Sometimes a great oops just lands in your lap

Working away today when I came across this terrific sentence: "The college is in a small town, complete with tree-lined streets where students can pursue their studies." Oh, my! Isn't it dangerous what with all that pesky oncoming traffic? How can they possibly study while they're dodging all those Hondas and SUVs?

This particular example came from a very respected Web site, which just goes to show that even the best can forget to proofread for meaning as well as grammar, usage, and punctuation. Misplaced modifiers get you every time.

Bated v. baited

If you mean you're waiting with great nervousness or trepidation for news, please write the word "bated." It's a cousin of the word "abated," which means "lessened. " So "bated breath" means that you have less breath; you're holding your breath with anxiety or tension.

In this context, if you write "baited breath," I'm going to assume you have a worm on your tongue. And wonder why.

Obviously, this word pair isn't a problem in speaking, since the two words are pronounced the same way, but in writing, getting it wrong can make you look not so smart.

I'd like to ...

A few posts ago, I mentioned how the phrase "is designed to" clogs up the flow of writing. Here's another that does the same thing: "like to, " as in, "We'd like to introduce our new product."

This phrase makes it seems as if introducing the product is but a faint hope, a wish, a desire. It's almost as if there's a corollary: "We'd like to introduce our new product (but we can't)."

If you'd like to do something, do it. Say it. Own it.

• "Here's some information about the newest generation of widgets."
• "Introducing our new widgets."
• "The latest in widgets is here today. For you."

Isn't that stronger than, "We'd like to tell you about our new widgets"? (If only we could ... sigh.)

Business writing is full of these weak-kneed construction; they're as invasive as kudzu. To keep your verbal garden healthy, stamp out "like to" today.

The reign in Spain

There's an interesting car commercial running now. It states that "Joan of Arc reigned only five years." Really? I was unaware she ever reigned. As a matter of fact, Joan's fondest desire was to put someone else on the throne. There's no doubt that Joan had a significant influence on the course of history, but she wasn't a sovereign, and she didn't reign.

Recently, I saw a similar use of this verb in the context of a college president's "reign" over the campus. I know academic regalia is cool, but it generally doesn't confer royal power. That's why college presidents are installed during an inauguration rather than a coronation.

English is a language of subtleties, and, to me, "reign" as a verb has the connotation of kingly (or queenly) rule. As an adjective, though, "reigning" often has the opposite connotation, meaning commonplace or popular, as in the "reigning" opinion or fashion of a particular time.

One more thing to remember is the spelling of reign v. rein. A "rein" is part of a bridle, used to hold a horse in check. However, I can't tell you how many times in the past few weeks I've seen the phrase "to reign him/her/it in." The right word in that context is "rein" because it means to exercise control over something or someone.

And don't forget to take your umbrella when it reigns.

Jargon rears its ugly head ...

... but it's funny. One of my henchmen recently ran across a site that touts its new software as very useful for "backupping." Oh, come on. There's a perfectly good phrase--backing up--that has served several generations of technology users. What's the point of a word like "backupping"? It's ugly, doesn't work, and makes the perpetrator of the phrase look silly.

Another of my spies has found a perfectly lovely misplaced modifier that made me laugh:

"His last billed part was in 1956, though he appeared in an uncredited bit part after his death." I'll bet his performance was a little stiff, though.

I found another in a publication I'd been asked to work on:

"This set of instructional materials is very useful for teachers with children." But what about childless teachers? Might they find the materials helpful in their classrooms, too?

These are cute little object lessons that illuminate a bigger point. In careful speaking and writing, the details matter. Really. Read. And then read again.

What You Know

A fair number of manuscripts cross my desk every year, and frankly, most of them have serious flaws. Not necessarily unfixable, but things that will take a good deal of work to correct. The most common problem I see is manuscripts in which the leading character works in a profession the writer knows nothing about. It rings false and readers know it.

Recently, I looked over a manuscript in which the main character was a television reporter. The writer had never been part of local news; in fact, he'd never even visited a newsroom. His next-door-neighbor had some passing acquaintance with the field, and she read the author's manuscript. However, because the neighbor was not an expert either, she missed some glaring errors.

In another case, the main character was an opera singer. The author knew virtually nothing about opera. She used a great many "opera" terms, but they were words I'd certainly never heard. I looked them up and couldn't find them. When I asked the author about them, she confessed that she'd made them up. Can't do that--unless you're writing a fantasy and the opera singer lives in another galaxy. But then you have a whole new series of issues.

Of course, no author starts out as an expert in every field, but if you're not conversant with a profession, either recast your character or become an expert. There are many opera singers, reporters, forensics experts, police officers, ballerinas, dog catchers, doctors, potters, politcal operatives, and teachers who would be happy to share what they know about their professions. Read everything you can, too. Have fun increasing your knowledge. That's one of the joys of writing. You get to learn as you go. What could be better than that?