September 4, 2022

When to capitalize after a colon

Sometimes a colon is followed by a capital letter, sometimes lowercase. Here's a quick guide to help you choose.

1.  If the stuff introduced by the colon is not a complete sentence, don’t capitalize the first letter (that is, of course, unless it’s a proper name). This is true in both AP and Chicago styles. Here’s an example: “I know what you did last summer: nothing.”

2. If the words that follow the colon form at least one sentence, AP style says to capitalize the first letter. “I know what you did last summer: You did nothing.”

3. In Chicago style, you capitalize the first letter after the colon only when the colon introduces two or more sentences. “I know what you did last summer: You did nothing. You were a couch potato.”

And in case you’re not clear on when to use a colon instead of, say, a dash or a semicolon or to start a new sentence. That's not as serious a problem as you may think. There is some overlap in these choices, which we’ll save for another day. But for now, here, in Chicago’s words, is a simple explanation of when to use a colon: “A colon introduces an element or a series of elements illustrating or amplifying what has preceded the colon.” I think of it kind of like a spotlight or a pregnant pause -- something that says, “Here it comes ...”

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August 29, 2022

Too big of a deal, or too big a deal?

Reader S.A. in Orange County, California, wrote recently with an interesting question: “I often hear or read comments where an unneeded ‘of’ is inserted, such as ‘It’s not that big of a deal.’ Shouldn’t it be ‘It’s not that big a deal’? It seems odd for people to add an extra word.”

S.A. isn’t alone. We’ve all seen and heard this use of “of,” including by highly literate people. For example, the famously brainy Freakonomics Twitter account posted a while back, “How big of a negative impact can noise have?”

“Big” isn’t the only word that inspires people to add an unnecessary “of.” Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage offers examples using “good” and “difficult”: I don’t care how good of a shape economists say we’re in. It wouldn’t be that difficult of a shot.

I agree with S.A.: It is odd. Why do we put that “of” there? I’m sure I’ve done so myself countless times, even though the sentence usually works just fine or better without the “of.” Consider all these sentences that are correct without “of”: How big a negative impact can noise have? It’s not that big a deal. I don’t care how good a shape economists say we’re in. It wouldn’t be that difficult a shot.

Here’s another thing that’s odd about this construction: Normally, when we English speakers create idiomatic uses like this, you can trace their origins back for centuries. Not so with “intrusive of.” Merriam’s found examples going back to the 1940s, but no earlier. And it’s mostly Americans using it.
“What we have here is a fairly recent American idiom that has nearly a fixed form: ‘that’ or ‘how’ or ‘too,’ or sometimes ‘as,’ followed by an adjective, then ‘of’ and a noun,” writes Merriam’s.

I’ve long suspected that we insert an unneeded “of” because subconsciously we’re thinking of the words “much of,” as in “too much of a good thing.” But Merriam’s points out that “sort of” and “kind of” also helped lay the groundwork for unnecessary “of.”

“The current idiom is just one of a group of idioms that are characterized by the presence of ‘of’ as a link between a noun and some sort of preceding qualifier,” Merriam’s explains. “Perhaps the oldest of these is the ‘kind of a’ or ‘sort of a’ construction, which is used by Shakespeare and is even older than that.” Here's more in my recent column.

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August 22, 2022

Back-to-school grammar tips

Heading back to school? Here are some grammar basics to make the school year easier.

Don’t write “it’s” in place of “its.” When you want to show possession, as in “The dog wagged its tail,” don’t use an apostrophe. Instead, use “it’s” only when you mean “it is” or “it has”: It’s raining. It’s been nice talking to you.

Don’t write “your” in place of “you’re.” If you want to tell someone “you are right,” the shorter form is “you’re right.” The one without an apostrophe, “your,” shows possession: Is that your phone?

Don’t write “who’s” when you mean “whose.” With an apostrophe, “who’s” means “who is” or “who has”: Who’s there? Who’s been eating my porridge? “Whose” deals with possession: Whose car is that?

Know the difference between “they’re,” “their” and “there.” Seeing a pattern here? Apostrophes cause a lot of confusion. “They’re” with an apostrophe means “they are”: They’re nice. “Their” shows possession: Their grades got better. “There” is a location, “Put it there,” or a way to say something exists, “There are a lot of people outside.”

Be careful with “let’s” and “lets.” “Let’s” is a contraction meaning “let us”: Let’s eat! Without an apostrophe, it’s a verb conjugated for a third-person subject: Troy lets his dog off the leash.

Don’t use an apostrophe to make a plural. Words ending in vowels — like tuba, tsunami, boo, hello and bayou — look weird when you put an S at the end. But that’s how you make them plural: tubas, tsunamis, boos, hellos, bayous. That applies to proper names, too. Jane and Sam Newberry are the Newberrys. No apostrophe, unless you want to put one after the S to show joint possession, like “the Newberrys’ house.”

Use “could have” or “could’ve,” never “could of.” It may sound like your friend is saying “I could of eaten that whole pizza,” but he’s not. He’s saying, “I could’ve.”

Use “affect” as a verb and “effect” as a noun: Caffeine doesn’t affect me. That drug has bad side effects. (In rare cases, “effect” can be a verb meaning to bring something about: “to effect positive change.” Even rarer, “affect” can be a noun meaning mental state. But you’ll probably never need those.)

Here are six more tips in my recent column.

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August 15, 2022

Compare to vs. compare with

When I was a beginning editor, old-timers coached me on the difference between “compare to” and “compare with.” They were different, these experienced editors explained, and couldn’t be used interchangeably. “Compare to,” they said, shows how things are alike, as in “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” and “compare with” means to examine the differences and likenesses of two or more things, “How do last year’s earnings compare with this year’s?”

It wasn’t till much later I learned that editors can be wrong. How does that happen? How do people who get paid to fix word usage 40 hours a week misunderstand word usage? They assume that the rules of their job apply to the whole world. Imagine a teacher who every day tells kids, “No chewing gum! Spit it out!” walking up to a fellow shopper at her local grocery store and saying, “No chewing gum! Spit it out!” So when these veteran wordsmiths told me “compare to” and “compare with” were a matter of right and wrong, not a matter of style, they were wrong.

If you’re an editor who works for a publication that uses Associated Press style, you’d be correct to enforce a difference between “compare to” and “compare with” in articles you edit because that’s AP’s rule: “Use ‘compared to’ when the intent is to assert, without the need for elaboration, that two or more items are similar: ‘She compared her work for women’s rights to Susan B. Anthony’s campaign for women’s suffrage.’ Use ‘compared with’ when juxtaposing two or more items to illustrate similarities and/or differences: ‘His time was 2:11:10, compared with 2:14 for his closest competitor.’”

The Chicago Manual of Style, which book editors follow, has the same rule. So if you’re writing for publication, by all means follow their advice. But in the real world, worrying about whether you should put “to” or a “with” after “compare” is a waste of time.

In fact, you probably comply with the editing guides without realizing it. Here's my recent column explaining how.

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August 8, 2022

'Can' vs. 'may'

In the 1800s, using the word “can” to ask for permission was considered standard English. But in the century that followed, something happened. Grammar fussbudgets got it in their heads that “can” should refer to ability and “may” should refer to permission. So if you ask whether you can go to the bathroom, you’re not asking to be excused but instead asking about the state of your own digestive health.
Where did they get this idea? No one knows. But it could have to do with the fact that “may” was being used for permission centuries before “can” existed in our language. And if you go back far enough, you unearth a rather delicious irony: In the eighth century, “may” referred to ability — just as “can” does today. Theoretically, you could have said, “I’m so powerful that I may lift this boulder over my head.” Around the same time, “may” adopted a second meaning, possibility, which is still in use today: It may rain tomorrow. This is also when “may” started to refer to permission: May I please be excused?

About 200 years later, “can” showed up in the language. At that time, “can” didn’t refer to ability, exactly. It meant to know something or to know how to do something. So you could have said “I can do math,” but you couldn’t say “I can lift this boulder,” since boulder-hoisting doesn’t require know-how.
It took a few more centuries before “can” came to mean “to be able to do something” — at a time when “may” was already doing that job. And by the year 1500, “can” and “may” had overlapping meanings.
So for hundreds of years, “can” and “may” both meant to be able to do something or that something was possible. During that time, “may” also meant to have permission, while “can” did not. That changed around 1800 when “can” started being used to refer to permission, making “Can I go to the bathroom?” proper speech. Then came the pushback.

Here's my recent column on "can" vs. "may" and why the rules aren't as strict as your mother taught you.

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August 1, 2022

Commas between coordinate adjectives

One of the most common things I change in the articles I’m editing is demonstrated in sentences like this: “The menu includes a delicious, macadamia-crusted sea bass and a selection of seasonal, red wines.”

If you don’t see an error in there, don’t feel bad. Depending on how you look at it, there may not be one. But on my watch, those commas are just not okay.

A basic guideline for commas is that they should be used between “noncoordinate adjectives.” The quickest way to get a handle on noncoordinate is to think about coordinating conjunctions, specifically the coordinating conjunction “and.”

With that in mind, it’s easy to remember this rough guideline: if the word “and” works well between the adjectives, you can put a comma between them. If it doesn’t, don’t.

So we can apply that to our sentence above by trying “and” in place of those commas. Does it make sense to call the dish “a delicious and macadamia-crusted sea bass”? Does it seem right to say “a selection of seasonal and red wines”? I don’t think so.

Another test to tell whether your adjectives qualify as “coordinate” or not is to try moving them around. Coordinate adjectives, because they all modify the noun in the same way, can go anywhere. Think about “a fast, easy, fun hike.” That’s a hike that’s fast and easy and fun, right? And it’s just as logical to say it’s an easy and fun and fast hike.

It doesn’t work the same way with our original example. A macadamia-crusted delicious sea bass doesn’t say quite the same thing as a delicious macadamia-crusted sea bass. It’s as though “macadamia-crusted” is integral to “sea bass” in a way that “delicious” is not.

Ditto that for “red seasonal wines.” Red wine is a thing. Seasonal is just a word we’re using to throw some added description on top of this well-known thing. So seasonal red wines seems different from red seasonal wines.

The choice isn't always clear. For example, “a seasonal local wine” could in fact be a “local seasonal wine.” And the good news is that you do have the leeway to go with your own judgment in these situations.

But when in doubt, just apply the “and” rule. Whenever “and” sounds a little off between two adjectives: no comma.

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July 25, 2022

It's OK to use 'can' to mean 'may'

In the 1800s, using the word “can” to ask for permission was considered standard English. But in the century that followed, something happened. Grammar fussbudgets got it in their heads that “can” should refer to ability and “may” should refer to permission. So if you ask whether you can go to the bathroom, you’re not asking to be excused but instead asking about the state of your own digestive health.

Where did they get this idea? No one knows. But it could have to do with the fact that “may” was being used for permission centuries before “can” existed in our language. And if you go back far enough, you unearth a rather delicious irony: In the eighth century, “may” referred to ability — just as “can” does today. Theoretically, you could have said, “I’m so powerful that I may lift this boulder over my head.” Around the same time, “may” adopted a second meaning, possibility, which is still in use today: It may rain tomorrow. This is also when “may” started to refer to permission: May I please be excused?

About 200 years later, “can” showed up in the language. At that time, “can” didn’t refer to ability, exactly. It meant to know something or to know how to do something. So you could have said “I can do math,” but you couldn’t say “I can lift this boulder,” since boulder-hoisting doesn’t require know-how.

It took a few more centuries before “can” came to mean “to be able to do something” — at a time when “may” was already doing that job. And by the year 1500, “can” and “may” had overlapping meanings.

So for hundreds of years, “can” and “may” both meant to be able to do something or that something was possible. During that time, “may” also meant to have permission, while “can” did not. That changed around 1800 when “can” started being used to refer to permission, making “Can I go to the bathroom?” proper speech.

Then, in the 1900s, came the pushback. Here's my recent column documenting how the issue got so controversial and why it's OK to use "can" to mean "may."

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July 18, 2022

On split infinitives and phrasal verbs

One time in my newspaper I column, I wrote: “Even professionals have to look these things up.’”

A reader named Barbara was irate: “You do that thing that raises the hair on the back of  my neck," she wrote. "You split an infinitive! Excuse me just a minute while I walk out to the patio just off my office space and scream!”

The split infinitive is the term used to describe constructions like “to boldly go,” in which a word intercedes between a particle “to” introducing a base form of a verb like “go.”

Here’s how Fowler’s Modern English Usage explains it: “The base form of an infinitive is shown in ‘to love,’ in which the verbal part is preceded by the particle ‘to.’ When such a combination is severed or ‘split’ by the insertion of an adverb or adverbial phrase (e.g. ‘to madly love,’ ‘to really and truly love,’) or other word or words the construction is called a split infinitive.”

That’s not what I did. There’s nothing between my particle “to” and my verb “look.” So the only thing Barbara could have been talking about was my insertion of “these things” between “look” and “up.”

“To look up,” in this sentence, is something called a phrasal verb. A phrasal verb is a group of two or more words, usually a verb and a preposition, that together combine to make a unique verb with a distinct meaning. Compare “to chalk” with “to chalk up.” The former means to write something in chalk, the latter has a completely different meaning: to attribute. So this is a phrasal verb: to put up, to storm out, to warm over, to throw up, to give up — these are just some of the many combos we call phrasal verbs.

“To look up” is not a phrasal verb in the sentence “If you hear a noise in the sky, look up.” In this sentence, “to look” means “to look” and the preposition just adds extra information (a direction). But in “I have to look up the spelling of a word,” the phrase “to look up” means something different from “to look.” So it’s a phrasal verb.

And never, in all the years I’ve been reading and talking about grammar, have I heard of a rule against breaking up elements of a phrasal verb. If any such rule existed, you wouldn’t be able to say “to chalk it up” or “to give it up.”

But even if I had split an infinitive, would Barbara be right? Nope. There is no rule against the so-called split infinitive. Here are some experts.

“No absolute taboo should be placed on the use of simple adverbs between the particle ‘to’ and the verbal part of the infinitive.” — Fowler’s Modern English Usage

The idea that you should never split an infinitive is “superstition.” — Garner’s Modern American Usage

“Some infinitives seem to improve on being split, just as a stick of round stovewood does. ‘I cannot bring myself to really like the fellow.’” — Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style

Some experts go further, saying there’s no such thing as a split infinitive.: “The term is actually a misnomer, as ‘to’ is only an appurtenance of the infinitive, which is the uninflected form of the verb.” — Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage

So I didn't split an infinitive. But even if I had, there would have been no reason for Barbara to scream.

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July 11, 2022

Lead Test

Take a look at this passage:

There were many factors that precipitated the American Revolution. Colonists had grown tired of living under oppressive British rule. But without a doubt, the rallying cry of “no taxation without representation” is remembered as the most important sentiment that lead to the rebellion and, ultimately, the Declaration of Independence.

There’s an error in there. I didn’t want to say so before you read that because it’s the type of error that’s easy to spot if you're looking for one. But this mistake is very easy to overlook if your brain isn’t in typo-hunt mode.

The error is “lead.” It should be “led.”

This is one of the most common mistakes I see. No one’s immune. Even people who know that the past tense of the verb lead (which rhymes with weed) is led (which rhymes with bed). The problem is that there’s another word, lead, which rhymes with led. It’s a metal (not to be confused with medal).

So anyone, it seems, can write, “the most important sentiment that led to the rebellion” instead of “lead to the rebellion.” And editors and proofreaders who aren’t consciously looking for this error can let it slip right past them, too.

The only way to avoid this error is to pay special attention to every instance of “lead.” If it’s being used as a verb and it’s supposed to be in the past tense, it should be spelled “led.”  Another way to look at it: if it’s a verb that rhymes with bed, again: it’s led, not lead.

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July 4, 2022

Some adverbs deserve to die

“Avoid adverbs” is a popular bit of writing advice. There's some wisdom there, but the it’s usually applied too broadly and sometimes interpreted as “all adverbs are bad.” That, of course, is ridiculous. Adverbs are essential parts of speech, and even the much maligned manner adverbs — the ones that modify verbs and often end in “ly” — can be just what a piece of writing needs to make it sing.

 Even so, there are some adverbs that I kill on sight. Anytime one of these crops up in an article I’m editing (or when I catch it in my own writing), I delete it without hesitation.

Truly. Formerly. Currently. Absolutely. Definitely. Utterly.

These are the pudgy, overpaid middle managers of language. They contribute nothing and are almost always dispensable.

 Consider the sentence: Peterson is currently the CEO of the company.

Editors see stuff like that a lot. And all the editors I know agree that currently adds nothing whatsoever to this sentence. Formerly, which often goes hand-in- hand with the verb was, is no better. The verb is already in the past tense. So the reader doesn’t need to be told the situation is former.

Truly, absolutely, definitely, really and utterly say a mouthful. Unfortunately, their message boils down to, “I really, really, really want you believe the thing I’m about to say.” Ironically, that makes the statement that follows seem less plausible.

For these adverbs — and any other that adds no new information whatsoever to a sentence — we can justify applying the old “Shoot first and let God sort ’em out” philosophy.

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