The House of Grammar Part 9: I, The House of Grammar

It's been a few days since I made a post, mainly because I've been thinking about this one for a while. Having been on a bit of a tangent in respect to sci fi recently, I was thinking about a conversation that D and I had about a novel she wrote a long time which is set in a sci fi world. Now, I respect D's talents as a writer probably more than I do my own, mainly because she's actually capable of finishing a work of fiction, whereas my "current" novel has been on the back burner for almost a year. She is excellent at coming up with an idea, and regardless of any hurdles she may come across she damn well finishes it. While nothing is published, she's got about four novels finished to my zero. That's an accomplishment in and of itself. That's saying nothing about the quality of her ideas, which are typically excellent, as I've found myself inspired and engaged by them consistently (And I'd love to take some of them and rework them for my own purpose, but they're not mine to play with).
What she is not, and this is not necessarily a failing, is a reader of sci fi. This becomes a problem when trying to write in that genre.
Why is hard to explain (and not necessarily a good thing, but keep reading), but I'll try. Science fiction has come a long way since the days of Jules Verne, Heinlein, Orson Welles, even Bradbury and L. Ron Hubbard (shudder). What I mean by a long way is that if Verne had tried to use the word "quantum" (assuming it was even a word back in the day) in any work of his, his readership would have looked at it, frowned, and probably used the book as tinder while they drank their evening tea. These days a science fiction writer can bandy about words like "quantum", "string theory", "fraction of c", "electromagnetic pulse", "gravity well", etc... and their readership not only will not bat an eye but will immediately grasp the concepts described with almost no need for extrapolation of the concepts.
Now, this is not something that's developed in a vacuum.  It's not like all of a sudden people decided "I'm going to bone up on my science talk so that I can understand this new book that's just come out." No, it's precisely because of the work done by the fathers, and mothers I presume, of science fiction that we have such an intelligent readership to work with. People like Verne and Heinlein created a baseline, a starting point from which any new reader can work their way into more advanced concepts to the point where it is not only easy to make logical leaps from one precept to another, but to accept things at face value and grant the author the chance to suspend disbelief through the use of principles they may not fully understand themselves. Authors like Bradbury, Huxley, John Wyndham, even William Gibson (who coined the term "Cyberpunk") helped form the core principle that defines beyond the science what sort of tool science fiction really is. And, as a result, the genre has helped teach generations not only accept but to hold with healthy respect and even suspicion the very changes in technology and society predicted in the works created by those authors, to experience how those very changes have made the world in which we now live the place it is today, and has taught us to be naturally critical of new advances and how they might change the future of our children. As a side benefit, I think that the people who have witnessed firsthand the truth of what these past writers envisioned have, perhaps unknowingly, forced themselves to be educated to a certain degree in principles that might otherwise be beyond their ken when confined to the text of a scientific journal, or a mathematical textbook. Science fiction, in my opinion, is a filter between those who want to know more about what the future may hold, and those whose livelihood it is to create that future. There may be problems with that filter, though.
Even having thought about this in advance, this post has already gone places I did not intend. Just putting that out there.
To get back to my conversation with D, we were discussing the novel she is editing currently, one she wrote a long time back but has started to edit again, and we were talking about technologies one of her cultures might possess, assuming they had traveled across the stars from Earth to the planet on which her story is set. It's when I started asking her questions about how they had gotten there that I started to realize the gulf between us when it came to a basic grasp of science fiction principles. This is not a criticism: all I read is science fiction and fantasy. D has read Andre Dumas, and Hemingway, and Kazuo Ishigiru, and Ian Rankin, and Rose Tremain, and Kathy Reichs and practically everything she can get her hands on that isn't science fiction. She's an accomplished reader and will challenge herself with new genres whenever she can. But she doesn't read science fiction.
So when I asked her how her colonists from Earth reached this planet, it's not like she drew a blank, but she could not articulate the process involved. So I bore down. Did they travel at sub-light speeds, which would mean cryogenic sleep or generational ships (the latter of which itself would imply a disconnect from the culture of origin that would not fit her story) and also imply that any colony ships would have to possess not only all the rudimentary technologies necessary to not only terraform the destination planet but also to rebuild the industrial base required to rebuild any part of their technology that failed. Or did they travel at faster than light speeds, of which a variety of theoretical options are available to choose from, but all of which would indicate her colonists would have if not easy, at least ready access to help from home, which has its own ramifications.
And those are basic questions. I didn't even think about them. To me, if I'm conceiving a science fiction universe that happens to include space travel, it's an either/or decision. In my mind the choices and potential ramifications of either choice are clearly delineated and readily accessible, and if I find my initial choice does not fit later thematic decisions, I am not only able to rework my story accordingly but I've usually already done so in my head to fit the basic parameters of my plot, so going back and changing things would be almost effortless. And this is purely because choosing FTL or Sublight is as basic a decision for me when coming up with a plot as picking the colour of a character's hair.
But as I asked the questions and posed theoretical consequences to her involved in either decision, it started to become apparent to me that what I took for granted, any educated reader of science fiction (by which I mean educated BY sci fi to READ sci fi) would also take for granted. Where I have a working understanding of "quantum entanglement", and could probably rhyme off for her some of the basic theories involved, and can actually get the humour of "When we observe them, they become amber particles of grain", someone who does not read science fiction, and who did not spend their formative years devouring every piece of it they could find, these things I take for granted because I have effectively (there I go again) been training in this discipline my entire life, and which are trivial knowledge for me, may as well be, for lack of a better term, theoretical physics to them. (That felt like a run on sentence, but I think I may have actually pulled it off.)
All this is really meant to pose the question: Has science fiction become so rarified that it can now only be understood by people who read science fiction, and is that not a recipe for disaster? If those of us who read and enjoy science fiction assume that everyone has the same understanding we have developed over years, sometimes decades of reading in this genre, are we not effectively writing for ourselves and those like us, rather than trying to draw in new readers, new audiences? Are we trying to engage people to question their futures, or are we condemning our potential audiences to be educated by movies like "Armageddon" and "2012" and the remake of "The Day the Earth Stood Still?"
I think that may something worth questioning.
In support of this argument, read (or recall your impressions of) Heinlein's "The Moon is a Harsh Mistress." Then read Adam Roberts' "Gradisil".
Understand before you do that I personally think both novels are phenomenal and read them cover to cover without pause. I wonder how many people would agree with my assessment of the second, however. That's not speaking to its quality, which I defend, but its accessibility, which I do question. If you have thoughts, please post them.  I'd be interested to hear.

The House of Grammar Part 8: The Island of the House of Grammar

Since I was on a bit of a sci-fi kick a few days back, I figured I'd return to that genre. Besides, my mom's planning to throw down a bit of schoolin' in the comments section of these posts so I may as well get my vitriol out. I was lucky to get away with it this long, but I suppose that's the benefit of her being away from a computer for a couple weeks; no time to knock me off my high horse.
Anyway, I was talking about sci-fi. You know how in Part 6 I mentioned I would buy just about any method of communication you dished up for me for a non human species? Well, there's a caveat to that.
Talking animals are not a non human goddamned species.
I'm not talking about alien species that share superficial similarities with let's say, deer. If you want your alien species to flick its white tail in the air and flee at the crack of a twig, go ahead. I'm also not talking about creatures like The Cheshire Cat, who is not a talking cat, but some kind of reality warping quantum hate beast from Mars who just happens to look like a cat. I'm also not talking about animals speaking only with each other because they are the only main characters. Even the movie "Babe" had a hard divide between its animal and human characters. They did not speak to each other, even though they worked to coexist. It was very clear in that story that the humans could never, and never did understand the dialogue happening between the animal characters, and the suspension of disbelief comes into play there because it is very easy to believe a farmer imagining the things going on inside the heads of his stock, but never being able to know for sure. This is mainly because that's something we all do.
Quite simply, what I'm saying is that if the best you can come up with for your sidekick character, or for your power behind the throne villain, or secret group of vicious rebel insurgents, is that the reason they're able to succeed is because they are house pets with the uncanny ability to talk human language, granted to them by experiment/radiation/viral evolution/because they didn't want us to know/venereal disease/you're a lazy writer/I hate you... etc, then you have just failed at engaging my suspension of disbelief. You have successfully managed not only to be less imaginative than my less than two year old son (who is at least capable of imagining that a chicken finger is in actuality a dancing train) but you have also managed to step into the ranks of the same sorts of people who created the movie "G-Force." Yeah. That's how talented you are. "No round of applause?" you ask. Nope.
I really don't care what your counterargument is. Nor do I care how long you spent developing the really detailed back story for your nattering llama, your sobbing pet iguana, or your pleading chimpanzee. And no, even if the talking cat is green, it is still a talking fucking cat.
And no, I don't have a thing against Furries. As long as you keep it in the bedroom or wherever it is you do your thing, do whatever you like. But just because I'm fine with whatever people want to do for kink does not mean I'm going to excuse you for deciding because you lack even the merest, infinitesimal fragment of imagination that your main character is going to be (and I can imagine the fervor of excitement as you say this) "A bipedal female wolf whose species happened to evolve on Earth in the hundreds or thousands of years following the release of a terrible nanovirus, and speaks English because of books we left behind." I'll tell you what you just said to me, but with more brevity: "TALKING GODDAMNED ANIMAL."
What about Planet of the Apes? What about Dolphins? Well, there's quite a lot of scientific research, to start with, that human beings evolved from chimpanzees (one might argue that it is scientific fact, but I'm not here to spark an evolutionary debate) and many primates show a marked ability not only to mimic human speech but to communicate in rudimentary sign language. That's fact. Dolphins, too, are said to have near human intelligence, so I can accept a logical argument for one being able to communicate with humans.. I'm not, however, going to buy a raccoon that suddenly possesses the ability to engage in witty banter with a Yale professor just because you think it's very "Odd Couple" to have that happen. If a raccoon could talk, I imagine it would say "Screeeee!" because it's a godsbedamned raccoon, not Chris Rock.
Now I'm going to dial down the rage a little. I'm as guilty of being tempted by this trap as anyone, but the difference here is that any time I have found myself thinking along those line, I've stopped myself. If you find the same, go drink a coffee, or take a nap, or talk to a shrink for all I care, because you are now on the wrong track. No matter what rationale you come up with, people do not, cannot, and will not communicate with animals, and anything else you come up with to explain it is going to shoot your story right in the kneecap before it can go thirty feet.
I haven't explained why yet? I suppose not. Let's put it simply, then. No matter how fun it is to pretend that your pet dog is thinking something in particular, or that your cat has an opinion of your hygiene, or that your fish is concerned about the diver in its tank getting the bends, any conversation you imagine between yourself and them is you putting words in their mouth. We cannot put ourselves, as an audience, into the shoes of an animal, without realizing this. At that point, the animal character in question may as well be a human character, because for your audience they have already become a human character. They have become a ventriloquist's doll, at the very best, and a poor second hand one at that. We immediately realize what you're trying to do, and it fails, because you're trying to get us to actively believe that all the conversations we have with our pet are real, and that's when it falls apart.
Save yourself the trouble. If you think a talking animal would be a hoot, try an experiment. Write that character as a person. How much better or worse would the story be if that character were human? Do they need to be there at all? And if they need to be there, if the quality of their character improves the story, why do they need to be an animal? I'm far more likely to fall in love with a human character to whom I can relate than an animal character who happens to talk like a human character to whom I can relate, for the simple fact that I, as a human, am not capable of relating to an animal. Period. By making them an animal, you have just removed my investment from your story.
And at that point if your story makes it to the bottom of my rabbits' cages, I've probably gone to more effort than I should have.
And when I tell them why your story is now their litter, they're going to stare up at me with the blank suspicious eyes of prey and say nothing.

The House of Grammar Part 7: In the Valley of the Shadow of The House of Grammar

I've been writing for a few years, obviously not in the professional sense, but long enough that I have a pretty solid grasp of how to manipulate the English language as I need to accomplish whatever purpose I have in mind. Does this make me an expert? No.
"You mean I've been listening to a crock of bull hockey from you for like a week and you're not an expert?" I hear you ask. Yep. That's what you get for reading a blog instead of a textbook.
However, what I lack in expertise I make up for significantly in practical application, and more significantly simply because I have the sort of mind that turns a problem over and over and over again until it finds a solution that works well enough to suit. It may be dirty, it may be cheap, it may be messy, but it usually gets the job done. Given that, I present to you: Why I Break the Rules.


When it comes to grammar, and its application, you have a tough choice to make. You can stick to the rules one hundred percent of the time, making sure every comma is in its place and every line of every sentence fits together with every other like gears in a clock. If you can do that, you're going to turn out some pretty beautiful stuff, work the likes of which could grace the cover of every literary magazine and book review website, and if it still existed, be the next Oprah's book club book.
Conversely, you could turn out something about as interesting as a pane of glass. Clean, clear, transparent, easy to look through, but just as easy to ignore.
I know what I'm about to say sort of flies in the face of most of my arguments, but fittingly enough it also supports its own argument: your second choice is to ignore the rules. Paint with your fingers. Get your hands in the dough.
This is the way I like to roll. (Except the finger paint. It wigs me out.)
I use commas like they're on sale, because as I'm writing I imagine what the words would sound like were I to read them out loud, and I mentally insert a comma wherever I would naturally pause. This means comma splices. Commas commas commas. Yes, mom, I just admitted it. Sit back down. It's not over yet. I use parentheses willy-nilly, whenever I disagree with myself about something I've written or want to emphasize a point that would otherwise interrupt the flow of the sentence (and still does) I'm trying to craft. I hyphenate where I shouldn't, use semi-colons instead of colons, and sometimes instead of periods, use periods where I should use commas because I suddenly think that a comma is unacceptable in that spot, and generally ignore or misuse punctuation whenever I come to a set of quotation marks. Flipping tenses means nothing to me if it helps me emphasize a point, or because the tense I started out in bores me to tears by the time I get to the end of the sentence. Run on sentences are also a thing. That was not an example.
I do all this because like anything, writing is art. The art I like is not precise. I like impressionism, expressionism, surrealism, even cubism to a point. If there was ismism I'd probably enjoy it. Art that is messy and visceral and full of passion and vulnerability is what really shines for me. The brushstrokes should be visible, the emotion in every straining thrust of the pen (euphemistic?) should be there for the naked eye to see. As much as I love attention to detail, I love it more when an artist knows when to fudge it.
Why? Because if it's done well there is no difference -in terms of the audience's ability to appreciate a piece of art, be it writing or paint or any other medium- whether it is made with absolute precision or with gut instinct. But what I think (and feel free to think differently) makes a piece of art stand out is when an artist can not only make you see themselves in the work, but when they can make you see a little bit of yourself as well. And I think that can only be done by stepping outside the bounds and breaking a couple rules here and there. Because, like in love, what we really fall for in human beings, and subsequently I would argue in the art they create, is their flaws and not their virtues.
However, this does not mean you do not need to KNOW the rules. Without understanding the rules you are breaking, without a conceptual grasp of how they work and when they should be used, you end up turning out something artless and soulless and about as hamfisted as a fist full of ham.  So learn the rules, read lots of books, and fill your head with the words of people who know this art better than you do.  Only then will you be prepared to truly attempt the creation of art, because only then will you be ready to play. And in the midst of that play I hope you find a method of creation that sings -even if only for you.

The House of Grammar Part 6: Darmok and Jalad at The House of Grammar

Almost any piece of science fiction or fantasy you can name, or imagine, is going to include non-human species. As a writer, you're going to have to make a decision: Do they speak English? (I'm assuming anyone reading this is doing so in English, because I'm fairly sure I can't write in German, and if I can, holy crap) If they speak English, why? (not the people reading the blog; the non-human species to whom I previously referred) And if not, how far down into the rabbit hole do I go to craft their particular language? Do I pull a Tolkien? Do I actually build the language from syntax up? Or do I whip out some funny sounding words and hope no one cares?
Frankly, it doesn't matter to me. As long as you can get me to suspend my disbelief, I'll take it served up however you dish it. I'll buy universal translators. I'll buy a race that only says "yoto". I'll take clicks, pops, glottal stops, creatures that communicate via pheremones, a race that writes with yarn, etc... I would even be willing to accept a race that communicated through the trading of candy hearts (though that implies a base written language that in and of itself would have to be quite complex to effectively take over for all verbal communication, and I would love to see the Gettysburg Address given via this method.)
I have an issue, however, with the "Star Trek: The Next Generation" episode entitled "Darmok."
I'm sure anyone reading this is thinking to themselves, "Why would you be bringing that up now? That episode aired twenty one years ago!"
It's probably because I was ten when it aired and only recently have people been bringing it up again, on facebook, etc (though for what reason I have no idea) and all of a sudden my hind brain kicked my forebrain and said "Dude! Wake up! That episode was stupid!"
For those who don't remember, I'll give you a brief synopsis. "Darkmok" was an episode about an encounter with a species who can only communicate through the use of metaphor.  I'll spare you the details and the minutiae, but effectively this would be like communicating by only using pop culture references: "Buffy and Angel at the Christmas Tree Lot" or "Sting aboard the airplane." would be phrases that carry a weight and significance that supposedly would communicate the speaker's intent.
This is stupid. I can't say it enough times.  Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Let's examine this in more detail, using a simple test phrase. For the purposes of argument the phrase we will use is "Sheila and Paul in the bedroom."

Point One: Every single member of this species would have to have a perfect eidetic memory and the ability to absorb contextual meaning from nonsensical stories their parents tell them: In order to communicate at all, any species that communicated via this method would have to be able to remember every single saga or story told by anyone, about anyone, at any point in history, because these events take the place of words. They would also have to be able to dredge their memory instantly for the appropriate saga or story to fit the context of whatever conversation they were having with another person. This means that not only would they have to be able to absorb however many thousands of years of history their species has experienced but would also have to be able to do so by having their parents TELL THEM STORIES. That's like trying to teach my son theoretical physics by the time he is three by reading him "The Hungry Caterpillar" over and over again. So for either of us to be successful, I would quite literally have to know everything that had ever happened to my species ever, be able to draw this knowledge up at will and tell it to my son, who not only would have to be able to absorb it with equal immediacy and perfect retention but also be able to immediately grasp how the information should be used contextually. There is no room for mistake.  There is no word for "um" in this language (unless um itself is a story, but we'll get into the complexities of that in a moment) so saying "Um... shit...  Sheila and Paul in the bedroom" would mean something completely different than "Sheila and Paul in the bedroom." given that this story is now about Um Shit Sheila and Paul, rather than Sheila and Paul.


Point Two: No one's name could ever be repeated, ever, even phonetically, throughout the entire history of this species: For a language like this to work every story or saga must be contextually precise, which would also mean that in order to remain a valid method of communication, names could never be repeated. A simple example is all that's needed here. Let's say my kids are named Sheila and Paul, and your wife and brother are named Sheila and Paul. If I say "Sheila and Paul in the bedroom" I'm probably talking about having put my kids to sleep. But if I say this phrase to you, you're probably going to run home and shoot Paul in the kidneys for sleeping with your wife.

Point Three: No member of this species could ever disagree: This is because disagreement changes context, and in this language, a change in context changes meaning. Either everyone agrees all the time about what each phrase means, or you end up splintering your language into infinite dialects that simply can no longer communicate with each other. If you think "Sheila and Paul in the Bedroom" means something different than what I mean when I say it, we've stopped communicating. Effectively this is like me saying "I'm going for a walk" and you hearing "I've just purchased a banana for the low low price of three kidneys." because you disagree with the meaning of "I'm going for a walk." Everything I say becomes gibberish to you because we are not communicating with words, we're communicating with concepts, and those concepts mean completely different things to the two of us.


Point 4: Every single word used as part of a phrase to communicate an idea would also have to be its own metaphor for a saga or event: This is like watching fractal art take shape. Given that information is transmitted entirely via metaphor, each individual component of any given metaphor would itself have to be a metaphor for another, because for the more complex metaphor to have developed there must be a root meaning behind each word. You cannot jump from "Thog like water" to "I, Thog, have decided that water is intrinsically good, given its scarcity and our dependence upon it for our continued survival as a species." without the language evolving. And for this language to evolve, every word is a metaphor which speaks to an event, and arguably speaking, every larger metaphorical phrase is effectively grouped metaphors that have their own intrinsic meanings that if separated and recombined would mean something else because of how they are contextually reassigned. Given this, saying "Sheila and Paul in the bedroom" would mean something completely different than "In the bedroom, Paul and Sheila."

Point 5: What about nouns? There aren't any. Or at least, not in the way we think of them. "Bedroom" means nothing conceptually, except for the metaphorical concept that it communicates. It does not mean bedroom, but itself could stand for, let's say "Sheila and Paul, in the place of sleep." and because of the significance of that particular story to this species is then used to always communicate the room in which people sleep, but it does not describe a thing, but rather an event. This also means that in situations of discovery you run the risk of disagreement (see point three). Columbus, for example, thought when he discovered (arguable) the Americas that it was India. Given this, if he coined the newfound continents "Columbus on the shores of India" to stand as the noun "India" then there would effectively be two nouns "India" meaning completely separate things. If however he simply decided he had reached India and used whatever nonsensical metaphorical phrase currently in use to say "India" to indicate what he had discovered, he would have been wrong, and would effectively be in disagreement because his concept of India and that of someone who had actually been there would be contextually different.

Part 6: Counterpoint. The crew explains that the Universal translator is able to translate the words the Tamarians were using very easily but it's the meaning of those words that is being communicated as metaphor, which means they have their own language, blah blah blah, I hate you and you make me cry: If we are to believe the science behind the Universal Translator (and if I've invested enough time in Star Trek to write this, you better believe I'm willing to accept it, otherwise I'd be a MADMAN) then we have to accept that its entire job is to communicate the meaning behind the words that are actually being spoken by the species being interpreted. That means, effectively, that regardless of the spelling, grammar, syntax, etc that the Tamarians were using, what they were ACTUALLY SAYING TO EACH OTHER and correspondingly to the crew of the enterprise was "Darmok and Jalad at Tenagra." The whole point of language is to communicate meaning. It's the Universal Translator's job to pick up meaning from the words spoken. So if it can make the Klingon phrase "Baklavah, borscht chow" sound like "Today is a good day to dine." then it could certainly make "Sheila and Paul in the bedroom" actually mean whatever it is the Tamarians intend, if in fact the meaning was effectively anything but "Sheila and Paul in the bedroom."Nothing in your argument invalidates my points, it just means that a team of Federation Linguistics officers need to spend about four hundred years locked in a room with a bunch of Tamarians like caged video game testers plugging gobbledegook into the Universal Translator program so that it filters out for us conceptually what the Tamarians mean contextually with every single one of their stupid phrases.

I'm not even going to bookend this, or conclude. I'm just going to reiterate:  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The House of Grammar Part 5: Revenge of the House of Grammar

Today I'm going to discuss something very close to my heart, something with which I have struggled for many years. It's not easy, as a person who is detail oriented and precise, to relinquish a deeply held conviction. It's even more difficult when you know that what you are giving in to is wrong, in the moral sense, even though you can no longer accept your own assertions as technically correct.
I am talking of course about the worst of things, the bane of my existence, the bastard child of two unassuming and well meaning words that nonetheless birthed a monstrosity.
I'm talking about the Word That Shouldn't Be. This is its story:

Irrespective was the child of In, which meant "not" or "the opposite of" and Respective which meant "without taking account of (something)". Born in the 1600s, he was a careful and helpful word, and despite changes in the English language found work in the mid 1800s as an adverbial consultant. He was useful, often to a fault, lending a hand wherever he might be needed, and some might argue, perhaps too freely.
Regardless was a thrill seeker, a heart breaker, an orphan word born in the late 1500s who named herself for the lack of regard her parent words showed by abandoning her to the wilds of English speech. She held that indifference up like a shield against the world, ready to show everyone how little she really cared. As much as she might try, however, all her efforts were a vain attempt to mask the insecurity and hunger for love that she carried inside her, a need that would prove her undoing.
One day, circumstances thrust Irrespective and Regardless together, and the chemistry between them was electric. Irrespective's driving need to help drew him like a flame to Regardless's inner vulnerability, and as much as she might fight it, something inside her craved the attention. They met, they loved, they fought, and their fights were legendary. But something always drew them back together, and when it did their affair was a violent, sordid, passionate thing, a thing born of shame and need and guilt.
From that affair came a child, but neither word could have been prepared for the Cthulonic horror they had unleashed upon the world. Fleshed in ignorance, with the blind eyes of poor diction, its limbs were the thousand thousand grasping tongues of the lazy. It slithered from the womb in gore and terror and then vanished into the night, leaving both parents wounded, bewildered, and with hope that it would never survive to see the light of another day.
And yet it does.
It hides in foetid caves, blind eyes staring at the darkness, waiting to be summoned forth by dark ritual. All that is necessary is to think its name, and this abomination, this foul misbegotten fiend will lift its head to the sky and let out a silent scream, and your lips will peel back and your tongue will loosen and you will find the creature slithering out, and you will hear your own mouth breathe it free:
"Irregardless." You will say.
And the monster will simply smile.

Irregardless: It's a word. I hate the fact. For years the mere utterance of this word would send me into paroxysms of fury the likes of which drove Anakin Skywalker to kill dozens of sand people (including WOMEN AND CHILDREN, a fact conveniently ignored by Padme, even though she was a champion of multispecies rights and should have gotten the GODDAMNED HINT... but I digress). I actually spent time and energy trying to will myself to perceive a world in which the word irregardless did not exist in a vain attempt to get quantum physics on my side to create a new, alternate reality where it did not, in fact, exist. Quantum physics was no help. Irregardless is, regardless, a word.

It's an abomination of a word, as true an abomination as the Elephant Man or Pauly Shore. It's a tentacled, foul, slithering, flatulent, gibbering synathroesmus (look it up) of a word, but it's a word. Every once in a while some well meaning but badly educated or informed individual will set it free in speech to hang out with other words, and they're nice enough about it, the same way you're nice to the smelly homeless person who happens to be drinking a coffee one booth down from you in the cafe, because you really just don't want them to flip out and kill you with their hobo knife. But after very little time irregardless will slink back into the shadows and retreat to its feculent abode until summoned once again.

 Am I saying what you think I'm saying? Am I admitting something I never thought I would admit? Yes. It was not easy, nor fun, but I've been reading a lot about the evolution of the English language, a couple of books in particular (The Prodigal Tongue by Mark Abley which talks about how English might change and Bill Bryon's The Mother Tongue which talks about how it has changed) and I've come to the conclusion that in order for English to continue to be relevant, new words must be created. And unless we allow that to happen, or at least admit that it is happening, we are condemning our language to a slow decline into obscurity.
And that's something I won't let happen. Let it be a word. Let it evolve, and change, and maybe some day this abomination will suddenly shed its coating of filth and stand as a shining example of etymological perfection. It's doubtful, but I'm willing to give it the chance.
I'm not saying I'm going to use it, mind you. That's crazy talk.
Of course, things change.

The House of Grammar Part 4: Avec le House De Grammar Dans le Piscine

Ah, Le Francais. What a beautiful language. The language of love, and fine wine, and people who live in France. How often do we, as English speaking natives, borrow from it? And how often do we do so correctly?
This helpful guide should make it easier (harder) to navigate the pitfalls involved in trying to fit those difficult to use but oh-so-useful french terms into everyday speech.  Thank me for it.  I mean it. If you don't thank me, I'll be very cross. At the very least, I'll consider being downright surly. You need my help (hindrance). Believe me (don't!)

Hors d'ouvres: A traditional meal of equine meat, typically prize winning stallion, thrown from the cliffs of Dover as a sacrifice to appease Poseidon.
Coup de grace: A term used by French fathers to incite their children into lawn maintenance. "no tv until you coup de grace!"
Tete a Tete: Actually an onomatopoeia. Used by French kids pretending to fire a machine gun. "tete-a-tete-a-tete-a-tete-a-tete!"
A la carte: Meaning "beneath the wagon" this is commonly used to draw attention to an emergency, or colloquially to indicate someone has fallen back into a serious addiction.
A la mode: While the literal translation means "under a mood" this term is purely colloquial, used to refer to someone who is having a really grumpy day.
Amuse-bouche: "Funny boots": used to poke fun at or draw attention to outlandish footwear.
Attaché: Used at the start of a battle.
Attaché case: Used at the start of a legal battle.
En garde: "In the garden." describes when two young lovers sneak away from a party to engage in licentious activities. "where are bob and Judy?" "oh you know those two. Always en garde."
Baguette: A very small bag. Often used to describe a coin purse.

Belle époque: Literally "years of the bells". This references a dark period in france's history where people would adorn their hats with bells of all shapes and sizes. This time period was also the origin of the insult "ding dong"
Blasé: "On fire." or "to be engulfed (by flame or light)" commonly used to describe a hot celebrity.
Bon appetit: "Little bun." a colloquialism for an unborn child or a small rabbit.
Bon mot: A breadcrumb, and a small mote-sized one at that.
Bouquet: A bucket used by florists to dispose of organic waste.
Bric-a-brac: A game played on a 3x3 grid with x's and o's.
Brunette: Officially my favourite. Unofficially, my second favourite.
Cache: Money.
Cafe au lait: A milk bar, similar to that in "A Clockwork Orange."

Canard: Used to express frustration when the ring comes off your tin of sardines.
Carte blanche: "Empty wagon" which is how French gypsies would describe the feeling of having their kids move out and buy their own wagons.
Chanteuse: Used to express a refusal to partake in illicit drugs.
Chef d'ouvre: The mayor of Dover. In charge of ceremonies involving hors d'ouvres.

Cherchez la femme: Women who regularly attend a religious institution.
Clique: An onomatopoeia, typically describing the sound made by a camera shutter.
Concierge: Used by sailors participating in an obscure French judicial punishment wherein prisoners are thrown overboard, but only when pantomiming their actions for others: "con! Sea! Aaaaargh!"
Crepe: Dross.
Cul-de-sac: How you ask for your backpack.
Debacle: Used when giving instructions on how to remove a belt: "Undo debacle!"

Croissant: What you get when you poke a stick into an anthill.
Decor: The hours surrounding, and including noon.
Deja vu: A Jamaican daytime talk show for women.
Denouement: The breath freshener you've just put in your mouth.
Dossier: Used by taxi cab drivers as part of their instructions to passengers as to the dispensation of their luggage: "dossier bags in the trunk."
Du jour: Used infrequently when talking back to someone trying to remonstrate you for not completing a task: "I've done my taxes! Why don't you du jours?"
Ecarte: "Internet wagon" another term for meme.
Eminence grise: Applied to the bearings of a cardinal's car.
En route: "In the roots" used to describe the passing on of traits from one generation to the next. (See also en passant: "In the sister of dad's mother" which is a very specific genealogical term).
Entente: camping, or enjoying the shelter of a pavilion.
Escargot: Freight. "Eez not waste! Escargot!"
Facade: "Strange visage." Used to describe an unusual or surprising sight.
Faux pas: The feet of members of genus vulpes, subfamily caninae. For many years considered to be lucky charms.
Film noir: "Black coating." Expresses disgust at really bad dental hygiene.

Double Entendre: Rare or blue meat. Often used to describe steak carpaccio.

En Masse: Fat. Not very polite.

Grand Prix: A group of people who, together, are a bunch of assholes.

Laissez-Faire: A meal that requires no effort. Microwave dinners. Macaroni. Canned soup.

Merci-beacoup: "Vessel of old boyfriends you let down easy." Actually a colloquialism for a "little black book" kept by a woman.

Nom-de-Guerre: "My really tough sounding name." Any name you choose to call yourself after which you can add a "Grrrrrrrrrr" and elicit fear.

Raison D'etre: To argue with someone to pay you back.

It really is remarkable how much French finds its way into English. Still, given our close historical ties, and the fact that fifty percent of the time we were killing each other, and the rest of the time we were killing other people together, I suppose it's not that surprising.  I'm glad to have helped the process of communication between our two cultures, and expect this blog post will pave the way to a greater understanding (hatred) between us.

The House of Grammar Part 3: Return to the House of Grammar

I realize the last blog post was very much "I have a child and I'm going to talk about the fact relentlessly until you have the choice either to claw your own eyes out or run screaming." But regardless of the content, I enjoy talking about language in general, and watching a new person learn language for the first time is certainly educational for me as well.
That having been said, I will return to some more amusing content, again condensed, reorganized, and reimagined (now with extra CG content) from what I originally posted on Facebook. I bring you some simple grammar rules:

They're, their, and there: Would you ever comfort someone complaining about how their boyfriend always thinks they're right by saying "They're. They're." No? There you go. That would be insensitive.
Than and Then: Before being suborned by the English language, these were the two most common Vietnamese names. Than meant "The difference between two things" while Then meant "Something that occurred in the past." Misusing them is racist.  Are you a racist?
It's and its: It's pretty simple: Its is used when it's is not appropriate to describe its possession of something it's in ownership of. It's is a conjunction of it and is, which is its only reason for being, isn't it?
Which or that: That is used when a sentence contains a restrictive clause (when you begin a slow clap while juggling snakes that repetitively strangle and suffocate their prey) and which is used when a sentence contains a nonrestrictive clause (when you begin a slow clap while juggling snakes that don't). If you don't juggle snakes, this rule is fairly moot.
Who or whom: This is one of those rules where if you have to ask the question, you just shouldn't bother worrying about it. Because you can bet those people who already know when it's appropriate to use whom are watching and waiting for someone to misuse it so they can pounce all over the fact, likely spilling their tea in the process. And those people who use who and whom without really paying attention to the rules already don't care, and are probably right about fifty percent of the time, and will frankly have your back if some snobby whomish gentleman gets all up in your face for adding an "m" to your "who" when you shouldn't. Screw 'em.

I before E except after C: This is an easy one. Without this we would end up pronouncing "piece" as though it were some sort of Eastern exercise/meditation technique involving baked goods.
Q must always be followed by U: Without this, we would end up with more words like Qat, which is a word that ONLY scrabble players know
Animals must always have confusing male and female terms: All I need to do here is give you an example. Gander. "Hey Bob! What an interesting sight! Why don't you grab that male goose and join me?" is a very strange turn of phrase.
Never end a sentence with a preposition: as discussed in part 1, this would mean you would have to go backwards in time and space to end your sentence, which would be awkward for both of you, the net result being you'd be just finishing your sentence while you were just starting yours.
Adjectives describe nouns and pronouns: In addition to the other uses of adjectives, this is their job. They get paid for it. They're like word agents. "Metacarpus is totally the intermediate part of the hand skeleton! He's 100% between the phalanges distally and the carpus! If you need a hand you definitely can't do without him!"
Passive voice is always wrong: And this makes him very frustrated. Once, just once, he'd like to be the star of the show. Maybe get a montage. Or step out of obscurity into the limelight and convince the head cheerleader to give him a second chance, you know, since when she gave him the first chance he had her convinced he was actually active voice, who is really a douche. In other news: run on sentences are also bad things.
You shouldn't split infinitives: I think this is just a good general rule for any situation where the word "infinite" is used. It's like multiplying by zero. All you get is more of the same.
"Ten items or less" should be "ten items or fewer": I only agree with this because I prefer a lower volume.

Some singular animal names are the same as their plural names: Sheep. While I may once have found this confusing, I find it much less confusing than if I were to have to use the word "sheeps" and imagine the piles of wool and mutton littering a farmer's fields.
English has no male/female declension: this is true. And probably a good thing. It spells disaster for relationships to make words gender dependent. How many men are already in trouble because Siri follows their instructions better than their spouse, to whom "find me a screwdriver" can mean anything from "What I actually want is a hammer, because, you know, I never actually say what I mean and in times of stress get confused so if you bring me what I actually want rather than what I say it will make me so happy I will burst out in spontaneous salsa dancing and massage giving and won't bash my face into the electrical socket I'm currently trying to fix." to "please mix me a drink." Having words defined by gender is bad. I mean, what if barbecue was a female noun?

Canadians say aboot: This is not really a grammar rule but more a question of pronunciation, and only correct inasmuch as Americans add extra emphasis to the letter U. Listen to yourself some day. To someone who says aBAUUUUT we really do sound like we're describing footwear. Same with house. God knows why Americans think we run like lemmings when someone cries out warning of a rampaging bull moose. I imagine some of them spend time in entomological dictionaries trying to find out how to get rid of an infestation of Screws Loose.

So now that you understand some of the basics, I'll consider introducing you to some of the more advanced rules another time.  Maybe.  If you're good.  And eat your vegetables.  No promises, though.

The House of Grammar Part 2: Escape From the House of Grammar

The content of this post is entirely new. As a few of my readers may know, prior to yesterday's post there was a gap between posts of nearly three years.  In that time not only have I continued to be a homeowner, but D and I also conceived, gave birth to, and are now in the process of teaching language to, a small child.  On our way to daycare this morning I spent some time quizzing him on various colours and the thought came to me that it might be interesting to delve into the words and language he uses, as a way to better understand how language develops.
So without further introduction, I give you Liam's words.

Miam: His name.  He can't quite make the letter "L" yet.
Mommy: Every single woman he sees, including his actual mommy. If I were another man, this would make shopping for a new spouse remarkably simple.
Daddy: Almost every man he sees, though he has started to differentiate between me and other men. He now normally applies this to only tall, lanky men with short dark hair, and when he sees a picture of Zachary Levi.
Ack Ack: Bird. This is due to an error I made when educating him.  We were working on animal sounds, and given we have a lot of crows in the area I thought I'd teach him what a crow says.  At first he played a game with me where every time I asked him what a crow said, he would reply "Choo choo" and grin. Then he made a logical connection. Crows are birds, therefore all birds must be crows, therefore all birds must say "Ack Ack." Given the types of birds we mainly have in Halifax this is not entirely erroneous, since he mainly hears seagulls, crows, and bluejays, which all make very similar sounds. However, this will be a difficult logical fallacy to fix.
Dock dock: Hammer. Because of the sound the hammer makes.  He came up with this one entirely on his own.
Zoon Zoon: Anything that makes a loud mechanical whirring noise, like a vacuum or a blender. Also an expression of fear and distaste because he really does not like these things given how loud and surprising their sounds can be.
Water: Water, obviously.  However it has many uses.  Sometimes he uses it as a noun: "Look! Water!" It can also be used as an imperative sentence: "I want you to give me water!" Recently he has used it as an interrogative sentence: "Can I play in the water?"
Wan: I want. Used frequently.
Mo: This can mean either "Milk" or "More."  There are actually subtle differences in the pronunciation depending on which he means.  Mo said with more emphasis on the "M" and a sharp stop after the "o" means milk. Mo said with an elongated "o" sound means more.
Toneh: Thomas the train engine. Usually used in the imperative "I want to watch Thomas the train engine!" but occasionally as a simple noun, such as when he sees a picture of Thomas that he wants you to pay attention to.
Choo choo: Train, obviously. Usually combined with Wan: "Wan Choo Choo." Or, strangely, combined with Bunny as part of an interrogative sentence:"Bunny Choo Choo?" By which I think he is asking if our pet bunnies would like to play with his trains, because we sometimes let them out of their cages to hop around on the same mat his train set is set up on and he's made the connection.
Chooda: Cheerios. Also Susan, our daycare provider. It took me forever to realize he was asking if we were going to daycare, and I kept giving him cheerios he didn't want. "Chooda?" (daddy hands him a few cheerios) "No Chooda. Chooda?" (daddy looks confused)
On the Baat: On the bus. Can mean a variety of things.  Sometimes interrogative: "Are we going on the bus?" Sometimes declarative: "I'm on the bus." or "I've just put something in my toy bus." Occasionally he uses this to ask one of us to sing him "The Wheels on the Bus." before changing his mind and saying "No on the baat.  Choo choo!" By which he means he actually wants us to sing D's variant "The Wheels on the Train." (actually the same song, but with train inserted wherever bus would normally be applicable, which is a surprisingly difficult thing to remember to do, and he corrects you on it EVERY TIME.)
Rock: Used at bedtime, because D and I typically give him a rock and a song before bed.  Recently has been used to indicate his preference for who does so: "No daddy rock.  Mommy rock." This preference is rarely the opposite.
Cha: Chair. Rarely used as an actual noun. Normally only used as an imperative: "I want to sit in the chair." or a declarative "I'm sitting in the chair." Has recently been combined with "Rock" to make "rock cha" which he does use as a noun.
Poon: Spoon. I giggle every time he says it.
Boon: Balloon.
Bubbo: Bubbles, indicating he wants a bubble bath. Also Bottle. It depends on what emphasis he puts on the "u" which one he means.
Way: Multiple meanings. "You're in the way." or "Put this away." or "I would like to get the thing you just put away." or "I'm going to put this away."
Heeen: Horse. This is how he says "neigh".
Ssssssss: Snake. Took forever to teach him.
Pig: Actually means pig. He can't say "oink" so this is one of the few animals he calls by its actual name. This is also the word he uses instead of "oink" when you ask him what a pig says: "Pig pig!"
Hone: Home. Often used as part of an interrogative sentence: "Mommy, Daddy, Miam Hone?" by which he is asking if all three of us are going home.

While this is a big list of a lot of the words he uses, it's by no means comprehensive.  What I find interesting are some of the ways he combines some of them. "No all done mommy rock." for example would indicate that he's not ready for D to put him in his crib yet, and that he wants her to keep rocking him."Peter Daddy hone?" is actually him asking, "Did Peter's daddy take him home?" while "Hone Peter Daddy." would likely state "Peter's Daddy did not come to take him home." because in this case "Hone" is the location of "Peter's Daddy" and spoken in the context of Peter and his Daddy not being present would be a statement of a fact that occurred in the past.
Obviously the basic grammar is there, but trying to interpret his meaning from the structure of his statements is a challenge because with his limited vocabulary (most of it nouns), it is often the order of the words he uses or the emphasis he places on them that determines their significance. This makes sense, but it is like trying to communicate with someone of a different culture where there is no common linguistic background, because I am forced to listen without preconception and rely more on context rather than the words actually spoken, which is VERY DIFFICULT for someone like me.
 Watching and participating in this process is, however, a fascinating exercise, and a challenge that forces me to question my own preconceptions around how I use the English language. That's actually part of why I started The House of Grammar.

The House of Grammar Part 1: The House of Grammar

I recently started posting on Facebook some tongue in cheek grammar lessons which were fairly well received. Given limitations on facebook, I kept them relatively short. I plan over the next few days (or possibly weeks, depending on how lazy I am about it) to repost them here, possibly moving a few things around, stealing from one to add to another, etc.

However, I hope you enjoy them. Now to the House of Grammar: Part 1, where I explain several common grammaticological terms and their usage(s)(ing):


Preposition: The place you were before where you are now. Also, the state of mind you work yourself into before making a sexual advance.
Verb: To shake. As in "Verbration."
Adverb: An action word commonly seen on a billboard, like "save" or "experience" or "whiten."
Noun: The sound a cat makes when demanding something immediately.
Pronoun: A word that just sounds like it spent several years at school. Like "Metacarpus." Oh yeah. That noun's a pro.
Suffix: A county in England. Near Worcestershire.
Prefix: Something broken.
Participle: Someone who worships a group of people working together. See also Participant (an ant working as part of group) and Participate (Having finished a business lunch).
Subjunctive: How the fuck should I know?
Adjective: The goal of a promotional campaign.
Conjunction: Where fraudsters meet in the middle.
Clause: The beginning of a "slow clap."
Dependent Clause: When your child begins a "slow clap."
Independent Clause: When the child in your womb begins a "slow clap."
Tense: Used when camping.
Subject: To be thrown forcibly from a submarine that is currently underwater. See also "eject" (To be deleted from someone's facebook friends list).
Rhetorical: To speak like a popular character from "Gone with the Wind."
Article: A fragment of a painting, at the subatomic level.
Homophones: When only one of your earbuds is working but it looks silly to only put one of them in.
Anachronism: The process of reducing something into its component initials, thereby rendering it irrelevant.  Example: CSIS.
Onomatopoeia: A small dog experiencing difficulty with housebreaking.
Metaphor: Used when you meet someone to whom you've been introduced already. Example: "Hi! I'm Bob!" "Hi Bob, we've metaphor."
Simile: A comparison using like or as. Used primarily by teenagers. See the movie "Clueless" for reference.
Compound Sentence: Being imprisoned by Mormons.
Direct Object: Something that comes right out and says it. A corvette, for example, says "I have a small penis."
Euphemism: You know what I mean?
Diatyposis: A rare and poisonous Australian mammal.
Hyperbole: The trunk of a tree that has been fed far too much sugar and refuses to nap.

Helpful? Insightful? Infuriating? Allegorical? Probably not the last one.