets really be only $3 (three dollars) if some are $7 million ($7,000,000)? I’d bet not — and I’m not a betting woman. The more likely range is $3 million – $7 million. If that’s the case, then you must attach the word million to each monetary figure.

“But hold on, missy,” you say. “Adding that clunky word twice messes up the design of my brilliant headline/subhead/copy.” Sorry, I retort, but them’s the rules and there’s no eliminating it.

There is, however, a way to get that million (or thousand or billion) in there. You can use abbreviations:
• M (million)
• K (thousand)
• G (billion — although most people don’t know what the G stands for, so a rewrite might be in order)

Keep in mind that using K to represent 1,000 or $1,000 is against AP Stylebook rules; K already has other meanings, such as modem transmission speeds (56K) or race distances (5K). Ad folks love to break rules, though, so if it’s purely a design issue and it’s purely cosmetic (i.e., not in technical copy), and since a boatload of dictionaries state that it’s an acceptable substitution, I suppose you can go ahead and break the AP rule. There, I said it. Just don’t spread it around. I have a reputation to uphold.

OK. What else about that first statement stunk? Here it is, in part, again:

… they cost somewhere between $3 and $7 million dollars per box of 20.

You see the dollar signs? Using those means that you don’t have to also use the word dollars. It’s redundant. The word dollars is great if you “need a few dollars” (unspecified amount). Attach a figure and dollars goes out the window. Same goes for million and billion: If it’s a casual use, don’t add numbers: I need a billion dollars.

If you need a specific amount that’s in the millions or billions, use up to two decimal points: I need $4.75 million to fund my dream home. Shy away from using fractions with such large amounts of cash (e.g., don’t use $4¾ million). If you want to be more accurate, use the exact number: I need $4,750,391 to fund my dream home.

If those aren’t enough rules for you for one day, here’s one more: Do not use a hyphen to join the figures and the words million or billion. It should be: This $295 million house budget just isn’t cutting the mustard. And if that’s the case, I’d like you to hire me as your interior decorator.

Now that that’s off my chest, I feel a thousand times better.

Happy trails!

SAK

Here are two words that are often used interchangeably, often when they shouldn’t be: may and might. Dick, Jane and Spot will be our trusty grammar assistants for this tricky subject.

Several rules exist to determine which is the correct word for the purpose. Use may when implying some sort of permission: Dick may eat blueberries while sitting at the kitchen table. Use might when implying some sort of undecided situation: Dick might eat blueberries on the white couch (but he’d be demonstrating extraordinarily poor judgment).

Along these lines, the permission factor throws a kink in the works. Sometimes, even though permission to do something has been granted, if the writing is about not doing it, may is the wrong choice.

Let’s say that Dick has permission to eat blueberries on the white couch. Horrible idea, but allowed nonetheless. And Dick (the smarty-patooty) knows that it would be a baaaad thing to do. But he wants to exercise his right to do what he wants to do, and he wants to let it be known that he — not Jane — is making the decision to not eat blueberries on the white couch; no silly rule would or woman could or would stop him. So he types his Facebook status for all his friends to read: I might not eat blueberries on the white couch. Very nicely put, Dick. For if Dick would’ve typed I may not eat blueberries on the white couch, it might be construed that he was not allowed to eat said blueberries on said white friggin’ couch, because Jane is a nit-picking neat freak. And that just isn’t the case. Dick made the decision. Dick’s the smarty-patooty. Dick knows the difference between may and might.

The likelihood of something happening is another clue to the correct word choice. If it may happen, there’s a greater chance of that thing happening: Jane may eat lunch tomorrow. If it might happen, it could come to be, but the chances are against it: Jane might eat Dick’s lame lunch tomorrow.

One last rule: Might is the past tense of may. When referring to the past, use might: Dick might have eaten blueberries on the white couch (but he told Jane that it was Spot snarfing the forbidden fruit on the ridiculous excuse for a sofa).

See Spot nowhere near couch. See Dick chomp blueberries. See Jane see Dick chomping blueberries. See Dick see Jane seeing Dick. See Dick gulp.

Spot may get doggy treats from Jane. Jane might get couch’s blueberry stains out. Dick is so in the doghouse!

Happy trails!

SAK

Ah, the dreaded ellipses. Misunderstood and overused, this is the mark that has its ducks — er, dots — all in a row.

How do you make an ellipsis? Keep in mind that it should be treated as a three-letter word, with a space on each side (instead of being crammed between two words). It needs its personal space as much as you do. You can use three periods all in a row, with no spaces between each period; remember, it’s just like a three-letter word. If the ellipsis is at the end of a sentence, it needs a period (just as a three-letter word would), with one space before it and no space between the ellipsis and the period, like this ….

But if you have to use an ellipsis at the end of a sentence, you might just try rewriting the sentence. For dramatic effect in a play or novel, it’s acceptable but still not that great, so use your best judgment. Ask for a second opinion. Seek counsel. Phone a friend. Make that change.

In literary or dramatic writing, the ellipsis can be used to indicate a pause in a character’s speech or thought: Bob said, “I want roasted garlic, sautéed artichokes and … um … well, let’s see … maybe caramelized onions on my pizza.” Overusing the ellipsis in this function can become tiresome to the reader, though, so unless you’re writing the next Great American Novel or Play (or Musical — let’s not be snobbish), use the mark in this fashion sparingly.

In just about any kind of writing, the ellipsis can show an omission of words: Fish don’t … in the kitchen. Beans don’t … on the grill. Not that you would leave those particular words out; the sentences are simply too short for an omission to be worth it. But if you were to quote Abe Lincoln or Jimmy Carter or — on a lark — George W. Bush, and you wanted to eliminate a portion of text without altering the meaning of the quote (which is the responsible and expected thing to do), an ellipsis or two would be completely acceptable.

An important note about this little piece of punctuation: Use sparingly. And I mean sparingly. I mentioned it earlier in this entry, but it’s worth repeating. If a hard copy of your work is going to be produced, try eliminating every ellipsis. It makes for more refined copy and easier reading.

And in headlines? No way, no how. Don’t do it. Rewrite.

OK, so one little sucker has made it through your editing process and you want to insert it into your Word document. How? Well, if you’re on a Mac, you’ve got a handy shortcut: Press the option and semicolon keys at the same time. Presto! Ellipsis inserted. If you’re on a PC, I think the path is Alt+0133. Don’t sue me if that’s wrong. I’m a Mac gal and did light research on the Net for the PC answer, and you know how reliable the Net can be.

Oh, my. I almost typed an ellipsis right there, after “… can be”! Which leads me to add sarcasm as a possible motive to use an ellipsis, as well as demonstrating the proper way to show omission of text for brevity. And I respect written sarcasm as much as the next but, as I mentioned earlier, something going to print doesn’t really need ellipses. Not that you’re going to print this out and laminate it, but still. It’s out there in cyberspace, so forget it. And please don’t comb through previous postings to see if there are any offenders; there very well may be. But I’m living and learning like the rest of you.

An occasional, well-placed ellipsis is fine. Just not in a headline — ever. Yes, worth repeating.

One last thing: I use ellipses like crazy in personal e-mails (hell, in work e-mails, too). But I don’t use ’em in my writing or editing. Seems as if a lot of my girlfriends pepper their e-mails with the little buggers, too, so maybe it’s a girl thing, but I wouldn’t bet the farm on it.

Happy trails!

SAK

It’s been brought to my attention that there is some confusion around the office about when to use “yea” instead of “yeah” and vice versa. I threw “yay” into the mix, as well. Total anarchy almost ensued.

Here’s my take on the three Y’s.

Yea
Use this if you’re trying to sound like you’re in a courtroom (”Hear ye, hear ye. The yeas have it — free upper-back massages for everyone!”) or if you’re trying your hand at back-in-the-day readings (”Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall wear supportive shoes”).

Yeah
This is the lazy — er, offhanded — way of saying “yes.” My mom gave me years of grief for saying “yeah” (”yeow” as she gawkily pronounced it for emphasis), to no avail. I still say it constantly. Doesn’t make it right. I get that. My bad. But unless you’re in the stuffiest of situations, such as suffering through a job interview (and it’s up to you to judge the stuffiness of the interviewer) or giving a political acceptance speech to your constituency (not à la “Is you is or is you ain’t my constituency?”), “yeah” is perfectly acceptable.

Yay
This is the exclamatory way to say, “Right on!” “That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!” “Woohoo!” “Flippin’ genius!” or “Oh, snap!” You get the drift.

As an aside, it’s the nature of the English language to be completely difficult to comprehend. For every rule, there seems to be 18 different exceptions. So goes it for the 3 Y’s.

Think about the “yea” definition I provided. If it’s “The yeas have it,” why is the negative side of that chant “The nays have it”? Why not “The neas have it”? That’s bogus English for you. And I don’t have a reasonable explanation. Irks me to no end. If you happen to know the answer, send it my way.

That’s the end of today’s rant. Yay!

Happy trails!

SAK

Here’s the deal: All kinds of writers, from journalists to comic-strip creators, from advertising writers to unauthorized biographers, use ranges to imply vast coverage of whatever they are writing about. And the vast majority use ranges incorrectly. I just did.

Take, for example, the second half of this blog’s headline. What is the true range? From goo-goo goggles to veggie hammocks — what does that mean? How are they possibly related? They both might be made out of plastic. OK, fine. They both could be purple. Or made in 1969. But where does that leave the range?

Look at this entry’s first paragraph. What is the true range between each grouping of writers? There’s a disconnect occurring. No true range, no obvious connection, no-good writing.

If you look the word “range” up in the dictionary (Webster’s New World College Dictionary is AP’s dictionary of choice, but you Web-savvy folks can check out Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary), you’ll get several definitions. The two that fit this topic are as follows:

1) A series of things in a line (implying some sort of relation)
2) A sequence, series or scale between limits (again, implying a relation)

Look “range” up on OneLook.com (a fantastic Web site that pulls definitions from nearly a bazillion dictionary sites), and you’ll see the quick definitions on the right side of your screen, including this one: a variety of different things or activities (”He answered a range of questions”).

So what’s the message here? It’s this: Writers tend to use this false range as a prop. Writing that a five-and-dime carries everything (everything!) from Andalusian apples to Zippo lighters is just not gonna work. Do they sell time-shares in Connecticut? Sand from Perth? Yellow polka-dot bikinis? Eyebrow dye? Not a single noun can be excluded. “Everything” means everything. That’s one hell of a range. Hell, that’s one hell of a store.

Writing that a plane can travel from Anchorage to Zimbabwe is fine; that’s a true range. There are geographic points to be plotted. There’s an alphabetical range, as well, although it’s a little more of a stretch.

If you really want to include a range in your writing, try using some version of “a variety”: The five-and-dime sold a variety of products, including blow-up Nietzsche dolls and Roseanne Roseannadanna wigs. The cookbook included recipes as varied as green-bean pudding and hambone tartare.

For more rantings on false ranges, check out theslot.com, the Web site of one of my all-time favorite editing ranters, Bill Walsh. He’s the copy chief (national desk) at The Washington Post, has written two books (“opinionated guides for editors and writers,” per his Web site) and is as entertaining a grammar enthusiast as I have come across. He also has a blog. Ba-da-bing — there’s my Bill Walsh plug. He rocks.

I hope that you had fun with this read and especially that you’ll come back for another go at the word game. Keep me company. Send your feedback. Pass on ideas for future entries. Then take a load off and have some ice cream. There’s always time for ice cream.

Happy holidays and — as always — happy trails!

SAK

Barney Frank, the 14-term Democratic congressmen from Massachusetts, is chairman of the House Financial Services Committee. He was on “60 Minutes” last week talking with Lesley Stahl about the possible auto industry bailouts. He made a comment that could just about be a mantra for the Democratic Party: “No, we’re not propping up companies. … We’re propping up individuals. The world doesn’t consist of companies. The world are people. The country is people.”

OK, so “The world are people” and “The country is people” aren’t exactly examples of exemplary grammar. They’re not the point of this discussion. The point is, for grammar’s sake, determining when to use “who” versus “what.”

Frank said it philosophically: Companies are not the focus. They are not, perhaps, worth saving. Individuals, on the other hand, are: They are (or should be) the focus, and they are (or, again, should be) worth saving. And individuals grouped together form companies, the country, the world.

Get to the point, you say. Well, companies are things, not people. They are each a “what” and, as such, should always be connected with “that”:

• “Companies who value employees” is incorrect.
• “Companies that value loyalty” is correct.

Frank’s heart was in the right place when he said, “The world are people. The country is people.” Unfortunately, those aren’t grammatically correct, either. Like companies, countries and worlds are things — not people — and deserve “it,” “what” and “that” as descriptors.

Conversely, people are each a “who,” not a “what or a “that.” Think of “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas”: It’s “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas,” not “The Grinch That Stole Christmas.” All those Whos down in Whoville are “Whos,” not “Whats,” and they (the singing, happy Whos who care not a whit for presents or spangles or shiny toot-tooters) live in Whoville, not Whatville.

People (and Grinches) are whos. Companies and anything else that can’t move of their own volition are whats.

What about Max, the Grinch’s overworked dog? Is Max a who or a what? According to the AP Stylebook, Max has a name, so Max is a who. Even if we don’t know an animal’s name, as long as we know that the animal is a he or a she (or a used-to-be he or she), we still call it a who. Any animal without a given name and without a determined sex is considered a what.

So there’s the lowdown on “who” and “what.” Who knows what’s up with I Don’t Know, Because and Why? Those are for another day (maybe Tomorrow!).

Happy trails!

SAK

OK! So this is my very first word/grammar/language/writing/editing/ranting/pondering blog.

I suppose that I should mention what this blog is going to be about. The intent is to focus primarily on editing issues — nuggets I have seen throughout my career that either come up as questions time and again, bug the bejeezus out of me or simply are wrong by all accounts. It will include writing issues, as well. And it sometimes will take me in an altogether different direction than initially intended. So be the beast that is blog.

And if you’re wondering what makes me an expert on this editing/writing topic, here’s my answer: I’m no expert. I will have an entire blog entry on self-proclaimed experts one of these days, but that’s for another day. Here’s a quick rundown of my experience: master’s degree in English, 5½ years as a proofreader/copy editor at a local ad agency, 2½ years as a marketing copywriter at Hallmark Cards, almost two years as an editor and copywriter at another ad agency and several years as a proofreader-editor at several other joints. And I, like everyone else on this planet, have a lot to learn, so I’m not an expert, per se. But I follow the AP Stylebook pretty faithfully (pretty, not completely). And I gotta let out some editing steam somehow, right? So this here blog’s my virtual teapot. Toot, toot.

Thanks much for checking it out, and please come back to see what else is driving me nuts. I’ll be adding entries at least weekly, perhaps biweekly. And PLEASE leave comments/suggestions/inquiries on the blog. No cussing me out (for I do have control on what gets posted to the site and will have no qualms about barring any caustic replies); workable feedback is what I’m looking for. Should be interesting stuff. Now, on to the guts of this blog.

Happy trails!

SAK