Words, words, words…

The colon is a very useful punctuation mark, but some writers experiment with it in unusual ways.

I just read an article written by Artistic Director Anthony Cimolino in Fanfares, a newsletter of the Stratford Festival. The first two sentences of the article each contain a colon:

I believe that the work we do here at Stratford can be summed up in two words: text and talent. The greatest plays of all time, brought to life by actors who are among the best in the world: that’s the very essence of what we’re here to accomplish.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a colon is used  “to precede a list of items, or a quotation, or an expansion or explanation.”  Perhaps the most common use of a colon is to precede a list. For example, Sally has climbed three of the seven summits: Everest, Kilimanjaro, and Vinson.

In certain instances a colon is used to complete, expand, or explain the words that immediately precede it. In this case the colon acts as a device to focus the reader’s attention. Here’s an example from Robert Frost. In three words I can sum up everything that I’ve learned about life: it goes on.

An important thing to remember about a colon is that it must be preceded by an independent clause. An independent clause is a group of words that can stand on its own as a complete sentence, with a subject and verb.

Let’s look at the first two sentences in the article above. In the first sentence the colon precedes a list, text and talent, and is used correctly.

In the second sentence, the colon is used to expand an idea. However, the colon in this case follows a sentence fragment, not an independent clause. The greatest plays of all time, brought to life by actors who are among the best in the world cannot stand on its own.

Questions of grammar aside, is it a bad sentence? Some might argue that the meaning is clear. But I don’t think it’s as clear as it could be. The odd use of the colon forced me to read the sentence a second time to get the meaning, and you shouldn’t have to read a sentence twice.

I’m a great believer in simple punctuation. Periods and commas do the job in most situations. There is a time and place for colons, but my advice is to use them moderately. Save your imaginative powers for your words, not your punctuation.

Recently I was in a meeting to discuss a brochure that I had drafted. At one point my client said, with ill-concealed glee, “Oh by the way, I’ve made a change since you last saw the copy – I found a grammatical error.”

There was a time when that would have sent me into a tailspin. Me, a communications consultant, making a grammatical error? How appalling. With images of my reputation swirling down the toilet bowl, I would find myself asking about the so-called error and maybe even arguing the point.

No more. In fact, my occasional outrage about common grammatical errors in this spot has always concealed some uncertainty.

In my philosophical moments I wonder, what is good grammar and why does it matter? Is it just a question of being correct when others are WRONG? Or does grammar actually enable us to communicate clearly?

It’s a question that has bedevilled language freaks for decades, maybe centuries. In a December 2012 article in the New Statesman, columnist Martha Gill wrote, “There’s nothing wrong with trying to be clear, but what’s annoying about people advertising their hatred of small grammatical errors is that it’s fairly transparently a status thing. “ (Obviously she too has had her mistakes pointed out to her.)

She goes on to argue that grammar, like DNA, evolves, and in the process new languages emerge. She ends by soothing the concerns of those who claim that English is going to hell in a handcart. “Language is fine – it’s thriving. It’s fairly hardy. Comedians and writers should just cross it off their list of worries and stop banging on about it.”

An article in Forbes in June of last year tackles the same question, quoting linguistics professor Alice Harris. “All languages change all the time – it’s not just English – and people have been complaining about changes in languages for as long as they’ve been changing, which is forever.”

Yet the writer goes on to argue that the evolution of language can’t be used as an excuse for bad grammar, which she says, “reflects badly on employees at all levels.”

Especially communications consultants, I guess.

The tough thing is to decide when an error slips into common usage. I would argue that using lay instead of lie is at or past the tipping point. So is fulsome to mean complete or rigorous. But I’m sure that if I tried to get away with either of them, a client would take great pleasure in pointing out my mistake.

You may have seen the new Ford ads that end with the tag line: “Go further.”

I’d love to know what was said when the marketing team presented the concept to Ford executives. I imagine the conversation might have gone something like this.

The lead marketing rep makes her pitch, and everyone then waits to hear from the CEO. “Go further with Ford,” he says thoughtfully, stroking his chin. “I like it, but can we really make that claim? I know our cars get great mileage, but do they really get more distance than our competitors?”

“We’re not claiming Ford goes farther,” says the marketing rep. “We’re saying Ford goes further.”

“Is there a difference?” asks the CEO.

“Oh, yes,” says the marketing rep. “Farther refers to literal distance. For example, we could say “Ford Fiesta goes five kilometres farther on one litre of gas than the Chevy Sonic. But we’re not suggesting that.”

“But doesn’t further mean the same thing?”

“Not at all,” says the rep. “Further is used in a figurative, not a literal, sense. We’re saying that Ford goes further – to build great products and give great service. And we’re suggesting that Ford clients go further in life. They’re happier, healthier, and more successful.”

“But some people might get it wrong, and think we mean that Ford vehicles actually go farther,” says the CEO.

“But that would be their mistake, not ours,” says the marketing rep.

“Yes, of course,” says the CEO. And then after a pause, “I like it.”

I don’t usually use the word “myriad.” Perhaps it’s because I’m never sure whether to say “myriad of” or just “myriad.”

In a recent article I quoted someone else who used “myriad.” The quote was “I am extremely grateful for the myriad of examples of ethical leadership…” I wanted to be sure that the usage was correct, so I checked.

“Myriad” means a very large, indefinite number. My American Heritage Dictionary says the word is an adjective. As an adjective, of course, the correct usage would be “myriad” without the “of.” Longfellow, for example, wrote “The forests, with their myriad tongues, shouted of liberty.”

I still wasn’t sure, though. “Myriad of” sounds okay to me, so I checked again, this time in Pat’s Concise Oxford Dictionary. This dictionary described “myriad” as both a noun and an adjective. That meant that “myriad” could be used either way, with or without an “of.”

The difference between the two dictionaries piqued my curiosity, so I decided to do a little more digging. I learned that “myriad” was first used as a noun some 400 years ago, long before it was used as an adjective. Great writers have used the word both ways. For example, Thoreau used it as an adjective: “…what do you care for a myriad instances and applications?” And also as a noun: “What is it to be admitted to a museum, to see a myriad of particular things, compared to being shown some star’s surface…”

If you use “myriad of”, you run the risk of offending some sticklers for grammar. If challenged, simply say that you’re using “myriad” as a noun, not an adjective. And chide them for not knowing their history.

There’s a sign in front of a pizza restaurant in my small town that infuriates me every time I drive by. It reads: “Mother’s Day: Mom’s get free dessert.”

Okay, don’t even get me started about Mother’s Day. I think it’s mean that children are made to feel guilty about their mothers once a year. (Surely feeling guilty about your mother should be a 365 days-a-year thing?) And it drives me crazy that Father’s Day is a much more low-key event.

But at least the apostrophe is correct. If the day commemorates the concept of Mother, then it’s Mother’s Day. You could argue that the day commemorates all mothers, in which case Mothers’ Day would be more correct.

Of course, it’s the “Mom’s” that gets me. This is just another example of a pandemic of unnecessary apostrophes plaguing the developed world. I’m not sure where it will end — perhaps in some kind of grammatical Armageddon — but it won’t happen on my watch.

When an apostrophe appears before an “s” it usually indicates ownership, as in Pat’s book or Max’s mess. Occasionally it indicates a contraction, as in “it’s” or “you’re,” but that’s only with a very few combinations of pronouns and verbs. Apostrophes are not necessary when the ‘s’ is making a noun plural.

So no, I won’t be taking advantage of the free dessert: I’d choke on it.

If you follow this blog, you’re used to me carping about common errors in grammar and awkward, wordy, unclear writing. I often sound like a bitter and hyper-critical wannabe writer, which pretty much covers it.

But the fact is, when I read something good, I am genuinely delighted. Which is why I devote this post to my favourite columnist, Tabatha Southey.

Southey is my Saturday morning treat. After I’ve waded through the more serious content in the Globe and Mail, I turn to her column and thrill to her sharp, insightful and oh-so-funny satirical essays. Does a little green bug of talent envy sometimes eat me from the inside out? Yes, it happens, but it doesn’t get in the way of my enjoyment.

This week she riffs on the recent discovery that cannibalism may have been practiced by the inhabitants of Jamestown, the first permanent British settlement in North America. “I’m sure eating one’s fellow colonists made sense at the time,” she writes. “It’s just a good thing it never made it into the Constitution.”

You see where this is going, right? If cannibalism had been enshrined in the Constitution, we would we now be debating “cadaver background checks.” The National Cannibalism Association (NCA)  would insist that, “Cannibals don’t kill people. They just eat people.” The NCA would form an alliance with PETA, based on the idea that animals are the natural beneficiaries of cannibalism.

Southey writes: “Turkeys would get off easy at Thanksgiving, where custom would dictate that the oldest or most wayward or most annoying member of the family would be ceremonially consumed. If you think American Thanksgiving is fraught with familial strife now, imagine those NCA-sponsored ‘Ask yourself, is that turkey any louder and more obnoxious than your brother-in-law Dougy?’ mailouts arriving in September.”

Like all great satirists, Southey’s jokes have a pointy end. At first the little pinpricks make us giggle, but eventually they make us uncomfortable. Southey does it while writing with elegant simplicity. Yes, I’m a groupie and I’m not ashamed of it.

This weekend we saw Fiddler on the Roof at the Festival Theatre in Stratford. It was a wonderful production, and I predict it will be a big success.

I had seen the musical a long time ago, but had forgotten the story line. When I sat down before the show, I was hoping the programme would refresh my memory.

I flipped through the pages hoping to find a short synopsis of the plot. The programme contained a very long and scholarly article by a university professor about the broader themes and meanings of the show, which would have been fascinating for those well acquainted with it. There was also a good article by the Director, Donna Feore, about the staging of the show.  But there was nothing that actually said what it was about.

I wanted to know the basic elements of the story line – where and when it took place, who were the central characters, and what was about to happen. I was looking for something simple, like this:

Once upon a time a poor milkman called Tevye lived in a little Jewish village in Russia with his wife and daughters. It was 1905, and tradition was important to Tevye. When his oldest daughter Tzeitel refused an arranged marriage and chose instead her childhood sweetheart, Tevye felt his world beginning to change. Change became even harder for him when two other daughters fell in love, also challenging the customs.  All the while external pressures were threatening the village, in the end changing their lives forever.

As communicators, we cannot assume that people know, or remember, the basic story that we’re trying to tell. Although it’s important to challenge our readers and give them more depth, we should never gloss over the where, when, who, and what of our story – the part that begins with “once upon a time.”

When the stock market collapsed in 2008, few people saw it coming. When an angry public asked banking leaders why they didn’t tell us about the risks they were taking, they demurred. The financial system is too complicated for the public to understand, they said.

In the aftermath, many books and movies have shown it wasn’t too complicated at all. The idea behind collateralized debt obligations, the source of the problem, is not difficult to understand when explained in plain language.

I recently read an article showing how financial institutions are still hiding huge risks behind impenetrable language. “What’s Inside America’s Banks”, by  Frank Partnoy and Jesse Eisinger, appeared in the February issue of the Atlantic Monthly.  The writers combed through the 236 page annual report of a large, well-regarded American bank.  They gave examples of how the annual report is filled with “cryptic declarations,” without giving the “crucial information that investors need.”

Here’s an example from the annual report: “Customer accommodation trading consists of security or derivative transactions conducted in an effort to help customers manage their market price risks and are done on their behalf or driven by their investment needs.” Described this way, customer accommodation trading sounds like a good thing, a way of protecting the customer’s money. But the writers go on to show how risky this practice can be. They give illustrations of what can happen under various scenarios – something the annual report could do but doesn’t.

It’s not surprising that public trust in financial institutions is at a low ebb. If we had understood the actual risks being taken, many of us would not have handed over our money in the first place. This, of course, would have averted the crisis.

Whether you’re a bank or a charity, you can no longer expect people to give you their money on trust alone. Trust has to be built and earned. And one of the best places to start is plain language.

As a Rotarian, I receive Rotary International’s monthly magazine. The Rotarian is a well-crafted little publication, and I enjoy reading it.

The March issue begins with a message from Sakuji Tanaka, the President of Rotary lnternational. Tanaka is Japanese, and although his English is good, he’s still learning. When he speaks to a Western audience, he usually brings with him an interpreter just to make sure that everyone understands. In paragraph two of his message he describes what it’s like:

“It was a new experience for me to speak Japanese to a group, and then hear my words spoken in English. Even now, I find it interesting. I hear new ways of expressing myself in English, and I also have a small glimpse of what it must be like not to speak Japanese.”

He goes on in the message to talk about an encounter with a listener, who asked him about a particular Japanese word he used , ichabad. The word, said Tanaka, simply means to be the best. He then uses this encounter to expand on his vision for Rotary.

Tanaka’s message is a pleasure to read. It has all the hallmarks of good communication. As you can see from the paragraph quoted above, his language is simple and clear. He speaks directly to the reader in a tone that is friendly and personal.

It made me think. When we write, we should sometimes approach our language as if we were beginners. Tanaka brings along to his English-speaking meetings someone who can interpret Japanese into English.  Perhaps we should act as interpreters, too – for ourselves. Our job is to find new ways of expressing ourselves – to translate what we write into language that’s effortless for the reader to absorb and remember. It’s worth a try.

Okay, confession time: I’m not a fan of the word “however.”

What do I have against the unoffending three-syllable word, you ask? Well, it’s three syllables, for one thing. But mostly it’s because I prefer the alternative “but.”  I like the dense, solid sound of “but.” It stops a reader in her tracks, and lets her know that what follows is a new and different thought. “However” by comparison is a bit weak-kneed and mealy-mouthed.

Most of all, I dislike “however” for something that really isn’t its fault – its common misuse as a conjunction in run-on sentences.

Case in point from a recent press release from a national health care organization: “Our report reinforces why home care is so important to Canadians and to our changing health care system, however, the need for home care services is outpacing public funding.”

Clearly, a run-on sentence. But the writer feels that “however” makes it okay.

You could, of course, correct this sentence by replacing the comma after system with a semi-colon. However, this is about more than correctness. The writer is making a critical point, juxtaposing the increasing demand for home care with the funding crunch. He wants the reader to pay close attention to what follows.

However you look at it, creating two short, punchy sentences is simply better communication.