I Did Not Allot a Lot of Time for This Post
So let me get straight to the point. There seems to be a great deal of confusion over this little issue.
Allot is a verb. It means to parcel out, to assign, to apportion. Example: That doctor allots only five minutes to each patient.
A lot is two words. It is a noun phrase and means myriad, bunches, tons, a great number. Example: Five hundred algebra problems is a lot of homework.
Alot is not a word, and anyone (especially anyone purporting to be a professional writer) who allows it to make it into a finished printed piece ought to be strangled with typewriter ribbon. Some grammarians make an exception if one is writing dialogue; I would not recommend this usage, however, unless you are trying to indicate that the character speaking is uneducated or illiterate.
Surprising Spelling Tip of the Week
Interesting word, “minuscule.” Means “tee-ninesy, itty-bitty, microscopically small, insignificant.” And it’s spelled funny.
You’d think it was supposed to be spelled “miniscule” with the “mini-” like the one in “miniature” or “Mini-Me.”
But it isn’t!
It’s spelled “minuscule” with a “minus” as in “less than.”
Who knew? A coworker called me on this one, and we had to go to the dictionary to settle it. Boy, was I red-faced when we found out that the coworker was right and I was wrong. According to Webster’s, the preferred spelling is the one with the “u.” The spelling with the “i” is an alternate spelling. Well, you learn something new every day.
So remember, if it’s of “minus significance,” it’s “minuscule.”
A Dilettante Has Nothing to Do With Pickles!
Well, nothing, that is, unless your “dilettante” is a pickle-lover.
“Dillettante.” A common misspelling, this, and sometimes humourous. But for those who have the affliction of needing to be right, there are certain words in the language that give us nightmares. “Chaffeur” …”amateur” … “connoisseur.” But the Big Kahuna of them all is “dilettante.”
Everyone knows that the herb is dill, spelled D.I.L.L. Good stuff in dip, or for making pickles. Swallowtail butterfly larvae like to eat it.
As “dilettante” starts off with the same sound, all of us English-speakers want to spell “dilettante” with two Ls. Alas, it isn’t so.
“Dilettante” is a word of Italian derivation; it means “one who dabbles” or “a connoisseur.” The Italian root is “dilettare,” meaning “to delight,” and the ultimate root is the Latin “delectare” (that’s pronounced /DEL ek TAH ray/), which also means “to delight.”
A dilettante is a person who loves something, particularly the arts, and who pursues them without serious professional intent. It can also imply amateurishness or lack of skill.
So, today’s lesson is…Don’t let your spelling make you look like a dilettante. Leave the double-L to the herbs.
Chile Is Neither Chili nor Chilly, and It Has Nothing to Do With Peppers
Ah, the confusion of reading “We ate some chile last night.” What, you like mud pies?
Chile, pronounced /chee-LAY/ by those who know, is a subtropical country in South America. Interestingly enough, it’s long and skinny, having the rough outline of a nice serrano pepper.
Chili, pronounced /CHI-lee/, is either a hot pepper, such as a habanero, serrano, or jalapeno, or it is a type of stew characterized by extreme spiciness and the use of beans. (Meat is optional, which is why the Mexicans call chili containing meat chili con carne, which means “chili with meat.”) The plural of this word is chilies, not chillies.
Chilly, also pronounced /CHI-lee/, means rather cold, as in “When the frost is on the pumpkin, the morning air is a bit chilly.”
So just remember that if you visit Chile, you will not get chilly, but you might be asked to eat a plate of chilies or a bowl of chili.
Don’t Snigger at Me, You Oaf!
Once again, a controversy over spellings darkens the skies. Is it “snicker” or “snigger”? Let the Grammar Guru help, won’t you?
Snicker means “to utter a half-stifled, possibly snide, laugh.”
Snigger means “a disrespectful laugh, usually partly-stifled.”
In essence, they are synonyms, although snigger carries more negative connotations of disrespect or furtiveness, usually giving the idea that whatever is being laughed at is slightly risque or “not quite nice.” It also seems that snigger is used primarily by those whose native tongue is British English, while snicker is preferred by those who grew up under the influence of American English.
The two words are derived from the same Dutch root, and snigger seems to have been an alternate form that entered the language sometime around 1706. I believe that Shakespeare used snigger, though I can’t find a reference at present. I know that Rudyard Kipling used it in his poem “Cleared.”
So lay down your arms, my dear Blogging Friends. Both words are perfectly acceptable, though we Americans may be forgiven an occasional snicker at the amusing verbal idiosyncrasies of our British friends.
Serial Killers Don’t Murder Cereals
A cereal killer would be someone who takes the life out of your bowl of porridge. A serial killer, on the other hand, is someone who makes a habit of taking the lives of others according to a pattern.
Cereal, you see, is a noun meaning a type of grain product. In Europe, it can mean any of a number of grain dishes, whole grain or processed, ready-to-eat or processed for cooking. In America, most people will think of ready-to-eat, cold breakfast-type grain products if you ask for “cereal.”
Serial, on the other hand, is an adjective meaning “in a series or sequence.”
So, you may eat your cereals serially, but you cannot be a cereal killer — unless it’s murder to eat your Wheaties.
When You Need Advice, Ask Someone to Advise You!
The Grammar Guru has been asked to explain the difference between advise and advice, two frequently misused words that should be easy to tell apart.
Advise is a verb, meaning “to tell someone what they ought to do.” It is pronounced /ad-VIZE/. Someone advised him not to invest in widgets.
Advice is a noun, meaning “a recommendation for or against a course of action.” It is pronounced /ad-VYCE/. Give advice only when it is requested.
It’s important to remember the difference, whether you are writing or speaking, if you want to avoid unsolicited advice about improving your verbal communications skills.
O Tempora! O Mores!
This post was sparked by a comment that I made on another blogger’s post (her name is Homegirl), in which I mistakenly assumed that she had misquoted the old saying “the pot calling the kettle black.” I was wrong. She had intentionally changed it, for reasons that I understand and respect. But this tendency in modern writing and editing greatly concerns me, so I wish to explore this topic further.
Words have meanings, both dictionary meanings (denotations) and implied or understood meanings (connotations). What I believe Homegirl said in her response to my comment is that the connotations of the word “black” cause her to avoid it, even when it requires her to change a centuries-old aphorism that refers to the color of an inanimate object. Is this wise or is it dangerous?
If we are writers, do we not have a responsibility to use the language properly, respectfully, and carefully, with the object of demonstrating to our audiences that words have legitimate uses and that we uphold the legitimate use while eschewing the illegitimate or intentionally offensive? And do we not, as speakers in the public arena, have a responsibility to stand, very firmly, for the idea that “fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself” — that is, fear of a word generates chimerical fears — fears of things that need not be feared?
I got into this sort of debate once with my senior editor. Every time she saw the word “like” in a piece, she replaced it, sometimes contorting the wording to the point that it confused the meaning and destroyed the readability of the piece. According to this editor, “like” must never be used as a comparative conjunction. She said that “like” could only be used to mean “having affection for,” as in I like my cat. She told me that if I would read my Bible, I would find that Jesus never used the word “like.” I ended the conversation with statement that, as we were in the business of producing curricula for religious education, we had a responsibility to demonstrate to our students the correct usage of language, and that we, as editors, did not have the right to perpetrate idiosyncracies of usage that could not be supported with a dictionary and a recognized, authoritative style manual.
(That editor’s declaration about Jesus’ never using “like” comparatively was a challenge I could not ignore. I went to the Bible, using Strong’s to look up “like” in the New Testament. And some of the first words I read of Jesus’ were, of course, “The kingdom of Heaven is like unto….” — a comparative use if ever I saw one. )
This is a topic on which I would like to hear the writing community’s thoughts. Do we, as writers and editors, have the responsibility to educate both with the words that we write and with the way in which we use (or refuse to use) them? Or is there a place for changing even the established means of expression when they cause discomfort? What criteria should be applied?
“That” or Not “That”…That Is the Question!
There is a movement afoot in publishing and academic circles to remove “unnecessary” instances of the word that from writing. The problem is that it is difficult to codify when that is unnecessary and when it isn’t. For example, more than half of the “experts” would omit my use of that between “problem is” and “it” in the previous sentence, substituting a comma. This style supposedly streamlines writing, but my grammar teachers called that kind of “streamlining” a comma-splice and awarded Fs for it.
I find that removing that from many sentences actually hinders the readability of the piece, as the reader has to stop and figure out what the author is trying to say. For example, “Mary saw John was upset Amy had left.” That sentence is confusing as it stands, because the eye naturally pauses at a complete thought….”Mary saw John.” Then it hits “was upset” and your brain says “Hunh?! Try that again!” If you merely insert the conjunctive that into the sentence, it’s a lot easier to understand, and the sentence stops sounding like a run-on: “Mary saw that John was upset that (or because) Amy had left.”
The word that has a necessary and vital role in English, and those who insist on leaving it out for no better reason than to “streamline” are, at best, brainless twits who don’t know the difference between formal written English and spoken English. They aren’t the same — for good reason.
There Was No Cavalry at Calvary
At least, not a cavalry as we know it.
A cavalry, pronounced /kav ul ree/, is a group of mounted soldiers.
Calvary, pronounced /kal vuh ree/, is the place where Jesus was crucified, on Mount Golgotha, just outside the gates of Jerusalem.
While there were soldiers present at the Crucifixion, they were infantry — Roman footsoldiers headed by a centurion or decurion.
A slippery slope both for writers and speakers, this diabolical duo bears watching. Correct usage will distinguish you as a writer or speaker who is well-educated and careful. Incorrect usage is detrimental to your reputation.