The Politics of Language, Sort of

By Brad Beals

Versitext.com

I run a search for the term Web site and find these: website, web site, web-site, Website, Web site, Web-site, and even Web Site, and WebSite. What gives? What’s a well-meaning copywriter to do?

What gives is that the term Web site hasn’t grown up yet. It’s a still-awkward post-adolescent, not quite come into his own. And what I’m to do is the same as I would with any search: sift, cut, discern, and in the end go with whatever variation’s got the most clout. In a way, I’m casting a vote.

And in this way, English usage works–sort of–like a republic. Its form and pattern of convention are shaped by popular will but (like your vote for President) along a circuitous route. And like other democratic processes, at the murky center of things are the opinion leaders, the informal authorities that push and pull at the machine. Chicago Manual of Style, AP Stylebook, Wired Style—these are the players in the smoke-filled room.

Here’s a common scenario: Wired, let’s say, decides that Internet, heretofore capitalized because it’s a one-of-a-kind, will lose its proper-noun status and join the rank-and-file common nouns as humble internet. There may be good reason to do this, as there was probably good reason to capitalize it in the first place, but none of that matters. This is what matters: Wired (out of a growing pressure within its own ranks maybe) has changed policy and will henceforth cast the term as internet, small i.

So what happens next? and how do we plebians know that this change has been made? Does a committee stamp something? Is there a press release, or even a memo to writers? No. And in this we find the proof of real clout. Wired is rendering internet in the common, and like magic, like opinion polls and approval ratings, the rest of us eventually come along and wonder how we could ever have been so silly as to capitalize internet. And this sort of thing—slowly and out of sight, like committee work—is happening all the time, all around us.

Of course, a change in language usage doesn’t move at the speed of a presidential election cycle, but neither is it like stone eroding. Internet and World Wide Web were new to us less than two decades ago, less time than it takes for a human to reach adulthood, and in that time we’ve made both terms common, and effectively dropped the world wide.

But the internet, you will say, is an anomaly, statistically insignificant in a population as large as that of English words. Nothing in our lives has come about so quickly and completely as the internet. And you’d be right. But the example still illustrates the process. We could mark out similar patterns for words like baseball, railroad, airplane, email, and most other closed-compound words that, over time and use, have collapsed from two words into one, a kind of etymological entropy. But in each case the change is hurried along by one of these informal authorities. If Miriam Webster says that copyeditor is a closed compound, then the publishing world and soon the rest of us follow. Or maybe Webster follows Chicago. It’s not exactly a chicken-egg thing, but close.

That such wild, ungovernable processes determine usage can be frustrating both to the rule junkie and the rule weary. The junkie because it all seems so un-rule-like, and the weary because there’s still authority, however nebulous, determining something. It might be helpful to both if we define terms:

· in written language, rules are subject to the consensus of the governed

· a rule without an exception is no rule—it’s a law, and as language users, we don’t like laws

· the rules of usage, grammar, syntax, and mechanics are the servants of expression, not its masters

· while grammar and syntax tend to change more slowly as they are more closely tied to logic, usage and—to a lesser extent—mechanics follow the logic of fashion

So formal rules of language lie somewhere between guidance and prescription. Submit to them according to your own lights. But if you want to avoid the risk of obscuring meaning, if clarity is paramount, then follow a good set of rules consistently.

But whose rules? To whom do I look as an authority?

To answer that, let’s extend further the democracy metaphor. Like an election-coverage map, usage has its red states and its blue. We’ll call those in the book-publishing industry red for no other reason than the authority they look to—The Chicago Manual of Style—is actually red. Those in the newspaper and magazine publishing industries tend to follow the AP Stylebook. It’s not blue, but for the sake of our metaphor, it’s blue.

If I see myself as red, I’ll defer to Chicago on matters of usage and mechanics. If I prefer blue, I’ll line up with AP. If I feel no affinity to either party, I can join a third; there are other style guides out there. I can even call myself an independent and build my own rule book, picking the best from the big hitters and making up the rest. This is fine as long as I’m consistent throughout. Readability is key, so consistency is one of the more considerate things you can do for your reader.

Put another way, when it comes to language, there is no legislative body, no executive branch looking to make war on words, no high court handing down punctuation pronouncements. Authority is in the collective will, and the collective will, ultimately, is weighed and assigned value in the smoky backrooms.

So what do I do with Web site?

Professionally, I may live in a red state, but for this issue, I’m jumping to the party with the most clout in on-line usage. And since Wired makes a good case for casting Web site as a common, closed-compound noun, that’s how I’ll write it: website.

Democracy is a fine thing.

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Clarity is a Cruel Knife

By Brad Beals

Versitext.com

I love words. Give me a string of fat, convoluted, compound-complex sentences over stubby, simple ones any day. But 90% of my work heads to web pages, and since long sentences are harder to scan than short ones, clarity is often a cruel knife. And off they come—lovely words, hard-fought phrases and clauses, whole sentences even.

And then there’s the big-picture part of me who speaks up, and I’m reminded—clarity is good, clarity is key. And that means cutting fluff and sprinkling those long sentences with end-mark punctuation. Here, clarity is a scalpel, and, despite the pain, my text is generally healthier for it.

So clarity is good, and brevity is the soul of web-page copy. Why not stop now and call it a post?

Because not all content submits itself easily to treatment. Difficult-to-convey concepts or complex argumentation can be troublesome. When dealing with such copy, it’s easy for me to slip back into the old ways, placing no checks on sentence complexity, and paying little attention to the scanning tendency of my audience (That’s a long sentence, I know, but I’ll assume that you, as a blog reader, aren’t scanning this). And more than once I’ve heard myself asking this question: don’t we need complex phrasing to communicate complex ideas?

My answer to me: Nope. Complicated ideas should be communicated through the entirety of the text, not in the particulars of sentence complexity. This requires careful organization in the development of copy. Clear, short, active-voice sentences can do the job better than long, fat ones if they’re sequenced effectively. Because it’s within the broad sweep of the text that this kind of clarity is achieved and not in pieces, we’re less likely to be lulled into the old habit of wordiness.

In writing for the web, I’ve had to sharpen my ability to do the job quickly, at-a-glance in some ways. I’ve learned to make eye-contact, present my case, and bring things to a close in a hundred words instead of the thousand I was used to. And as my perception of good writing has changed, so have my means for achieving clarity.

My working definition for clarity is now this: a clear message is conveyed when the reader is brought safely to my conclusion. Yes, you need simple, clear sentences to do this, but you also need reasoning, logic, and the careful sequencing of all of it to help bring your reader home.

So is there no indulgence for the word junkie? None at all? No, there’s not. Not on an ecomm site, anyway. For a word-fix, go write a novel. Or better yet, a blog—it’s faster acting.

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Another Word on Words

By Brad Beals

Versitext.com

The words you use, better than any other indicator, reflect the quality of the thoughts behind them. That’s not to say good thinking can’t happen without corresponding good expression—intellectual genius often goes hand in hand with an inability to express it. But good expression rarely happens without good thinking to drive it. That is, a complicated idea, clearly expressed, indicates that complicated thinking really did happen.

A woman playing chopsticks on the piano might be a virtuoso, but she’s probably not since most people can play chopsticks and few are virtuosos. The expression of chopsticks can convey only that level of proficiency and nothing higher. And if she plays a Rogers and Hammerstein tune, we know she’s at least that good. But is that the extent of her skill? We don’t know, and we wouldn’t assume a level higher than that until we’ve heard an expression that would indicate it.

But if she does move on to playing Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto #3, our estimation of her abilities will rise, and—now this is the important part—we will never again put her skill level at chopsticks or show tunes, even if we never hear Rachmaninoff again!

Your use of language conveys quality of thought in a similar way. Expression will convey that level of thinking, but nothing beyond. If it’s simple, you convey simplicity, which is not necessarily bad—you might just be fooling around with chopsticks. If your words are muddled, you will convey muddled thinking. And if all your expression is mundane, prosaic, plain…well, then that’s the only tune we’re hearing.

But doesn’t this contradict simplicity as doctrine for writing web copy? you ask. Doesn’t what we know about usability suggest we pound out nothing but chopsticks?

Not exactly. Even if our virtuoso prefers to play chopsticks, and even if we never hear a concerto again, her credibility at the piano is established. We know she’s good. Business writing for the web is not about entertainment—it’s about utility and credibility.

So it’s not imperative that every sentence should knock it out of the park (in fact, if you try to accomplish that, you’ll convolute your text) but that your sum-total expression does. If you give your readers a taste of Rachmaninoff early on to establish credibility, they’ll listen closely to the rest.

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Writer, Proof Thyself

By Brad Beals

Versitext.com

Proofing your own copy is like tickling yourself—it’s not real effective. Just ask Lynne Truss, the author of Eats, Shoots and Leaves. Here’s the complete title of her book:

Eats, Shoots and Leaves:

A Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation

And in the subtitle we find, of all things, an error in punctuation. The compound modifier zero tolerance, because it modifies a noun immediately following, needs to be hypenated, as in zero-tolerance approach.

(It’s a great object lesson for copy folk, but don’t let the slip-up prejudice you against Truss’s book—it’s a great read, and no, I’m not forgetting that it’s about punctuation.)

The more time a writer spends with a piece of copy, the more familiar it becomes. If errors aren’t caught early, the writer’s eye and brain (they’re the same organ, really) will begin superimposing correct form onto the copy. You’ll read it correctly because the sentence’s content and syntax encourage you to anticipate and assume the correct form. It’s nothing new; we see what we want to see.

Some remedies:

• spell check is a start, but it will miss distinctions between words like wear and where
• reading aloud is helpful for broader form concerns like sentence fragments, misplaced or dangling modifiers, and style, but it won’t catch spelling and typo problems
• reading copy word for word in reverse—this eliminates the brain’s assumptions about form since there’s no syntax to hypnotize you. This is a good complement to reading aloud as it will only catch spelling and typo errors.
• farming the copy out to a proofreader for one last pass

But your best bet is to be doing all four. That’s the true zero-tolerance approach to proofing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need my wife to read this before I post.

versitext Business-Language Solutions

Zero-Content Blah Blah

By Brad Beals

Versitext.com

Odds are you have copy on your website that can—with no diminished value in usability—be replaced with the words blah, blah, and blah. Jakob Nielsen refers to such copy as zero-content word count. These are words, phrases, and sentences that contribute nothing because our brains have stopped recognizing them as meaningful. And it’s the language that greets most web-page users.

So what does ZCWC look like? One way to identify it is to ask, “would anyone advertise for the opposite of what I’m writing?” For example, “we provide unique opportunities” says nothing because there’s no one out there saying “we provide common opportunities.” And if there’s no one saying the opposite, or at least something very different, then you’ve got no room for differentiation. Unique is an assumed qualifier, so the word adds no value to a user’s experience. You may as well use the term blah, or maybe yada, because your reader will scan over unique in just the same way.

As web users, we have qualifier assumptions, a host of words in our heads that we’re ready to see—unique, progressive, state-of-the-art, efficient, any positive modifier, and a lot of vague action verbs such as integrate, facilitate, develop, excel. Nothing constructive happens with these words because nothing is added to the user’s perceptions. “High-quality” is already there in our assumptions; we’re inoculated to it, so it becomes a nonsense word. And there are nouns too: integration, process, cutting-edge, synergy. But they add nothing substantive. The words we present must construct something new in the user’s thinking or they’re empty and without value. They have zero content.

So how do you add value through words? There are many ways, but the remedy for zero-content is simple: say what it is you do. If you’re a plumber, don’t tell me how your service is professional or state-of-the-art. Say instead, “We clear drains up to 200 feet.” Those seven words add value by building in the user’s perception something as opposed to nothing. Otherwise, save yourself some time and paste in blah blah blah, or leave it blank. It won’t matter either way—your user can’t see it.

versitext Business-Language Solutions

A Word About Words

By Brad Beals

Versitext.com

I recently heard this narrow slice of our modern era—the late 20th, early 21st century—described as the age of image. The notion behind it being that our use of information is primarily image based rather than word based.

It’s not hard to see how this is true. Consider that in the last century we’ve seen not only the advent of digital media, but—going waaay back—of picture books for kids and pop-culture magazines that have had their verbiage squeezed out, a little each decade, by images. Our children today, and for the last couple of generations, really, have been raised, educated, pacified, and entertained with images.

This would seem to speak to the old proverb that a picture is worth a thousand words. But is it? The answer, of course, depends on the words. For example, one picture cannot express…

• a mission statement
• your epitath
• a website’s terms of service
• a knock-knock joke
• what Emily Dickinson can with 10 words
• the simplest legal document

I understand what the maxim means to say. That some pictures—pieces of photo journalism come to mind—communicate ideas, truths, impressions that could not be captured in the same way with words. I don’t dispute that. But there’s a kind of job that images can’t do. They can’t argue. Not really. Images can’t present claims. They can’t reason syllogistically. They can’t sequence premises, conditions, and conclusions. For communication that compels a reader to action—whether the action is a change in thought or a purchase—we need words.

I am not proposing that words are better than visual images. That would be like saying trees are better than clouds; each has value within a particular context. And the context in which words have greater value is that of human thought and expression.

So we can call this the slice of history whatever we want, but one thing’s for sure, we’ll use words to do it. And unless our brains start working differently, words are here to stay.

versitext. Business-Language Solutions

Don't Don't

by Brad Beals

Versitext.com

Several posts ago, I dealt with the passive voice, its problems, its uses. One of the reasons that passive-voice construction (The ball was thrown by me, as opposed to the active I threw the ball) is a hindrance to clarity is that it requires an extra cognitive step to get to the meaning. It asks the synapses to fire a few more times than would be necessary with the active voice.

But there are other language habits that do the same thing. Using a negative to indicate its positive opposite, for example. Take this sentence: “Don’t be short.” It’s a caddie talking to his player. Now, this may be good advice. The caddie may know this particular spot on this green and understand that, given the grain, grass type, and the nearby pond, there’s a tendency for golfers leave it short. He might very well know exactly what he’s talking about, but he may also lose his job.

Just like with the passive voice, an imperative framed in the negative, like our caddie’s piece of advice, requires an additional cognitive step. The golfer must first understand what the statement means in the negative and then translate it into the positive opposite. Compare these two cognitive sequences:

A. With “Don’t be short”, the golfer’s brain would do something like this:

1. short means the ball stops before the hole
2. don’t means this is bad and the opposite is good
3. the opposite of short is long
4. therefore, I should try to hit it just past the hole
   

B. With “You can be long” the brain only needs to do this:

1. long means past the hole

2. therefore, I should try to it just past the hole.

If it sounds like I’m making an issue out of nothing, like I’m inventing for blog material, just hang on. Yes, the brain works so fast that we don’t perceive a difference between “don’t leave it short” and “you can be long.” It’s not as if the golfer now says,”Darn you, caddie! Now I’ve had to unnecessarily expend mental energy transposing your negative imperative into the positive. Two extra cognitive steps! You’re fired!” But something else is going on, something very important to both golfers and anyone trying to compel or persuade with words.

Here’s the problem: When the caddie says don't be short, the player will visualize short—he can’t help it; it’s a language/brain thing. Here’s an illustration: don’t think of green grass! So what did you think of? All kinds of things maybe, but the very first thing and the one to stick was green grass.

So now the player needs to revisualize the opposite of short since the caddie said "don't". Once again, it's not the extra cognitive steps that irk the golfer, it's that first image in his head of hitting the ball short. The golfer now has to superimpose with added effort the opposite image of hitting the ball past the cup. And in high-pressure situations, that can be next to impossible. The caddie has just spoiled his employer's sports psyche by introducing negative thinking. And he may also have just spoiled his own livelihood.

This will be very useful—you’re thinking—when I become a professional golfer, but how does this affect me now as a writer?

The implications for us as writers are the same as the consequences were for the caddie. Your readers, your players, will visualize what you put before them. So, when it’s possible and appropriate, when it doesn’t jeopardize the overall purpose of the copy, when it doesn’t handcuff you into veering away from the best rhetorical sequence, frame your imperatives in the positive.

Here’s an easy way to make a determination as to whether you should avoid a not: Ask yourself this: when casting words in the negative, are you ok with your reader having in mind (and holding it, we have to presume) the opposite of what you’re saying. Is it ok for your player to visualize short when you want him hitting it long? If not, present it in the positive. If it doesn’t hurt, don’t sweat it.

And you can always use these same principles in reverse. Reverse psychology, that is. Don’t open this box. Don’t ring this bell. And whatever you do, DON’T read my next blog.

versitext. Business-Language Solutions