Grammar Nazi: Circa

Today’s word question is: Should “circa” be used only for dates. And, more specifically, only for uncertainty around a certain date, rather than a date range?

Two questions, clearly.

First, a definition:

Aside: Of COURSE it’s a preposition. But I dare you to find that on anyone’s memorized list.

I ask the first question (Should circa be used only for dates) because I saw an indie author indicate the word count of his novella at “circa 7,200 words.” And while that SOUNDED odd, sounding odd doesn’t necessarily mean it’s wrong.

So I turn to the Internet because I cannot be the only Grammar Nazi out there with this question.

Here’s what I’m finding:

“In standard writing, use the English equivalent or write out the whole word.”

So, Mr. Indie could be right, and I could be right. Although the preferred usage is to drop it for English . . .

Here’s someone who falls into the “it sounds wrong” camp.

And there’s this, which says I’m right, in that circa is used only for dates:

Clearly, making an appeal to the Internet is going to be problematic.

On to the section question: A certain date uncertainty, or an uncertainty over a range of dates?

The “feels right” part of me wants to say if you offer a date range, you’re already expressing uncertainty, so the use of circa is redundant.

That’s what I get from these unnamed “linguists” (and on the Internet, you have to put things like that in quotes because who knows who these people are?) but even they’re not sure on everything.

It’s enough to make you feel like you drew the “You Will Doubt Yourself in Everything” card in “the game” from Gumball:

That reminds me. Watching Gumball is a LOT more fun than asking idiot questions on word use that we can’t possibly resolve without spending way too much time on them. So, until next time, here’s Grammar Nazi, signing off.

Slaying Great Green Dragons

There’s a funny little feeling that goes through my head whenever anyone uses the word “absolutely” in context with English grammar rules.

That funny little feeling is summed up in two words: Absolutely not.

This is a shocking statement coming from a known grammar Nazi. And while I will fight to my dying breath the current trend to turn the word “literally” into meaning “figuratively,” I will also take the time to question whenever anyone says something “absolutely” has to be done a certain way when it comes to speaking or writing English.

Because there’s this:

 I’m sure many of us have seen this doing the rounds on Twitter and Facebook.

I read it, and had to delve deep into my memory. I don’t recall ever being taught about adjectival order. And maybe I was. Back in elementary school, that little thing that says “absolutely not” can sometimes be a bit stunted. And maybe we were taught it and took it as matter of course, something we had to learn in a long list of things we had to learn.

But I look at it now, and I have to say, “Why?”

Why can’t green great dragons exist? Does mixing up the adjectival order create a different image in the mind? Communicate less effectively? If I heard someone say “green great dragon” in casual conversation, or read it in a book, I doubt I’d even blink.

But some people like to point out the blinking.

But as with many, many “rules” in English grammar, the solidity of the rule depends on whom you speak to (note the discussion on “tendencies” rather than “rules”.

This led me, of course, to the origin of the “green great dragon” phrase:

I first tried to write a story when I was about seven. It was about a dragon. I remember nothing about it except a philological fact. My mother said nothing about the dragon, but pointed out that one could not say 'a green great dragon', but had to say 'a great green dragon'. I wondered why, and still do.

J.R.R. Tolkien, from a letter to W.H. Auden (7 June 1955)

And to the ensuing debate. I wonder if Tolkien ever got a satisfactory answer to his question, other than a pert “because it’s so.” I doubt it.

Return of the Grammar Nazi: Sleight vs. Slight

Because I’ve seen this error online no fewer than three times just this week, I’m going to write about it.

When you’re talking about a magician’s fancy handwork, it’s sleight of hand. NOT, so help me, slight of hand.

Slight works as an adjective, verb, and noun. And it in no way works in the phrase “sleight of hand.” Slight can mean being small or inconsiderable, or not strongly built. A light can be an insult, and a slight can be to insult.

Sleight is different. Sleight is a noun meaning “the use of dexterity or cunning.”

Big difference.

Again, this word confusion has to be chalked up to people hearing the phrase “sleight of hand,” but not seeing it in print. Slight is the more phonetic way to spell the word, so that’s the spelling that gets picked.

But it’s wrong.

Commenter vs. Commentator

Commentator:

1. A person who discusses news, sports events, weather, or the like, as on television or radio.
2. A person who makes commentaries.

Commenter (form of comment):

(Def. 4) A user response to published content on the Internet, written in a designated comments section, often below the published content.

Folks, if you’re making comments on the Internet, you’re a commenter. If you’re the paid professional announcer, news anchor, host, essayist, unpaid amateur blogger or what have you, you’re a commentator. Comments, made by commenters, follow what is said by the commentator. If the commentator follows up by making a comment on his or her content, then he or she is a commenter in the comments on his or her own work, for which he or she is the commentator.

Got it?

Just another public service from the Grammar Nazi. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.

Do Typos Really Matter?

I have, on top of my filing cabinet at work, a sheet of paper printed from a page of a hazard assessment document.

One it, towards the bottom, is an asterisk next to a bullet point that has a red ring around one word: “Hoise”. The E is crossed out, rather savagely, with a T written, rather legibly, above it.

It should be “hoist”. But it’s not.

This is a published document. It’s been out there for about a year and a half. With this rather embarrassing typo in it.

I could fix it. I could fix it in about fifteen minutes, if the document owner were handy. Fixing an editorial mistake like this is easy, per our process.

But I don’t bother. The error, pointed out by a fire protection technician, isn’t significant enough to warrant the $2.60 it would cost the company to fix it – if only my “labor” were factored in.

So I have to wonder: Do typographical errors matter?

Yes, this is coming from the Grammar Nazi, at least of this blog’s fame. And yes, this blog post is prompted by two rather silly homonymerrors I encountered in a post (the “10 Bad Apples of Digital Media” at digiday.com.

Read the article. The errors – substituting queue for cue and wreaks for reeks – would make any copy editor squirm.

But the article has been up since June 25, 2012. More than two years. And has been shared, if I’m reading things correctly, more than 3,600 times.

I thought briefly about emailing the author to point out the errors. But then I’d be That Guy, pointing out homonym confusion on a two-year-old throwaway listie blog post.

And I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first. I’m sure the author has received numerous emails pointing out the errors. I HOPE the author has received numerous emails pointing out the errors.

But the errors remain.

It’s not worth the author’s or digiday.com’s time to go back to fix these two words, these two errors that make the copy editor in me cringe.

So back to my original query: Do typographical errors matter?

I’m not talking about errors in fact. I lost a job in journalism due to those, and the thought of those errors comes to me often – my shower this morning was a rather harrowing experience in which my brain, between half-hearted brushed with my loofah, replayed the emotions and potential consequences and what-ifs of those errors NINE AND A HALF YEARS after the fact. I felt so ill at ease I almost missed my bus and expressed, not for the first time and not for the last, that I must be a worthless human being for having made those mistakes.

Those are the kinds of errors that matter.

Typographical errors make one look sloppy, but they’re the common cold of the woes that plague the recorded word: Everyone gets them and no matter what kinds of defenses are put up, they’re going to get through to print (thanks to Yzma and Kronk for yet another illustration; your typical error-elimination plan).

Rare Reappearance of the 43-year-old Grammar Nazi

To the ladies writing at Galleycat.com:

Stop hyphenating people’s ages incorrectly. Now.

It’s a chronic problem at Galleycat, viz:

“Writer Zilpha Keatley Snyder has died. She was 87-years-old.

No, no, and no.

It’s correct to say “87-year-old Zilpha Keatley Snyder has died.” In this case, Ms. Snyder’s age is a modifier to the noun – Ms. Snyder – so per Grammar Girl, it’s correct to hyphenate it.

But when the age is part of an adjective phrase that follows the noun, DO NOT HYPHENATE.

For corroboration, look at what the folks at grammar.net say (pay attention to Nos. 2 and 6).