I’ve been called a wordsmith. Told that I have a vast vocabulary. Even described as a storyteller. These are lovely compliments and I’ve done my best to accept them with humility while assuming a self-deprecating demeanor. But deep down, even I’m not buying it. That’s because my ‘vast’ vocabulary is courtesy of a synonym site called “Wordhippo.com” which I lean on like a four-legged cane. And being a storyteller just means I’ll never write a Grammy-winning song because I don’t know how to be concise.
I’m not even
sure if I’m a wordsmith. It’s a lovely description when you dissect it into its
two distinct parts. As a writer, I stand near the author’s forge, hammering out
overheated elements until the perfect phrase emerges and then I douse it with cold
water. I still think the credit goes to wordhippo.
What I do think
I am is a word snob.
Currently,
there are words batted around in print and out loud that irritate my inner soul
the same way catching a foul ball with my face would tick me off. I’m talking
about the willy nilly use of adverbs. I’ve been keeping a running list of a few
of them because I’m convinced there’s either a vernacular virus on the loose,
or else some kind of linguistic crime spree is taking place, and no one is paying
attention.
I’ve read
a few books written by famous authors on the ins and outs of journalism. Some of
them, including Stephen King, seem to know what they’re talking about, and they
don’t think adverbs make for good writing. They think adverbs are redundant and
make you appear lazy. I don’t want to be accused of something like that. And
neither do you! But, what, you may ask, is an adverb?
I would
describe most adverbs as hijacked adjectives. Grab yourself a nice descriptive
word, like poor, stick an -ly on the end of it, and just like
that, you’ve got an adverb. And a poorly written sentence. Adverbs’ claim
to fame is that they modify verbs. They’re only trying to help.
That's just code for co-dependency. Maybe verbs don’t want to be modified. Maybe they’re happy the way they are. Don’t you think if a verb wanted some help, it would ask for it? Does an adverb really need to take up valuable space resting on the laurels of a completely capable and independent verb? Hmmm?
See? Word
snob. Or a writer in need of additional therapy.
I’m not suggesting
we outlaw adverbs. I’m suggesting we stop creating new ones that look stupid on
paper. For example:
Funnily
Guiltily
Excitingly
Haughtily
Stop it.
These words not only look awkward, but they also sound awkward. And yet, I’ve
read them in print. In magazines published by reputable companies which I
presume even hire editors who approve their final product.
I am
shocked and appalled.
But maybe
I’m wrong? I doubt it because a word snob is a word nerd, but it’s possible.
Before I sat down here to expose this attack on the English language, I
researched my opinion by using an always reliable resource—the Dictionary app
on my phone. Guess what I found when I typed in these particular words?
Nothing. And I quote:
“No
results for funnily.” “No results for excitingly.” “No results
for guiltily.” Haughtily was the only exception. It still did not
exist, but it was substituted by the word, haughty, which either means
it’s somewhat acceptable or I am haughty.
I take umbrage
to that.
So, what is
going on here? I blame it on the English. Not the language, the country. We all
know England and America are two countries divided by a common language. And
with the ease of the internet and free trade, I’m beginning to read the writing
on the wall as well as in foreign magazines. Which is where I recently ran
across the adverb, excitingly.
Look at
these examples of the King’s English compared with that of colonial peasants:
Here, we practice
our spelling. Across the pond, they practise. (I had to go back and change
that last word because autocorrect didn’t recognize the ‘s’ as appropriate.
Neither do American schoolteachers.)
In America,
if I spelled a word wrong, I’d learn to do it the right way. In the UK,
if they spelt it wrong, we’d assume they were using an ancient grain to
make bread.
Now, I
could analyze these spelling differences all day, but in London they’re
satisfied to analyse them and tell us that we’re wrong.
That manoeuvre
might anger us, except that we wouldn’t know how to pronounce it. Manoyver? Manyuver?
Just spell it like it sounds – maneuver. For heaven’s sake.
Finally,
there’s this complicated example. Aluminum. I’ll admit, when I write
that word, I squint. It’s too easy to add in extra consonants, so I sound the
word out into four equal syllables. A-lu-mi-num. Across the pond, they’re also
concerned with equality. Two ‘m’s. Two ‘u’s. Two ‘i’s. Let’s say it together. Al-u-min-i-um.
Five syllables. All of that while speaking through clenched teeth. It looks
exhausting.
I was determined to get to the bottom of this. So, I did one final internet search and the website Reddit came to the rescue with this entry (which was not from me, just to be clear.)
‘Funnily’ is not a word, and everybody that says, “Funnily
enough” is a twat. Which still makes
me laugh. But five out of seven responders thought the writer was a twat, one
respondent had never heard of the word, and the final spectacular answer came at
the end of the page. “It’s a perfectly crumulent word.” Which I had to look up.
The Urban Dictionary offered this definition. If you want to call it that.
Crumulent - Ironically
legitimate. Implies that the subject is actually laughably full of baloney, but
that there is a reason to keep a straight face and pretend that it is not.
In point
of fact, ‘crumulent’ is not a word either, making it illegitimate. The
correct spelling is cromulent. And whoever uploaded that definition to
the Urban Dictionary attached two adverbs back to back which modified
absolutely nothing.
I give up.
Long live the King.
Special thanks to eltpics for the photo seen above. The original can be viewed by clicking on this link:
Dictionaries | @HanaTicha | eltpics | Flickr
