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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

The letter was written in that heavy-handed corporate style of so many CEOs, designed to impress the reader rather than inform. Corporate writers often think that wordiness and long sentences make the message more powerful. But the opposite is usually the case.

To be effective, a sentence needs to get off to a good start. In the third paragraph of Gorsky’s letter, three of the five sentences begin with “It is..” For example: “It is my belief that providing high-quality health care to patients and consumers around the world in a sustainable manner is society’s greatest challenge.”

Does Gorsky strengthen his assertion – that high-quality health care is society’s greatest challenge – by saying it’s something that he believes. To me, “it is my belief” is a qualifier. It suggests that perhaps other people don’t believe it, or that there is room for doubt.

When writing a message or a speech, I try to avoid qualifiers such as “It is my belief,” unless I’m introducing an original or controversial idea. Which is the more convincing?  To say: “It is my belief that high quality health care is society’s greatest challenge?” Or more simply: “High quality health care is society’s greatest challenge.” You be the judge.

So what are key messages? Often referred to as “talking points,” key messages are designed to distill the organization’s approach to an issue – the song sheet from which everyone will sing. It’s all about simple and beautiful music, sung in unison.

Here’s what key messages are not:

• A statement of the obvious (The Times They are A-Changing by Bob Dylan)
• An apology in advance for something we think is going to be unpopular (I’m Sorry by the Platters)
• A retelling of everything we’ve ever thought or said about the issue (Wagner’s Ring Cycle)

Key messages should be clear, short and easy to remember. After all, you don’t want your spokespeople reading them from a binder, or forgetting them and improvising (great in a comedy club, not so good in a media interview).

And please, just the key messages – three or four, at most. If you’ve got more to say (and you almost certainly do), put it in a backgrounder and hand it out.

The program contained an article about the Knowles, a couple who had moved to Tucson for the “healthy environment” and “ease of life”. The article went on to say that the Knowles “decided to transition some of their community support from their hometown of Cincinnati to their new home of Tuscon.”

When I read this sentence I wondered why the writer felt it necessary for the Knowles to transition their support. Was it really that complicated?

A week later, Pat and I were back in Grand Bend flipping channels on the TV. We landed on House Hunters, showing Brad and Cindy standing on a beautiful beach gazing at the ocean. It turned out that the couple, as the commentator put it, “were transitioning their professional careers from Dallas to the island of St. Croix.”

The choice of the word transition in each instance is a good example of “nounism”, the practice of using nouns as verbs. Transition has always been a noun, and nothing else. Its use as a verb is so recent that even on-line dictionaries haven’t caught up. The Merriam-Webster online dictionary shows transition as a noun, defining it as “a passage from one state, stage, subject, or place to another.”

After seeing the word in the two contexts above, I wondered whether transitioning is something that only happens to rich people. But no! In health care circles people are transitioning from their family homes to assisted living. And baby boomers are transitioning into retirement.

When I make a major change in my life, I don’t want to transition into it.  I just want to do it.