It was Plouffe (rhymes with bluff) who gathered the president’s unprecedented thirteen-million-name contact list . . .

The problem lies in the parenthetical—and, more specifically, its placement. Given the unusual name and its spelling (subjects I myself am intimately familiar with), clarifying its pronunciation is necessary. Yet, including the article’s subhead and photo caption, this is the fifteenth reference to Plouffe.

At this point of the story, 19 paragraphs in, the unguided reader has already established a pronunciation—either correct pluff, ploof, or some variation that mildly rhymes with souffle. The readers who didn’t imagine it right will stop reading, glance back at the previous paragraphs, and reconsider at some small but distracting level what they’d encountered before. Some coverage of Rod Blagojevich similarly delayed the needed pronunciation guide until the last name had already been presented multiple times.

In Write Tight, I refer to such instances as addding “mental length” to the manuscript—ballooning the reading experience by forcing the readers to rise out of the story and think about something, in this case a something that could have been clarified much earlier.

And so says I, Bill Brohaugh (does not rhyme with bluff, that royal snitch, or bruhaha).

(Silent gh, for the record. Bro-haw.)

Some never got promised rebates, while others applied for zero-percent financing but were charged higher interest rates.

Everything I know about math is wrong, too, but am I incorrect in assuming that charging interest of any sort would constitute a figure higher than zero? Therefore, “but were charged interest rates” without the higher is clear. For that matter, the word rates is superfluous, as well. ” . . . others applied for zero-percent financing but were charged interest.” (I’ll leave the discussion of the difference between applying for something and being guaranteed something to another day, when I talk about how I’m suing the government because I applied for negative taxation but taxes were levied nonetheless.)

Sometimes extra words hinder prose not necessarily by adding tiny physical length, but by lading considerable “mental length” onto the reading experience, as readers disconnect from the story to mentally note the wording. If the goal is lower interest, then in my case the sentence quoted above has accomplished that goal, by reducing my interest in the story it tells as I (in my occasional role as general reader) focus on how it is told.

It’s considerably more Dickensian than Blagojevich, that’s for sure. Kathleen Parker said in the Washington Post last Wednesday:

Among his other activities, Blagojevich — whose Dickensian name rings nearly eponymous — allegedly has been busy trying to get certain members of the Tribune’s editorial board fired by threatening to withhold state assistance for the financing or sale of Wrigley Field (Tribune also owns the Chicago Cubs).

I’m REALLY not sure what she means by “rings nearly eponymous”.

Agreed, Ridger. One characteristic of eponyms we use today—boycott, bowdlerize, maverick, as examples—are (like, oh, at least a handful of words in the language) pronounceable. Machiavellian and Celsius give us a challenge, yes, but we can still get them out of our mouths without counting the syllables and mentally watching where our tongues go as we slog through the syllables in slow motion, as we would do with Dag-nab-o-glitch, or however it’s pronounced. I believe we should all pronounce the eventual near-eponym with a Jerry Lewis jabber, the way Jon Stewart does.

And what would a Dag-nab-o-glitch be, anyway? Someone who tries to sell political appointments? Someone who attempts outrageous indiscretions and denies them equally outrageously? A hairstyle that protects your face like an awning?

I would suggest that we brohaugh the notion (mock with silly suggestions), except for that little pronounceability factor . . . and the fact that the meaning wouldn’t be significantly different from “stewarting the notion.”

Let me use this as a jumping-off point for some verbal silliness on The Daily Show last week. Stewart shows a clip of an unnamed reporter referring to the DagwoodSand-o-Wich affair as:

This political drama played out on the national stage is much more than that. It’s human soap opera, as a matter of fact.

Stewart responds, “I see. So this would be like a soap opera except—and this would be the twist—with human roles.” As a matter of fact.

As a capper, the unnamed reporter is jabbering over a display of the words “GOVERNOR’S FAMILY FUED.”

Check out the episode of the Daily Show, enjoy this and some other wordplay there (the czar schtick is fun), and then join me in wondering: What the hell does “nearly eponymous” mean?

Just because I said it’s ironic does not mean that it’s funny. But it is irony.

This was her conclusion of the unfortunate tale of American kidnapping consultant Felix Batista himself being kidnapped (and, of course, we wish him a happy fate). Maddow’s introduction:

Irony alert. Code red. Threat of disturbing irony imminent in an unfunny story.

The story is indeed ironic in the Greek tragedy sense: character action in contrast to audience knowledge of the true situation. And Maddow is right. “Ironic does not mean that it’s funny.” Irony can, I grant you, produce a certain level of amusement, in an “I have mocked thee” or a “You got your comeuppance, buddy” sort of way. Yet, irony in its most powerful sense is rather somber.

As Maddow and her writers acknowledge by way of disclaimer, irony has also come to imply ha-ha-titter-titter kinds of jokes. Pratfalls instead of tragedy, spit-in-the-wind yuk-em-ups instead of pointed sarcasm.

And the write tight guy in me wonders if she could have saved a lot of words just by introducing the story as a possibly redundant but definitely clear “tragic irony.”

It’s sad for the world that she has this story to report in the first place. And in my little part of the world, it’s also sad for the word lovers that she is forced to go to such extents to steer her audience from a softened meaning of a powerful word.

Quick recap: Kid darts into traffic. Grandfather dashes to the rescue and picks the kid up, when both are hit by a car. The headline:

Child, Grandfather Struck By Car As Witnesses Look On

JohnnyB Struck By Headline As Witness (Me) Reads On: “Isn’t that what witness means?,” JB writes. “‘Witnesses see nothing’ would be contradictory (though it would be what happens in most Cincinnati crimes).” Indeed, witnesses witness. Or give witness. But JB was also raising a larger concern—that of effective writing. The subject line of his email was a snarked “A fine piece of writing.”

JB says, “The fact that there were witnesses doesn’t even have anything to do with the story. I guess the headline writer thought it added drama.” The phrase also adds a bit of misdirection. Doing something in front of witnesses implies not accident but, as JB notes, dramatic intention. Compare “Dog bites man in front of witnesses” and “Man bites dog in front of witnesses,” the former being somewhat natural and the latter being an act of “I don’t care if you think I’m crazy.”

A couple of side notes before I mention what really frustrates me about the headline: First, the story reports, “Michael Benjamin [one of the witnesses] was there when it happened.” Because witnesses witness, being there “when it happened” is implied. Second, the story wastes the opportunity for precision and drama by beginning “A young boy and his grandfather . . . .” Boy implies “young,” but it turns out that the kid was just two. Beginning “A two-year-old boy and his grandfather” would have delivered additionally appropriate gravity to this incident.

Finally, what’s further frustrating about this story is the headlinese style of “Child, Grandfather Struck by Car”—perhaps deleting that bloated, space-hoarding word and to make room for the ever-so-needed nonsensical redundancy of “As Witnesses Look On.” Now there’s concision for you. Except. The cramped-newspaper-style headline introduces a transcript of an audio TV report—and it appears on the web, the realm of infinite space to express thoughts clearly, and in natural English.

But the blood-boil level perked up a bit yesterday when I saw this news story about the unrest in Greece:

Terrified workers in banks along Athens’ central Syntagma Square watched in fear as protesters shattered windows just replaced days ago after being damaged in the worst riots Greece has experienced in decades.

Here I would campaign for Athens’s to indicate that Syntagma Square is located in singular Athens and not a group of communities each named Athen. But there’s little boil factor in that. And I strongly suggest positioning the word just before the concept it truly modifies—”days ago”—but, again, a little blood percolation, but no boil yet. Then there’s “workers in banks.” Were they, say, construction workers who just happened to be in the banks cashing their paychecks? I suspect that they were instead “bank workers”—a clearer, shorter, more direct phrasing. Again, pulse quickened, but the little platelets are still floating around in conditions under 212 degrees.

The vascular steam engine revs up around mid-sentence. Imagine this Write Tight boy’s surprise to learn that “terrified workers” watched “in fear.” Not only can that latter phrase be lopped off, it must be. This description is redundant, as terror is (last I heard) intense fear, but redundancy is the lesser of the two sins the sentence commits. “In fear” doesn’t merely repeat; it deflates. Terrified workers become merely fearful workers in the space of a dozen or so syllables.

So, to reassure my kind friends who checked in on me, the pulse is still there. And so is the re-pulse.

If an email you’re sending to me includes the phrase, “I’m not trying to be provocative,” then you should rethink what you’re writing to me; 1)You probably are being provocative, 2)You probably know it and 3)You come across as a total jerk.

In the context of writing, Susan has identified a counterproductive technique we can call “telegraphing your punches.” Verbally. “Excuse me, Mr. Raging Bull—I’m not trying to be aggressive, but I believe I’ll next try an uppercut. You ready?”

In Susan’s case, the writer is a correspondent signaling attack at some level. When threatened with attack, we tighten up, put up our shields, and prepare for, at best, strong defense and, at worst, pre-emptive counter-attack. Bring it on! If the attack comes, we react and likely even overreact. On the other hand, what if what follows that phrase is not provocative? “I’m not trying to be provocative, but the sky is blue.” Dashed expectations, confusion and maybe even frustration ensue.

Such telegraphed punches are far too common in communications. “This joke is hilarious,” crows the party socialite. With audience expectations and skepticism raised, the joke faces increased chances of falling flat on the teller’s face, like egg. The joke might be very funny, but if it isn’t hilarious, the speaker has failed in rising to his own self-inflated standard.

Or take the banal cliche delivery of the TV newscaster: “The numbers will astound you!” Hearing such intoned pronouncements, I don’t lean in toward the idiot box with bated-soon-to-be-astounded-breath. Instead, I lean back and think, Prove it, and almost always, they don’t.

Never apologize for what you’re about to write; never hype it. Just deliver it in as carefully crafted phrasing as you can, and let the words and not the “previews of coming attractions” do the talking. Accusations, attacks, jokes, pranks, mystery-novel endings, compliments, and demonstrations of love are at their most powerful when delivered without forecast, but with a modified level of surprise you have prepared with the consistent foundations laid by your previous actions in real life and your story-telling in writing.

I’m not trying to be instructive, but . . .

“It seems to me that you need to remind people every now and then that you can’t communicate to people in a language unless you know the grammar and the syntax and, indeed, the punctuation,” the prince told a Georgian Group awards ceremony at The Ritz in London.

The prince quoted above is England’s Prince Charles. Bless his royal-blue heart, his intentions are good, but his attempt to “communicate to people in a language” needs a bit of precision. This flabby sentence should feature all the precision of the Buckingham Palace guard, yet exhibits the wasted motion of fans in an artist-formerly-known-as-Prince (the other one) mosh pit. Let me pick royal nits:

1. The statement is imprecise and, in a sense, not true. You can communicate with grammar, syntax and punctuation lapses. We do it all the time. “I ain’t got none of them cookies no more, they’s gone.” Are you confused about my cookie inventory? Prince Charles meant that you can’t communicate precisely, without distraction, and with authority if you haven’t mastered the big three.
2. The good prince’s declaration not only fails to address but also itself employs another obstacle to communicating to people in a language: squishy and indirect word use. To wit:
   • “It seems to me.” If it didn’t seem to you, why would you even say it? Unnecessary. Besides, the phrasing has a subtle sense that he is at odds with general thinking (”they say one thing, but it seems to me that . . . ”)
   • “you need to.” you must is shorter and more powerful.
   • “remind people every now and then.” remind people occasionally would have been more direct, and more in tune with an audience sitting in the Ritz.
   • “to people.” Who else would you be using grammar, syntax and punctuation to communicate to? The dog? Rover doesn’t care if the command “Rover sit” should feature a comma. And not many inanimate objects can hear you at all, not even the chair in Neil Diamond’s “I Am, I Said.” Delete “to people.”
   • “in a language.” The phrase’s construction and placement weakens its connection to the language elements about to be listed. See my edit below.
   • “the.” Instead of “the grammar and the syntax,” how about “its grammar and its syntax”? Despite the being a definite article, “the grammar” gives the noun a general, unconnected air. Its clearly ties grammar to language.

My suggested revision isn’t poetry, but it would likely carry far more of the authority and confidence we expect of the man who will be king: “You can’t communicate precisely and credibly without command of the language’s grammar, its syntax and, indeed, its punctuation.”

And then I’ll take it even further: “You can’t communicate precisely without command of grammar, syntax and, indeed, punctuation,” as grammar, syntax and punctuation are components of language and few other things (name one), and, combined with the word communicate, these three words clearly imply language.

In other words, to fight the good fight, write tight.

I’ve just received the good news that Writer’s Digest Books will publish my Unfortunate English in paperback in Fall of 2009. The hardcover remains available, and I humbly suggest it for the word lovers on your Christmas list. And other lists, as well. The subtitle of the book is “The Gloomy Truth Behind the Words You Use,” which is so appropriate for the upcoming festive season, don’t you agree? Classy cloth binding, nicely creepy illustrations, and the same snarky sense of humor you’ve come to expect in this blog (for better or worse).

Other vaguely humble suggestions for my books that are possibly enjoyable by people other than my mom (see the headline):

		Write Tight: Say Exactly What You Mean With Precision and Power > ”These days, most creative-writing courses teach self-indulgence. Write Tight counsels discipline. It is worth more than a university education. Its advice is gold.” — Dean Koontz, #1 New York Times bestselling author > ”If you read Write Tight, and if you apply its lessons, you will be a better writer.”  — Lawrence Block, Mystery Writers of America Grand Master > ”Write Tight is a supremely valuable ‘must-have’ for aspiring writers in all fields.”  — Midwest Book Review
		Everything You Know About English Is Wrong > ”If you love language and the unvarnished truth, you’ll love Everything You Know About English Is Wrong. You’ll have fun because his lively, comedic, skeptical voice will speak to you from the pages of his word-bethumped book.”  — Richard Lederer, author of Anguished English and other popular word books > ”The book provides a good counterpoint to Lynne Truss’s anxiety-inducing Eats, Shoots & Leaves and will be enjoyed by everyone who can’t quite admit to being amused by William Safire because they can’t get past his politics. In other words, Brohaugh is funner.”  — FeatureBook.com
		The Grill of Victory: Hot Competition on the Barbecue Circuit > ”It’s not about words, but it uses them.”  — Bill Brohaugh, author of The Grill of Victory” > ”Thank you, William Brohaugh. Thank you for writing this book. Barbecue is the better for it.”  — Doug Mosley in The National Barbecue News > ”A must read for aspiring pit masters and great for armchair cooks, too.”  — Steven Raichlen, author of The Barbecue Bible > ”The blend of travel, social and culinary history is exceptional and fun in this highly recommended pick.”  — Midwest Book Review

According to Fox News Chief Political Correspondent Carl Cameron, there was great concern within the McCain campaign that Palin lacked “a degree of knowledgeability necessary to be a running mate, a vice president, a heartbeat away from the presidency,” in part because she didn’t know which countries were in NAFTA, and she “didn’t understand that Africa was a continent, rather than a series, a country just in itself.”

I suspect whoever first spoke the word knowledgeability—either Cameron or the source Cameron was quoting—really meant knowledge, given the fact that the examples given were bits of knowledge. Perhaps knowledgeability—the ability to be knowledgeable—was indeed the intended word. I’m skeptical, though, because making such nuanced distinctions seems out of character with certain elements of “news” coverage.

So, I chalk knowledgeability up to verbosity (or verbosability), and then begin to wonder about “a degree of.” What does that mean? I contend that either a candidate has the knowledge or knowledgeability or knowledgeabilitosity to handle the job or not. Why not come out and say it bluntly? The claim is harsh enough to begin with—why try to dance around it with clumsy ballet-shoe phrasings? The candidate, the source or the reporter could have said, lacked “knowledge necessary to be a running mate.”

But, as I said, this claim could be true, or it could be exaggeration or hyperbole. Was the source knowledgeable? Or did the source know?