Writing Good, Part 4

Here are some words people use incorrectly.

Unthaw: You can’t unthaw something. Well, you could, but there’s a better word for it: freeze.

Irregardless: Do you really need this one explained? It isn’t even a word.

Nauseous: You probably mean nauseated, unless you’re barfing in front of other people. Then you should just go ahead and say “naushous” and wear tighter trousers.

Lay: You can’t lay down. You can lay something down. But you can’t, yourself, lay down. You lie down.

Ironic: Most people are better off just not even trying to use this word.

Pristine: It doesn’t mean ‘clean’. It means ‘in its original state.’ There are parts of the Amazon that are filthy, muddy shitholes filled with bugs and snakes, and they are pristine.

Enormity: When someone says ‘You’re failing to grasp the enormity of the situation,’ he’s not saying something is really huge. He’s saying it’s really evil and terrible. The holocaust was an enormity. 9/11 was an enormity. An expensive wedding is not an enormity. Well, maybe not at the time, but just you wait.

Nation: You probably use ‘nation’ and ‘country’ interchangeably. But you shouldn’t. A country is a geopolitical entity. A nation is its people. “We the people of this great nation” doesn’t mean “we who live on this particular section of land.” it means “we who are linked by citizenship.”

Check my links down there to the right for a good general usage page I always find helpful.

Just the Fax

I used to work in a jewelry store, as an appraiser and gemologist. It was interesting work, but paid very little, which was hard to take when you’re selling items that cost five times what you earn in a year.

After about six months, the store hired a new manager. He was probably in his early 30s, with a funny little moustache and one suit that he tried to disguise by occasionally wearing a different belt. After a day or two, I realized he had leapt way past his pay grade, such that it was, and he didn’t really have a clue about much.

Case in point: he had never seen a fax machine.

This was in 1989, and we had a fax machine so that I could fax purchase orders to head office, appraisal forms to lawyers and insurers, etc. It was already old by then, so it was about the size of a beer fridge, gave off scary heat levels and printed onto that curling tissue paper. But it was probably the most high-tech thing in the place, and this new guy was in awe of it.

“How does it work?” he asked one day, just before closing. I was sending off a stack of about a dozen insurance forms, and at those old baud rates it was easier to send them all at close of business and let the machine churn through the evening.

I decided to keep it clear and simple by using words he would understand, which was probably what led to what happened.

“Just like mail,” I said. “You put your mail in this slot here, punch in the fax number of the person you want it to go to, then press this big green button and off it goes.”

“Instantly?”

“Instantly,” I said.

He looked at it for a moment, his eyes wide. “What’s a fax number?”

“It’s the same as a phone number,” I said, sealing the deal.

A couple of mornings later, I came in and turned on the office lights. And there, in a pile under the fax machine, were about 60 envelopes, sealed, addressed and marked with the lines the fax machine’s rubber tracks had left. I picked them up and stacked them on the counter, slowly realizing what had happened.

The boss walked in, saw them, and smiled. “Thanks for showing me how to fax,” he said. “I sent all my Christmas cards and saved a fortune on stamps.”