I have a couple of new posts up elsewhere: a brief one at Copyediting discussing those dialect maps that are making the rounds and asking whether Americans really talk that differently from each other, and a longer one at Visual Thesaurus (subscription required) discussing the role of copy editors in driving restrictive relative which out of use. Stay tuned, and I’ll try to have something new up here in the next few days.
I’ve been putting this post off for a while for a couple of reasons: first, I was a little burned out and was enjoying not thinking about my thesis for a while, and second, I wasn’t sure how to tackle this post. My thesis is about eighty pages long all told, and I wasn’t sure how to reduce it to a manageable length. But enough procrastinating.
The basic idea of my thesis was to see which usage changes editors are enforcing in print and thus infer what kind of role they’re playing in standardizing (specifically codifying) usage in Standard Written English. Standard English is apparently pretty difficult to define precisely, but most discussions of it say that it’s the language of educated speakers and writers, that it’s more formal, and that it achieves greater uniformity by limiting or regulating the variation found in regional dialects. Very few writers, however, consider the role that copy editors play in defining and enforcing Standard English, and what I could find was mostly speculative or anecdotal. That’s the gap my research aimed to fill, and my hunch was that editors were not merely policing errors but were actively introducing changes to Standard English that set it apart from other forms of the language.
Some of you may remember that I solicited help with my research a couple of years ago. I had collected about two dozen manuscripts edited by student interns and then reviewed by professionals, and I wanted to increase and improve my sample size. Between the intern and volunteer edits, I had about 220,000 words of copy-edited text. Tabulating the grammar and usage changes took a very long time, and the results weren’t as impressive as I’d hoped they’d be. There were still some clear patterns, though, and I believe they confirmed my basic idea.
The most popular usage changes were standardizing the genitive form of names ending in -s (Jones’>Jones’s), which>that, towards>toward, moving only, and increasing parallelism. These changes were not only numerically the most popular, but they were edited at fairly high rates—up to 80 percent. That is, if towards appeared ten times, it was changed to toward eight times. The interesting thing about most of these is that they’re relatively recent inventions of usage writers. I’ve already written about which hunting on this blog, and I recently wrote about towards for Visual Thesaurus.
In both cases, the rule was invented not to halt language change, but to reduce variation. For example, in unedited writing, English speakers use towards and toward with roughly equal frequency; in edited writing, toward outnumbers towards 10 to 1. With editors enforcing the rule in writing, the rule quickly becomes circular—you should use toward because it’s the norm in Standard (American) English. Garner used a similarly circular defense of the that/which rule in this New York Times Room for Debate piece with Robert Lane Greene:
But my basic point stands: In American English from circa 1930 on, “that” has been overwhelmingly restrictive and “which” overwhelmingly nonrestrictive. Strunk, White and other guidebook writers have good reasons for their recommendation to keep them distinct — and the actual practice of edited American English bears this out.
He’s certainly correct in saying that since 1930 or so, editors have been changing restrictive which to that. But this isn’t evidence that there’s a good reason for the recommendation; it’s only evidence that editors believe there’s a good reason.
What is interesting is that usage writers frequently invoke Standard English in defense of the rules, saying that you should change towards to toward or which to that because the proscribed forms aren’t acceptable in Standard English. But if Standard English is the formal, nonregional language of educated speakers and writers, then how can we say that towards or restrictive which are nonstandard? What I realized is this: part of the problem with defining Standard English is that we’re talking about two similar but distinct things—the usage of educated speakers, and the edited usage of those speakers. But because of the very nature of copy editing, we conflate the two. Editing is supposed to be invisible, so we don’t know whether what we’re seeing is the author’s or the editor’s.
Arguments about proper usage become confused because the two sides are talking past each other using the same term. Usage writers, editors, and others see linguists as the enemies of Standard (Edited) English because they see them tearing down the rules that define it, setting it apart from educated but unedited usage, like that/which and toward/towards. Linguists, on the other hand, see these invented rules as being unnecessarily imposed on people who already use Standard English, and they question the motives of those who create and enforce the rules. In essence, Standard English arises from the usage of educated speakers and writers, while Standard Edited English adds many more regulative rules from the prescriptive tradition.
My findings have some serious implications for the use of corpora to study usage. Corpus linguistics has done much to clarify questions of what’s standard, but the results can still be misleading. With corpora, we can separate many usage myths and superstitions from actual edited usage, but we can’t separate edited usage from simple educated usage. We look at corpora of edited writing and think that we’re researching Standard English, but we’re unwittingly researching Standard Edited English.
None of this is to say that all editing is pointless, or that all usage rules are unnecessary inventions, or that there’s no such thing as error because educated speakers don’t make mistakes. But I think it’s important to differentiate between true mistakes and forms that have simply been proscribed by grammarians and editors. I don’t believe that towards and restrictive which can rightly be called errors, and I think it’s even a stretch to call them stylistically bad. I’m open to the possibility that it’s okay or even desirable to engineer some language changes, but I’m unconvinced that either of the rules proscribing these is necessary, especially when the arguments for them are so circular. At the very least, rules like this serve to signal to readers that they are reading Standard Edited English. They are a mark of attention to detail, even if the details in question are irrelevant. The fact that someone paid attention to them is perhaps what is most important.
And now, if you haven’t had enough, you can go ahead and read the whole thesis here.
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There’s a long-running debate over whether the construction reason why is acceptable. Critics generally argue that why essentially means reason, so saying reason why is like saying reason twice. Saying something twice is redundant, and redundancy is bad; ergo, reason why is bad. This is really a rather bizarre argument. Reason is a noun; why is usually an interrogative adverb. They do cover some of the same semantic space, but not the same syntactic space. Does this really make the construction redundant? Defendants generally admit that it’s redundant, but in a harmless way. But rebutting the critics by calling it “not ungrammatical” or saying that “redundancy is not inherently bad” is a pretty weak defense. However, that defense can be strengthened with the addition of something that has been missing from the discussion: an examination of the syntactic role of why in such constructions.
Nearly every discussion on reason why that I’ve ever seen—including Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage and Garner’s Modern American Usage—leaves out this very important syntactic component. The only exceptions that I’ve seen are this post on the Grammarphobia blog and this one on Daily Writing Tips, which both mention that why is a conjunction. The writers at Grammarphobia argue that reason why is not actually redundant because of why’s syntactic role, but Mark Nichol at Daily Writing Tips seems much more confused about the issue. He says that even though reason why has been around for centuries and only came under fire in the twentieth century, he’ll continue to avoid it in his own writing “but will forgive the combination when I am editing that of others” (how magnanimous). But he doesn’t understand why reason why is okay but reason is because is not, because both why and because are conjunctions.
I won’t get into reason is because here, but suffice it to say that these are very different constructions. As I mentioned in my previous post on relative pronouns and adverbs, why functions as a relative adverb, but it appears almost exclusively after the word reason. (To be clear, all relative pronouns and adverbs can be considered conjunctions because they connect a subordinate clause—the relative clause—to a main one.) In a phrase like the reason why this is correct, why connects the relative clause this is correct to the noun it modifies, reason. Relative pronouns refer to a noun phrase, while relative adverbs refer to some kind of adverbial phrase. As with any relative clause, you can extract a main clause out of the relative clause by replacing the relative pronoun or adverb and doing a little rearranging (that’s the man who I met > I met the man), though with relative adverbs you often have to add in a function word or two: the reason why this is correct > this is correct for this reason. This is pretty obvious when you think about it. A phrase like the reason why this is correct contains another clause—this is correct. There has to be something to connect it syntactically to the rest of the phrase.
In defending the construction, Gabe Doyle at Motivated Grammar compares it to the redundancy in The person who left their wet swimsuit on my books is going to pay. This is actually a more apt comparison than Mr. Doyle realizes, because he doesn’t make the connection between the relative pronoun who and the relative adverb why. He argues that it is just as redundant as reason why (and therefore not a problem), because who means person in a sense.
But as I said above, this isn’t really redundancy. Who is a relative pronoun connecting a clause to a noun phrase. If who means the same thing as person, it’s only because that’s its job as a pronoun. Pronouns are supposed to refer to other things in the sentence, and thus they mean the same thing. Why works much the same way. Why means the same thing as reason only because it refers to it.
So what about reason that or just plain reason? Again, as I discussed in my last post on relative pronouns and adverbs, English has two systems of relativization: the wh words and that, and that is omissible except where it functions as the subject of the relative clause. Thus we have the option of saying the reason why this is correct, the reason that this is correct (though that sounds awkward in some instances), or just plain the reason this is correct (again, this is occasionally awkward). The Cambridge Grammar of the English Language also mentions the possibility the reason for which, though this also sounds awkward and stilted in most cases. But I suspect that many awkward plain reasons are the result of editorial intervention, as in this case I found in the research for my thesis: There are three preliminary reasons
why the question of rationality might make a difference in the context of Leibniz’s thought.
It’s important to note, though, that there are some constructions in which why is more superfluous. As Robert Lane Greene noted on the Johnson blog, sometimes why is used after reason without a following relative clause. (Mr. Greene calls it a complement clause.) He gives the example I’m leaving your father. The reason why is that he’s a drunk. The why here doesn’t really serve a syntactic function, since it’s not introducing a clause, though the Oxford English Dictionary calls this an elliptical construction. In essence, the why is serving as a placeholder for the full relative clause: I’m leaving your father. The reason why (I’m leaving him) is that he’s a drunk. It’s not strictly necessary to delete the why here, though it is generally colloquial and may not sound right in formal writing.
But this is by no means a blanket injunction against reason why. I think the rule forbidding reason why probably arose out of simple grammatical misanalysis of this relative construction, or perhaps by broadening a ban on elliptical reason why into a ban on all instances of reason why. Whatever the reason for the ban, it’s misguided and should be laid to rest. Reason why is not only not ungrammatical or harmlessly redundant, but it’s a legitimately correct and fully grammatical construction. Just because there are other options doesn’t mean one is right and the rest are wrong.
In case you haven’t been following me on Twitter or elsewhere, I’m the newest regular contributor to Visual Thesaurus. You can see my contributor page here. My latest article, “Orwell and Singular ‘They’”, grew out of an experience I had last summer as I was writing a feature article on singular they for Copyediting. I cited George Orwell in a list of well-regarded authors who reportedly used singular they, and my copyeditor queried me on it. She wanted proof.
I did some research and made a surprising discovery: the alleged Orwell quotation in Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage wasn’t really from Orwell. But if you want to know the rest, you’ll have to read the article. (It’s for subscribers only, but a subscription is only $19.95 per year.)
But if you’re not the subscribing type, don’t worry: I’ll have a new post up today or tomorrow on the oft-maligned construction reason why.
I recently received a review copy of Don McNair’s Editor-Proof Your Writing: 21 Clear Steps to the Clear Prose Publishers and Agents Crave, which is available now from Quill Driver Books. I’ll be up-front: I was very skeptical of the idea that you could editor-proof your writing by following certain steps, and my opinion hasn’t changed after reading the book.
McNair starts with a basic and intriguing premise: that most writers who get repeatedly rejected are making the same mistakes over and over again without realizing it, and if they could only see what they are doing wrong and make some changes, they’d sell some manuscripts. He even says that some of his critique partners had success after following his tips. It certainly sounds promising, especially to a writer struggling to get published. But I could tell within the first few pages that this book was not going to be the panacea that it claimed to be. A few pages into the introduction, McNair writes,
Most editing manuals are like geography books that give great information about an area, but don’t show you how to get from place to place. This book is a GPS that guides you through the writing wilderness to solve your specific writing problems.
That’s the major problem with this book: it can’t address my specific writing problems, because it has no idea what they are. It may be true that many novice writers suffer from many of the same problems, but those aren’t the reader’s specific writing problems.
But the next paragraph really befuddled me:
Most editing manuals are like dictionaries from which you’re asked to select words to write the Great American Novel. This book shows what specific words to use and what ones not to use.
Why have two back-to-back paragraphs with the exact same formula but different metaphors? Why not pick one and stick with it? (On a side note, McNair frequently mentions writing the Great American Novel, but his advice seems geared more towards writers of pulp romances and mysteries than to aspiring literary greats.) And again, the book does not show which specific words to use. The chapters on “putting words in” are mostly about cramming your first chapter full of hooks and ramping up the tension by making your main characters fight while also making them attracted to each other. McNair gives plenty of before-and-after examples from his own works, but I have to say that I never found any of them very compelling, and some of them I found downright cringeworthy, as in this “after” example of putting in sexual tension:
I wrapped my arms hard around his neck and smothered his face in kisses. At least I hoped they were kisses, and not just slobber. Wren’s arms encircled me, and his hot, Juicy-Fruit breath hit my neck.
The rest of the passage isn’t any better.
The advice gets more specific when it gets to the section on “taking words out”, though I’m not sure it’s any more helpful. McNair provides plenty of words and constructions to avoid—infinitives, present participles, the passive voice, -ly adverbs, the past perfect tense, prepositional phrases, and several pages of phrases that are redundant or otherwise deemed “foggy”. Much of this advice is familiar, though some of it was new to me. Some of it may be helpful to novice writers, but I doubt any of it will editor-proof a truly terrible manuscript. Some of the advice actually seems counterproductive and even contradictory. He says to avoid cliches and recommends replacing a statement like “It was as black as pitch” with “It was as black as the inside of an octopus.” Only a few pages later, he cautions against saying that someone’s eyes were glued to the TV screen, because the reader will be distracted by the image of a pair of eyes wandering out of their sockets and being literally glued to the screen. I wouldn’t give “glued to the TV screen” a second thought, but “as black as the inside of an octopus” is such an oddly specific and random image that I would probably find it distracting enough to put down a manuscript.
The last section, on “sharing your words”, is probably the most helpful. McNair stresses the importance of critique partners and gives several rules for finding good ones. He also discusses the value of hiring a professional editor to help you polish your manuscript before shopping it around. He also gives advice on writing query letters and synopses. Again, all of this advice is probably pretty familiar to anyone who is serious about getting published.
That brings me to another problem: most chapters are only two or three pages long, barely long enough to cover the basics and certainly not long enough to develop the ideas in any depth. The advice feels not just familiar but superficial and even trite. He barely mentions larger issues like character development or plot, assuming that readers already have those things mastered and just need to polish their prose to get out of the slush pile. Perhaps that’s true of some writers, but I suspect that many more will never be published no matter how well they follow the advice in this book. The title makes a very bold claim, and I don’t believe that the contents live up to it.
In case you haven’t seen it already, I have a a new post up at Visual Thesaurus. It explores the history of toward and towards and specifically looks at copy editors’ role in driving towards out of use in edited American English. It’s only available to subscribers, but the subscription is only $19.95 a year. You get access to a lot of other great features and articles, including more to come from me.
I’ll keep writing here, of course, and I’ll try to get back to a more regular posting schedule now that my thesis is finished. Stay tuned.
Today is National Grammar Day, in case you hadn’t heard, and to celebrate I want to take a look at some of those who hold themselves up to be defenders of the English language: copy editors. A few weeks ago, the webcomic XKCD published this comic mocking the participants in a Wikipedia edit war over the title of Star Trek into Darkness. The question was whether “into” in the title should be capitalized. Normally, prepositions in titles are lowercase, but if there’s an implied colon after “Star Trek”, then “Into Darkness” is technically a subtitle, and the first word of a subtitle gets capitalized. As the comic noted, forty thousand words of argument back and forth had been written, but no consensus was in sight. (The discussion seems to be gone now.)
The Wikipedia discussion is an apt illustration of one of the perils of editing: long, drawn-out and seemingly irresolvable discussions about absolutely trivial things. Without prior knowledge about whether “into darkness” is a subtitle or part of the title, there’s no clear answer. It’s a good example of Parkinson’s law of triviality at work. Everyone wants to put in their two cents’ worth, but the debate will never end unless someone with authority simply makes an arbitrary but final decision one way or the other.
I wouldn’t have thought much else of that discussion if not for the fact that it was picked up by Nathan Heller in a column called “Copy-Editing the Culture” over at Slate. Someone cited one of my posts—”It’s just a joke. But no, seriously“—in the discussion in the comments, so I followed the link back and read the column. And what I found dismayed me.
The article begins (after a couple of paragraphs of self-indulgence) by claiming that “it is . . . entirely unclear what the title is trying to communicate.” This complaint is puzzling, since it seems fairly obvious what the title is supposed to mean, but the problems with the column become clearer as the reasoning becomes murkier: “Are there missing words—an implied verb, for example? The grammatical convention is to mark such elisions with a comma: Star Trek Going Into Darkness could become, conceivably, Star Trek, Into Darkness“. An implied verb? Marking such elisions with a comma? What on earth is he on about? I don’t see any reason why the title needs a verb, and I’ve never heard of marking elided verbs with a comma. Marking an elided “and” in headlines, perhaps, but that’s it.
[Update: It occurred to me what he probably meant, and I feel stupid for not seeing it. It's covered under 6.49 in the 16th edition ofChicago. A comma may be used to signal the elision of a word or words easily understood from context, though what they don't say is that it's a repeated word or words, and that's crucial. One example they give is In Illinois there are seventeen such schools; in Ohio, twenty; in Indiana, thirteen. The comma here indicates the elision of there are. The Star Trek, Into Darkness example doesn't work because it's a title with no other context. There aren't any repeated words that are understood from context and are thus candidates for elision. I could say, "Star Wars is going into light; Star Trek, into darkness", but Star Trek, into Darkness" simply doesn't make sense under any circumstances, which is probably why I didn't get what Heller meant.]
The article continues to trek into darkness with ever more convoluted reasoning: “Or perhaps the film’s creators intend Star Trek to be understood as a verb—to Star Trek—turning the title into an imperative: ‘Star Trek into darkness!’” Yes, clearly that’s how it’s to be understood—as an imperative! I suppose Journey to the Center of the Earth is intended to be read the same way. But Heller keeps on digging: “Perhaps those two words [Star Trek] are meant to function individually [whatever that means]. . . . If trek is a verb—“We trek into darkness”—what, precisely, is going on with the apparent subject of the sentence, star? Why is it not plural, to match the verb form: Stars Trek Into Darkness? Or if trek is a noun—“His trek into darkness”—where is the article or pronoun that would give the title sense: A Star Trek Into Darkness? And what, for that matter, is a star trek?”
This is perhaps the stupidest passage about grammar that I’ve ever read. Star Trek is a noun-noun compound, not a noun and a verb, as is clear from their lack of grammatical agreement. A star trek is a trek among the stars. Titles don’t need articles—remember Journey to the Center of the Earth? (Yes, I know that it is sometimes translated as A Journey to the Center of the Earth, but the article is optional and doesn’t exist in the original French.)
I know that some of you are thinking, “It’s a joke! Lighten up!” Obviously this argument has already occurred in the comments, which is why my post was linked to. I’ll grant that it’s probably intended to be a joke, but if so it’s the lamest, most inept language-related joke I’ve ever read. It’s like a bookkeeper feigning confusion about the equation 2 + 2 = 4, asking, “Shouldn’t it be 2 + 2 = 22?” Not only does Heller’s piece revel in grammatical ineptitude, but it reinforces the stereotype of editors as small-minded and officious pedants.
I’ve worked as a copy editor and layout artist for over ten years, and I’ve worked with a lot of different people in that time. I’ve known some really great editors and some really bad ones, and I think that even the best of us tend to get hung up on trivialities like whether to capitalize into far more than we should. When I first saw the Slate column, I hoped that it would address some of those foibles, but instead it took a turn for the insipid and never looked back. I looked at a few more entries in the column, and they all seem to work about the same way, seizing on meaningless trivialities and trying to make them seem significant.
So I have a plea for you this Grammar Day: stop using grammar as the butt of lame jokes or as a tool for picking apart people or things that you don’t like. And if that is how you’re going to use it, at least try to make sure you know what you’re talking about first. You’re making the rest of us look bad.
In honor of National Grammar Day this Monday, I’ve reduced all the t-shirts in the Arrant Pedantry Store by $1 (sorry, the price drop doesn’t apply to the product designer). Plus, you can get $5 off orders of $30 or more with the coupon GREENWEEK through March 5. Watch this space for a real post on Monday.
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I apologize that I haven’t written a real post in over a month. Right now I’m frantically trying to finish writing my thesis so I can graduate in April. I’ll try to write something here soon, but until then, you should check out this new group blog called Foolproofing, offering sarcastic editing advice from expert editors.