Dreyer's English - Benjamin Dreyer 2022
The confusables
The stuff in the back
“When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, “it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”
“The question is,” said Alice, “whether you can make words mean so many different things.”
“The question is,” said Humpty Dumpty, “which is to be master—that’s all.”
—LEWIS CARROLL, Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There
Spellcheck is a marvelous invention, but as I’ve said, it can’t stop you from using the wrong word when the wrong word you’ve used is a word (but the wrong word). Beware the following in particular.
A LOT/ALLOT, ALLOTTED, ALLOTTING
A lot of something is a great deal of it. (Please, please, not “alot.” Ever. You’ll see that in advertisements fairly often; those are the businesses you should boycott.)
To allot is to assign or mete out.
ADVANCE/ADVANCED
To advance is to move forward. The past tense of “advance” is “advanced.”
An advance is a forward movement, as of an army, or a preliminary payment, as to writers who have not yet finished writing their books or children seeking to get ahead on their allowances.
As well, “advance” means beforehand (as in “supplied in advance”).
On the other hand, “advanced” refers to being ahead of the norm in progress or complexity, as an exceptionally clever student (like you) is advanced.
ADVERSE/AVERSE
“Adverse” means unfavorable or harmful, as in “We are enduring adverse weather” or “I did well on my test under adverse circumstances.”
“Averse” means opposed to, repulsed by, or antipathetic toward, as in “I am averse to olives on my pizza.”
AFFECT/EFFECT
The traditional snap differentiation between “affect” and “effect” is that “affect” is a verb (“That rule is only for third graders, so it doesn’t affect me at all”) and “effect” is a noun (“That rule has no effect on me at all”). Which is true, but it’s not the whole story.
Because “affect” is also a noun: “a set of observable manifestations of a subjectively experienced emotion.” You may speak, for instance, of a psychiatrist’s commenting on a traumatized patient’s affect, or demeanor.
And “effect” is also a verb, as in “to effect change”—that is, to cause change to happen.
Other uses of these words and their variants—as an affected person affects a posh accent; your personal effects (the things you’re carrying around on your person); “in effect” in the sense of “virtually”—seem to cause less confusion.
AID/AIDE
To aid is to help.
An aide is an assistant.
AISLE/ISLE
Aisles are the passages between seating areas in theaters and houses of worship and airplanes, and between shelves of groceries in supermarkets.
Isles are islands (usually small ones).
ALL RIGHT/ALRIGHT
Some people object to “alright” as slovenly, and its appearance in print remains rare relative to that of “all right.” But the fact that I’m regularly asked my opinion of the acceptableness or un- of “alright” suggests to me that it’s making inroads, like it or not. I continue to wrinkle my nose at the sight of it, perhaps because I can’t see that it has a worthwhile-enough distinction from “all right” to justify its existence, as, say, “altogether” and “already” are distinctly distinct from “all together” and “all ready.” You may feel otherwise.
ALLUDE/ALLUSION/ALLUSIVE/ELUDE/ELUSIVE
To allude is to hint at, as you might allude to a painful subject rather than discussing it explicitly.
An allusion is such an indirect, or allusive, reference.
To elude is to escape, as a bank robber eludes the police.
A dream you half-recall on waking that then slips entirely from your consciousness might be called elusive. That is, it’s difficult to hold on to.
ALTAR/ALTER
An altar is a raised structure on which, in religious ceremonies, sacrifices are made or gifts are left.
To alter is to change.
ALTERNATE/ALTERNATIVE
The Strictly Speaking Club, of which I’m an on-again, off-again member, will tell you that, strictly speaking, an alternate is a thing that replaces a thing, and alternatives—which travel in packs, or at least pairs—are options, any one of which might be viable. That is, if, owing to construction, I’m forced off the main stairs to school and must find my way inside via the side entrance, I’m mandated to travel an alternate route, but on another day, should I opt to make my way inside through the gym entrance instead of going in the front, I am simply choosing an alternative route.
As well, to do something every other Wednesday is to do that thing on alternate Wednesdays, to blow hot and cold in one’s feelings is to alternately like and dislike something, and constructing a lasagna with tiers of noodles, sauce, and cheese is to build it with alternate layers. “Succeeding by turns,” as the dictionary helpfully phrases it.
Also as well, an option beyond normalcy*1 is an alternative: alternative music, alternative medicine, alternative lifestyle, etc. (This use can carry a whiff of disapproval, so be careful how you apply it.)
One’s alternate identity (Bruce Wayne’s Batman, Beyoncé’s Sasha Fierce, Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta’s Lady Gaga) is one’s alter ego.*2
AMBIGUOUS/AMBIVALENT
To be ambiguous is to lack clarity, to be murkily open to misinterpretation. Being ambiguous can also be diplomatic, as when you see a particularly unsightly dog and comment “Now, that’s a dog.”
To be ambivalent is to have mixed feelings.
Your meaning may be ambiguous, but your attitude is ambivalent.
AMOK/AMUCK
To run amok is, in its original sense, to launch, after a bout of brooding, into a murderous frenzy. “Amuck” is simply a variant spelling of “amok.”
AMUSE/BEMUSE/BEMUSED
To amuse is to entertain, delight, divert.
To bemuse is to perplex, befuddle, preoccupy, nonplus.
The rising use of “bemused” to describe, as I noted earlier, a sort of wry, unflappable, tuxedo-wearing, cocktail-sipping amusement may be unstoppable, but unstopped it will certainly kill off the usefulness of the word entirely—just as the redefinition of “nonplus,” which properly means to confuse-startle-unnerve, to mean its precise opposite (“I wasn’t frightened at all; I was completely nonplussed”), will, unchecked, render that word unusable in any fashion. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
ANYMORE/ANY MORE
“Anymore” = any longer or at this time, as in “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
“Any more” = an additional amount, as in “I don’t want any more pie, thank you.”
You don’t have to search back too many decades to find frequent use of “any more” where we would now, at least in America, write “anymore.” (The Brits remain less keen on the fused version.)
APPRAISE/APPRISE
To appraise is to assess or evaluate, as one has a gem appraised to determine its worth.
To apprise is to inform, as you apprise your friends of your vacation plans.
ASSURE/ENSURE/INSURE
One person assures another person so as to relieve doubt: “I assure you we’ll leave on time.”
To ensure is to make something certain—something, not someone: “The proctor is here to ensure that there is no talking during the test.”
“Insure” is best reserved for discussions of compensation in the event of death or theft, monthly premiums, and everything else involved in our betting that something terrible is going to happen to us.
BAITED/BATED
A trap or fishing line is baited—that is, outfitted with bait.
“Bated,” which you are unlikely to chance upon disattached from the word “breath,” means reduced or moderated or suspended. To await something with bated breath is to await it with thrilled tension, to be on (to use a grand old word) tenterhooks.
BAWL/BALL
To bawl your eyes out is to weep profusely.
To ball your eyes out would be some sort of sporting mishap.
BESIDE/BESIDES
“Beside” means “next to” (as in “Come sit beside me”).
“Besides” means “other than” (as in “There’s no one left besides Granny who remembers those old days”).
I’ve found that “beside” is frequently used when “besides” is meant, and I wonder whether people who have had it drilled into their heads to use “toward” rather than “towards,” “backward” rather than “backwards,” etc., view “besides” as a Briticism-to-be-avoided. Or, thinking it a relative of “anyways,” view it as an outright error.
BLACK OUT/BLACKOUT
The verb is “black out,” as one may black out after a blow to the head.
The noun is “blackout,” meaning a loss of consciousness, an electrical power failure, or a suppression of information (as in a news blackout).
BLOND/BLONDE
“Blond” is an adjective: He has blond hair; she has blond hair.
“Blond” and “blonde” are also nouns: A man with blond hair is a blond; a woman with blond hair is a blonde. “Blonde” carries some heavy cultural baggage by way of the old stereotype “dumb blonde,” so use it thoughtfully and carefully, if at all.
BORN/BORNE
The word you want for discussions of birth, actual or metaphorical, is “born,” whether you mean born yesterday, born in a trunk, or New York—born.
Otherwise, things that are carried or produced are borne. Diseases are insect-borne. A tree that bears fruit has borne fruit. The right to bear arms is the right to have borne them.
And though triumph may be born out of tragedy, your grand schemes may not be borne out in reality.
BREACH/BREECH/BROACH/BROOCH
To breach is to break open or pierce.
A breach is a rupture or violation, as in a breach in a dam or a breach of etiquette. When Shakespeare’s Henry V cries, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” he’s literally referring to the gap his English troops have opened in the walls of a French city under siege. Note, please, that it’s “unto the breach,” not, as it’s often misquoted, “into” it.
A breach is also the leaping of a whale out of the ocean; the whale is said to be breaching.
“Breech” is an outmoded term for buttocks; thus pants were once called breeches. A breech birth is one in which the baby emerges buttocks (or feet) first.
To broach a subject is to raise it.
A brooch is a piece of decorative jewelry.
BREATH/BREATHE
“Breath” is a noun; “breathe” is a verb. One loses one’s breath. One breathes one’s last breath.
“Breath” is often written when “breathe” is called for. This is an especially easy error to commit and, once committed, difficult to catch, so I urge you to be on your guard about it.
No one ever seems to get “breadth” wrong—though it comes up every now and then in “Hey, how come it’s ’length’ and ’breadth’ and ’width’ but not ’heighth’?” conversations*3—so I simply note its existence.
CALLOUS/CALLUS
To be callous is to be hard-hearted.
A callus is a thickening of the skin.
Many, many, many people get this wrong, so if you can get it right you’ll earn a slew of brownie points.*4
CANVAS/CANVASS
Canvas is cloth, of the sort used to make sails or to paint on.
To canvass is to secure votes or opinions.
CAPITAL/CAPITOL
A capital is an important city, or a large letter as one would find at the beginning of a sentence or a proper noun, or one’s accumulated funds, or, architecturally, the crown of the shaft of a column. It is also an adjective describing a serious crime (often, though not invariably, punishable by death) and something that approving British people used to exclaim—“Capital!”—before they all started exclaiming “Brilliant!”
A capitol is a building housing a legislature, like the great domed Capitol (capitalized in this case, as that is its name) in our nation’s capital.
CARAT/KARAT/CARET/CARROT
A carat is a unit of weight applied to gemstones.
The proportion of gold in an alloy is measured in karats, the purest gold being 24-karat.
A caret is a copyediting and proofreading symbol (it looks like this: ^) showing where new text is to be inserted into an already set line.
Carrots are what Bugs Bunny eats.
CHORD/CORD
In music, a chord is a number of notes played simultaneously; “chord” is also used to refer to an emotional response, as a plaintive melody may be said to strike a chord.
A cord is a woven string of threads.
To strike a blow against an exceptionally popular error: People have vocal cords, not (no matter how musical they are) “vocal chords.”
CITE/SIGHT/SITE
The confusion between “cite” and “site” seems to be on the rise. To cite something is to quote or attribute it, as you cite a reference book or a website. And, aha, there’s the potential for confusion: In citing a fact found on a (web)site, the desire to “site” it is increasingly compelling (but still incorrect).
Further confusion arises between “site”—as a noun, the property on which a structure is constructed; as a verb, the action of placing that structure—and “sight,” a thing one goes to see, e.g., the sights of Paris one views while sightseeing.
A sight is also the dojigger on a firearm that helps you aim, thus “I’ve got you in my sights.”
CLASSIC/CLASSICAL
A classic is an excellent or defining version of something, as “Hey Ya!” is a classic pop song by OutKast and the classic cure for hiccups is to hold your breath.
“Classical” is best reserved for descriptions of things like the civilizations of ancient Greece and Rome or the orchestral music of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. You know, things you write about every day.
CLIMACTIC/CLIMATIC
The former relates to narrative thrills, spills, and chills on the way to a story’s resolution; the latter concerns, perhaps (and hopefully) less thrillingly, meteorological phenomena. The climactic moment of the September 2019 UN Climate Action Summit was Greta Thunberg’s “How Dare You” speech asking world leaders to address climatic change.
COMPLEMENT/COMPLEMENTARY/COMPLIMENT/COMPLIMENTARY
To complement something is to go nicely with it.
If I am telling you how great you look with your complementing backpack and shoes, I am paying you a compliment.
An ability to spell and an ability to type rapidly and accurately might be thought of as complementary skills in secretarial work—that is, each serves the other.
If I am offering you my spelling and typing skills free of charge, I am giving you access to a complimentary service.
CONFIDANT/CONFIDANTE
If you’re not a fan of gendered nouns, you can certainly apply “confidant” to anyone with whom you share confidences. Just don’t refer to a man as a confidante; confidantes are solely women.
(Most people discern correctly between “fiancé” and “fiancée,” but most is not all.)
CONSCIENCE/CONSCIOUS
Your conscience is the little voice inside you that helps you differentiate between right and wrong. If you are Pinocchio in the Disney version, you possess an externalized conscience in the person—well, in the insect—of Jiminy Cricket.
To be conscious is to be awake and alert, also to be particularly aware and mindful.
CONTINUAL/CONTINUOUS
“Continual” means ongoing but with pause or interruption, starting and stopping, as, say, continual thunderstorms (with patches of sunlight) or continual bickering (with patches of truce).
“Continuous” means ceaseless, as in a Noah-and-the-Flood-like forty days and forty nights of unrelenting rain.
CRITERION/CRITERIA
“Criterion” is singular: a standard upon which one can make a decision. A number of criterions (it’s a word, really, though I can’t think of the last time I saw it used) are criteria.
I frequently encounter the plural “criteria” where the singular “criterion” is meant. Perhaps people think it’s fancier. It’s not meant to be fancy; it’s meant to be a plural, and it should only be used as a plural. (It’s a holdover from Latin, like “millennia” as the plural of “millennium” and “nuclei” as the plural of “nucleus.”)
DEFUSE/DIFFUSE
To defuse is, literally, to remove a fuse, as from a bomb, to keep it from blowing up. Figuratively, if you’re trying to calm down a roomful of arguing people, you’re defusing a thorny situation.
The adjective “diffuse” means unconcentrated (as, say, “diffuse settlements in a vast territory”). As a verb it means “to spread” (as air freshener may diffuse, or be diffused, through a room). You buy an aromatherapy diffuser that spreads relaxing lavender or energizing grapefruit (or you ignore the “therapy” part and just buy something that makes your room smell better).
DEMUR/DEMURE/DEMURRAL
To demur is to voice opposition or objection; perhaps because the word, spoken, makes a gentle burring noise (or perhaps because it looks like “demure”), it’s often used to suggest polite opposition, but politeness isn’t inherent in the verb.
“Demur” is also a noun, as one may accept someone else’s decision without demur.
To be demure is to be modest or reserved.
DESERT/DESSERT
Most of us can tell the difference between a desert (that hot and dry place) and a dessert (that sweet and soul-satisfying complement to a meal).
Many go wrong in their attempt to haul out the venerable*5 phrase referring to people who get what they deserve. Such people are getting not their “just desserts” but their just deserts—they are getting precisely what they deserve.
Though if you and your friends go to a diner with the sole intention of enjoying a couple of slices of pie and some milk shakes, you may be said to be receiving just desserts.
DISCREET/DISCRETE
Discreet people possess discretion; they kiss but don’t tell. They are circumspect, chary, and wary. If you don’t want people to know what you’re doing, you do it discreetly.
This thing over here and that thing over there are discrete—separate and distinct—things. If you sample two distinct populations in your science experiment, you sample them discretely.
E.G./I.E.
Please don’t confuse these. They’re both Latin abbreviations; e.g. stands for exempli gratia and means “for example,” while i.e. stands for id est and means “that is.”
EEK/EKE
“Eek!” is what you exclaim when you see a mouse.
To eke (as in “to eke out a living”) is to secure something with difficulty and, as a rule, barely. I suppose you could, if you were pretending to be frightened, eke out an eek.
EMIGRATE/IMMIGRATE
You emigrate from a place; you immigrate to a place. My paternal grandfather emigrated from Latvia; he immigrated to the United States. The terms are used to describe movement from one nation or continent to another; one does not, say, emigrate from Chicago to New York, or even from Chicago to Paris.
EMINENT/IMMINENT/IMMANENT
To be eminent is to be renowned, famous, usually respected.
To be imminent is to be on the way and arriving any moment now.
To be immanent is to be inherent—built in, so to speak. You’ll usually see the term applied to constitutional rights and the existence and influence of God.
ENVELOP/ENVELOPE
“Envelop” is the verb, as in to surround or encompass, “envelope” the noun, as in the paper doohickey into which one puts a letter.
EPIGRAM/EPIGRAPH
An epigram is a succinct, smart, and, as a rule, humorous statement, of the sort Oscar Wilde used to toss about like Ritz crackers to ducks in the park. For instance, from the irresistibly quotable play The Importance of Being Earnest: “All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.”
An epigraph is an evocative quotation—rarely humorous but generally succinct—set at the beginning of a book, often immediately after the dedication, or at the beginning of a chapter.
EVERYDAY/EVERY DAY
“Everyday” is an adjective (“an everyday occurrence”), “every day” an adverb (“I go to work every day”).
“Everyday” is increasingly often being used as an adverb; this is highly bothersome, and please don’t you dare speed up the trend.
EVOKE/INVOKE
To evoke is to call to mind, as the smell of coconut may evoke a fondly remembered tropical vacation or the songs of Bruno Mars may be said to evoke those of James Brown, the undisputed Godfather of Soul.
To invoke is to summon in actual practice, as a warlock invokes demons to destroy his enemy, or to call upon for protection or assistance, as you might invoke your Fifth Amendment right to remain silent and avoid self-incrimination.
To put it as simply as I can, if you confine evoking to the figurative and invoking to the actual, you’ll do fine.
FARTHER/FURTHER
As a rule, or at least what passes for a rule, “farther” is reserved for literal physical distance (“I’m so exhausted, I can’t take a step farther”) and “further” is used figuratively, as a measure of degree or time (“Later this afternoon we can discuss this weighty matter further”).
In the face of ambiguity, go with “further.” Our friends the Brits alleviate the ambiguity by mostly using “further” for everything.
FAZE/PHASE
To faze is to bother, or to disturb, or to discompose, as someone is fazed by the prospect of speaking in public.
A phase is a stage of development, as a child may go through a phase of refusing to eat vegetables; to phase is to perform an action over time, as in phasing out outdated textbooks.
FERMENT/FOMENT
You ferment (alcoholize) beer or wine; you foment (stir up) discord. That said, your anger can ferment, and an agitated group of people can be described as being in a state of ferment.
The use of the verb “ferment” as a synonym for the verb “foment” agitates many people; it cannot, however, be said to be incorrect. Sorry, agitated people.
FICTIONAL/FICTITIOUS
“Fictional” describes the nature of works of imaginative art and the parts that make them up. The characters in a novel are fictional, as may be the towns they live in and the schools they attend.
“Fictitious” describes something not in imaginative art that is made up. The dog you don’t have that ate the homework you didn’t do is fictitious.
FLAIR/FLARE
The former is a knack (as, say, a flair for the dramatic) or stylishness (as someone dresses with flair); the latter is a burst of light or flame, an emergency signal, or a widening, as of nostrils.
FLAUNT/FLOUT
To flaunt is to show off: yourself or some thing. Wealth and power are popularly flaunted.
To flout is to show contempt for or to defy; the word seems to be more or less permanently attached to either “the law” or “the rules.” If you flout the rules of grammar, the grammar police will come after you.
FLESH OUT/FLUSH OUT
To flesh out is to add substance, as you might flesh out a proposal for an increase in your allowance by offering substantive details of intended action.
To flush out is to clean something by forcing water through it, as a doctor might flush out a wound, or to expose something or someone by forcing it out of hiding, as you might use a smoke bomb to flush out a gang of criminals holed up in their lair. If you were in a black-and-white movie.
FLIER/FLYER
A flier is a person or thing that flies. When it comes to pieces of paper you don’t want handed to you by people whose causes you’re not interested in, some opt for “flier” and some for “flyer.” I suggest reserving “flier” for the soaring-in-the-air thing and “flyer” for the sheet of paper heading for the recycling bin.
FLOUNDER/FOUNDER
To flounder is to struggle clumsily; to founder is to sink or to fail. Floundering may precede foundering; thus the terms are sometimes confused. It is conceivable that a flounder (the fish) could founder on a fishing hook in a pond, but why do that to a reader? Or a fish.
FOREWORD/FORWARD
A foreword is an introductory section of a book; the term is generally used to refer to a brief essay written by someone other than the book’s principal author.
Forward is a direction: toward your front. It’s also an adjective often applied to people who are seen as presumptuous or aggressive (often in a rude manner). Asking someone you’ve just met for a lick of their ice cream cone would be forward. And just plain weird.
GEL/JELL
A gel is a jelly; it is also a transparent colored sheet, usually made of plastic, used in stage lighting.
When Jell-O sets, or when your master plan takes shape, it either gels or jells. I like “jells.”
GRAVELY/GRAVELLY
“Gravely” is an adverb denoting seriousness, as one may become gravely ill.
“Gravelly” is an adjective characterizing a collection of pebbles and other bits of rock, as in a gravelly road, or roughness, as in a raspy, gravelly voice. Louis Armstrong could be said to have a gravelly voice, as could Clint Eastwood and Sophia Bush (it’s not a quality limited to old people—or dead people).
GRISLY/GRISTLY/GRIZZLY/GRIZZLED
Gory crimes are grisly.
Tough meat is gristly, or full of gristle.
Some bears are grizzly.
Mistaken references to “grizzly crimes” (unless committed by actual bears, in which case, sure) are alarmingly popular, always good for a chuckle, and to be avoided strenuously.
“Grizzled” refers to hair streaked with gray—and, by extension, it makes a decent synonym for “old.” It does not mean, as many people seem to think it does, either unkempt or rugged.
HANGAR/HANGER
A plane parks in a hangar.
You hang your coat on a hanger.
The underappreciated cut of beef found suspended*6 from a cow’s diaphragm is hanger steak.
HANGED/HUNG
Criminals used to be hanged.
Paintings are hung.
HARDY/HEARTY
Hardy people are able to cope with hardship; they are plucky, intrepid, indomitable. Resilient plants are hardy.
Hearty people have a lot of heart; they are spirited and ebullient and cheerful, often in a loud, demonstrative, and irritating fashion.
A rich, nourishing soup or stew is hearty.
HAWK/HOCK
Verbwise, to hawk (outside discussion of birds, that is) is to sell and to hock is to pawn.
As to loogies, you may either (traditionally) hawk them or (popularly) hock them. If you are so inclined.
HISTORIC/HISTORICAL
“Historic” denotes significance, as the passing of the Civil Rights Act was a historic event.
“Historical” simply denotes presence in the past.
Note, please: “a historic event,” not “an historic event.” Unless you’re in the habit of saying or writing “an helicopter” or “an hydrangea,” you’ve got no cause to say or write “an historic.”
HOARD/HORDE
To hoard is to amass, often with an eye toward secrecy; that which a person hoards is their hoard. J.R.R. Tolkien’s Smaug is a hoarder of gold.
“Horde” is most often used as an uncomplimentary term for a teeming crowd of something or other: Mongol invaders, say, or zombies.
HOME/HONE
Birds of prey and missiles home in on their targets.
To hone is to sharpen.
The phrase “hone in on” is one of those so-many-people-use-it-that-it-has-its-own-dictionary-entry-and-can-scarcely-anymore-be-called-an-error things, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t an error. Rise above it.
HUMMUS/HUMUS
Hummus is a Middle Eastern dip made from mashed chickpeas.
Humus is decaying organic matter in soil.
You will find fifty-seven varieties of hummus at your local supermarket. Try them all, except maybe the chocolate. But be careful never to eat humus.
IMPLY/INFER
To imply is to suggest, to say something without saying it.
To infer is to draw a conclusion from information perhaps obliquely offered, to figure out, to deduce.
Think of “imply” as an outward action and “infer” as an inward one. Or: Speakers imply; listeners infer.
INTERNMENT/INTERMENT
Internment is imprisoning or confining, particularly during wartime—as Japanese-Americans were interned during World War II.*7
Interment is ritual burial, as an army guard might bury a soldier killed in action. (To put something into an urn—particularly ashes after a cremation, which I hope you don’t call cremains—is to inurn it.)
IT’S/ITS
Yes, you did see this in an earlier chapter. Yes, we’re going to go through it again.
“It’s” is “it is,” as in “It’s a lovely day today.”
“Its” is the possessive of “it,” as in “It rubs the lotion on its skin.”
An inability to discern between “its” and “it’s” (and, see below, “your” and “you’re”) will make you a target for thunderous belittling. It’s not fair, but neither is life generally.
LAY, LIE, LAID, LAIN, AND THE REST OF THE CLAN
Loath as I am to haul out the grammatical jargon, we’re not going to get through the lay/lie thing without it.
So: “Lay” is a transitive verb, which means that it demands an object. A transitive verb doesn’t merely do; it must do to something. One does not merely lay; one lays a thing. I lay my hands on a long-sought volume of manga. I lay blame on a convenient stooge. I lay (if I am a hen) an egg.
What does this mean to you? Well, for a start: If you’re hesitating between “lie” and “lay” and (a) your sentence has a thing to act upon and (b) you can replace the verb you’re in a quandary about with a less confusingly transitive verb like “place,” you need a “lay.”
“Lie,” on the other hand, is an intransitive verb. I lie, period. Works for both recumbence and fibbing. No object needed. “Lie” can handle an adverb (I lie down, I lie badly) or a place on which to do it (I lie on the couch); it just doesn’t need a thing, a what, attached to it.
Unfortunately, both verbs can and must be conjugated, and this is where the trouble kicks in.
Let’s run through them, tensely.
to lay
present
lay: I lay the bowl on the table.
present participle
laying: I am laying the bowl on the table.
past
laid: Earlier, I laid the bowl on the table.
past participle
laid: I have laid the bowl on the table.
to lie (in the sense of to recline)*8
present
lie: I lie down.
present participle
lying: Look at me: I am lying down.
past
lay: Yesterday, I lay down.
past participle
lain: Look at me: I have lain down.
That the past participle of “lie” is “lain,” which never looks right to anyone, is bad enough. That the past tense of “lie” is “lay,” the very word we are trying so hard not to misuse in the first place, is maddening. I know. I’m sorry.
With practice, you may be able to commit all of these to memory. Or you may dog-ear this page and keep it handy. I know I would.
Bonus Lay/Lie Facts
The action of lying down does not require that one be a person, as some people mistakenly (and, I think, oddly) believe. I lie down. Fiona the hippopotamus lies down. Pat the bunny lies down.
You don’t, in present-tense hiding, lay low or, in ambush, lay in wait. It’s “lie” all the way: I lie low; I lie in wait.
That said, you do lay a trap for your enemy, and given the chance, you will lay that enemy low.
To lay a ghost is to exorcise it.
LEAD/LED
The past tense of the verb “lead” is not “lead” but “led.” Today I will lead my troops into battle; yesterday I led them.
I wouldn’t point out something that seems so elementary but for the vast number of times I’ve seen, published, “lead” where “led” was called for. The error is not mysterious—for one thing, they sound the same; for another, compare “read,” which is the past tense of “read”—but it’s still an error.
LIGHTENING/LIGHTNING
If you’re carrying your mother’s suitcase to the train station, you are nobly lightening her load.
If on your way to the train station a thunderstorm descends, you should seek shelter, not only to stay dry but to avoid being struck by lightning.
LOATH/LOATHE
I am loath—that is, reluctant—to make comments, snide or otherwise, about people I loathe—that is, detest.
Use “loath” as an adjective; use “loathe” as a verb.
LOSE/LOOSE
To mislay something is to lose it.
Something that is not tight or severe—a dress, one’s morals—is loose.
To loose something is to set it free. Oddly, to unloose something is also to set it free.
LUXURIANT/LUXURIOUS
Something lush or plentiful is luxuriant: Rapunzel’s hair, say, or kudzu.
Something lavish and elegant and expensive is luxurious, like a Lamborghini or a VIP skybox at the Super Bowl.
MANTEL/MANTLE
A mantel is a shelf above a fireplace.
A mantle is a sleeveless, capelike garment. Metaphorically, it’s the thing you don when you’re assuming some responsibility.
MILLENNIUM/MILLENNIA
One millennium, two or more millennia. Be careful with the spelling as well: two l’s, two n’s.
In downtown Manhattan, there’s a Millenium Hilton. I would never stay there.*9
MINER/MINOR
Miners labor underground.
Minors are children.
An inconsequential detail is minor. So, musically, is a chord, scale, or key that the ear tends to associate with melancholy.
MUCOUS/MUCUS
Re “mucous,” I couldn’t possibly improve upon this elegant dictionary definition: “relating to, covered with, or of the nature of mucus.”
That is, “mucous” is an adjective, “mucus” a noun. Mucous membranes produce mucus.
NAVAL/NAVEL
People rarely err when they mean to type “naval” in the seafaring sense, but when the talk turns to belly buttons, many forget to switch from a to e. Your innie or your outie is a navel.
ONBOARD/ON BOARD
Remember “everyday” and “every day”? Well, here we are again.
“Onboard” is an adjective (onboard refueling, for instance, or an onboard navigation system); “on board” is an adverb, literally denoting presence on a vessel (“The crew was on board the ship”) or figuratively denoting agreement (“This department is on board with the new regulations”).
ORDINANCE/ORDNANCE
An ordinance is a decree or a piece of legislation.
“Ordnance” refers to military supplies—not only artillery but ammunition, armor, vehicles, all the practical stuff of warfare.
PALATE/PALETTE/PALLET
Your palate is the roof of your mouth or your sense of taste.
A palette is an array of color or the board onto which artists lay their paint.
A pallet is a platform onto which items are loaded, as in a warehouse; “pallet” is also a somewhat outmoded term for a small bed, usually one that’s not very comfortable.
PASS/PASSED/PAST
As a verb, “passed” is the past tense of “pass.”
“Past” is both noun and adjective, as in William Faulkner’s “The past is never dead. It’s not even past” or Shakespeare’s “What’s past is prologue.” It’s also a preposition, and an adverb, and just about anything else you can think of except a verb.
PEAK/PEEK/PIQUE
Mixing these up is direly easy. A peak is a summit; a peek is a glance. The ea in “sneak” inspires many an erroneous “sneak peak.” No, please: It’s “sneak peek.” (Unless you find yourself jetting through a cloud and suddenly about to collide with a mountain, in which case, sure, that’s a sneak peak.)
A fit of pique is a peeved little tantrum; to pique one’s interest is to stimulate and excite it.
PEAL/PEEL
You probably don’t need to be reminded that bells peal and potatoes are peeled. You might need to be reminded that what you’re doing when you’re being watchful is keeping your eyes peeled—wide open and lids up.
The thing itself—of a potato, a banana, a lemon, an orange—is a peel. Plus—and this is why we have the verb “peel”—one removes it before eating. As opposed to a skin—an apple’s, say—which outside of cooking one is apt to eat.
PEDAL/PEDDLE
You pedal a bike by pressing on its pedals. You peddle, or sell, candy/trinkets/wares. Somehow this gets past even the most experienced copy editors embarrassingly often. Let’s not even throw petal into the mix.
PHENOMENON/PHENOMENA
As with “criterion” and “criteria” or “millennium” and “millennia” above, this is simply a matter of singular and plural: one phenomenon, two or more phenomena.
POKEY/POKY
The pokey is the hoosegow, the clink, the slammer, the big house—a prison. (Granted, it’s not a term you hear much outside of black-and-white movies anymore, but a lot of those movies are worth watching, so you should file this term away.)
Something poky is irritatingly slow, or provincial, or frumpy. The Poky Little Puppy was never in jail.
In America we do the hokey pokey (and we turn ourselves around). In England they do the hokey cokey (and they turn themselves around).
POPULACE/POPULOUS
“Populace” is a noun; it means population or, particularly, the so-called common people.
“Populous” is an adjective; it means well and densely populated.
PORE/POUR
To pore over something is to examine it closely. Pores are those things on your face that get clogged.
To pour something is to tip it—water, salt, sugar, what have you—out of a container.
PRECEDE/PROCEED
To precede is to come before.
To proceed is to move forward.
PREMIER/PREMIERE
As an adjective, “premier” means first or top-ranked; as a noun, it’s a head of government.
A premiere is a debut, as of a play. To premiere a movie is to open it.
PRESCRIBE/PROSCRIBE
To prescribe is to authorize medical treatment or the taking of medication, or otherwise to direct authoritatively.
To proscribe is to forbid.
PRINCIPAL/PRINCIPLE
How many times has it been explained to you in spelling lessons that “the principal is your pal”? And what was your level of disappointment when you realized that the principal is not your pal but someone charged with maintaining order even if it means giving you detention, which a pal wouldn’t do?
Consider that realization a principal (that is to say, primary) life lesson. In fact, you might deem it a principle—a fundamental truth from which more advanced truths derive—on the road to critical thinking.
Your principles are your amassed moralities; villains are unprincipled.
PRONE/SUPINE
Obviously there’s no confusion of vowel order or consonant doubling here, but I include these terms because they are frequently mixed up and I can’t figure out where else to park them.
For the record:
To be supine is to be lying on one’s back.
To be prone is to be lying on one’s stomach.
Beyond “lead” when “led” is meant, I’d say that “prone” for “supine” (or vice versa) is the commonest error to get past writers, copy editors, and proofreaders and find its way to print.
You can devise all the mnemonics you like (if you’re supine you’re lying on your spine, if you’re prone you’re…oh, the heck with it), but I never—never—fail to consult the dictionary whenever I’m faced with either word.
PROPHECY/PROPHESY
“Prophecy” is the noun, “prophesy” the verb. An oracle prophesies a prophecy. The plural of “prophecy” is “prophecies”; the third-person singular of the verb “prophesy” is “prophesies.” (I prophesy, you prophesy, he prophesies, she prophesies, they shall have prophesied, we all scream for ice cream.)
RACK/WRACK/WREAK
Setting aside the meanings pertaining to cuts of meat, the storage of clothing and spice tins, the corralling of billiard balls, and the accumulation of points, let’s focus on “rack” in the sense of pain: A rack is a nasty device (we may think of it as medieval, but it has a long and distinguished history going back at least to the first century C.E.) to which one is fastened by the wrists and the ankles and, well, you know all the shrieking, limb-dislocating rest. To be put to the rack, then, is to be tortured, and thus one’s body is racked with pain. One contemplates effortfully by racking one’s brains. A painful cough is a racking one. And an anxiety-inducing experience is nerve-racking.
Or is it?
To wrack is to wreck, to destroy. Was that awful hour you spent locked in a room full of rambunctious kindergartners simply nerve-racking, or was it utterly nerve-wracking? Is your moldering old tree house going to wrack and ruin, or merely rack and ruin?
And what of “wreak”? To wreak is to cause (in an unnice way) or to inflict. An army wreaks havoc. A storm wreaks damage. The preferred past tense of “wreak,” I should note, is not “wrought” (which is an ancient past tense of “work”; it still turns up in the phrase “wrought iron”) but, simply, “wreaked.”
REIGN/REIN
Monarchs reign.
Horses are reined.
If you are granted the freedom to make your own decisions and run your own life, you are given free rein. Free rein, please, not free reign: The phrase is taken not from the devil-may-care actions of kings or queens but from permitting one’s mount to do what it likes—the opposite of maintaining a tight rein. Unfortunately, “free reign” makes a kind of sense, so it’s frequently—though, still, incorrectly—used.
RELUCTANT/RETICENT
To be reluctant is to be resistant, unwilling.
To be reticent is to be silent, uncommunicative.
You are reluctant to do X; you are reticent about subject Y.
“Reticent” is increasingly often used to mean “reluctant.” I see no good reason to allow the distinction between these two to collapse, though many have given up on it.
RETCH/WRETCH
To retch is to heave, to gag, to nearly vomit. I think it’s wonderful that the English language has a word for “to nearly vomit.” (The word can also be used flat out to mean “to vomit,” but there are so many other colorful synonyms for that action that surely we can leave “retch” for the preface rather than the conclusion.)
A wretch is a person on the darker side of the happiness/niceness spectrum, from the muddy gray of the deeply miserable poor unfortunate to the full-tilt blackness of the scoundrel and the miscreant. To say nothing of the blackguard.
RIFFLE/RIFLE
This duo plays well to the onomatopoeia/mnemonics crowd, because to riffle something is to thumb lightly through it, as, say, through the pages of a book or a deck of playing cards, and the word “riffle,” at least to my ears, has that lovely susurrating sound built right into it. To rifle through something—a room, a desk drawer—is to rummage with criminal intent to steal. That the verb “rifle” is the same as a noun for a firearm should also make it easier for you to remember which one of these is which.
SEGUE/SEGWAY
The music-derived “segue” means, as a verb, to transition seamlessly and, as a noun, such a seamless transition. Before the invention of the motorized two-wheeled Segway, “segue” was, lacking a homophone, likely never misspelled. Now it is. A lot. A smooth change is not a “segway.” Ever.
SHONE/SHOWN
“Shone” is the past and past participle of shine (so is “shined,” if you like “shined,” or if you’re using “shine” as a transitive verb: The detective shined the flashlight on the crime scene). “Shown” is the past participle of “show.”
STANCH/STAUNCH
These two derive from a single root, and each is occasionally offered as a synonym for the other, but if you’re, as I perennially am, in a compartmentalizing mood:
Use “stanch” when you mean to stop the flow of something, as blood from a wound, or to hold something in check, as to stanch the rising violence in a war-torn country.
And use “staunch” to describe someone who is indomitable, steadfast, loyal, and strong. Britain is a staunch ally of the United States.
STATIONARY/STATIONERY
To be stationary is to be unmoving.
Stationery is writing paper (and, often included in the idea, the full array of envelopes, pens, pencils, and ink). There are approximately three convenience store awnings in New York City on which “stationery” is spelled correctly. And they probably don’t sell stationery anymore.
THAN/THEN
Beyond mixing these up with a slip of the fingers, many people mix them up syntactically when they mistype “No sooner had we placed our order with the waiter then the restaurant caught on fire” when they should be adhering to the correct construction “no sooner had x than y.”
THEIR/THERE/THEY’RE
I told you you’d see this again.
“Their” is a possessive meaning belongs to them: I can see their house from here.
“There” is a direction indicating a place that is not here: I can see their house, which is over there.
“They’re” is a contraction for “they are”: They’re walking to their house.
As with “it’s/its” (above), “to/too” (below), and “your/you’re” (yet farther below), you simply need to get this right. It’s not enough to know the differences; you must also apply them.
TO/TOO
I know I shouldn’t have to clear this up, but you’d be saddened to learn how frequently even adults get it wrong.
“To” is, among many things, a preposition, as in “He walked to the store”; what is called an infinitive marker, as in the verb “to be”; and an occasional adverb, as in “She yanked the door to”—which is to say, she pulled it shut—or “He came to”—meaning he became conscious.
“Too” means also (as in “eating one’s cake and having it too”) and excessively (as in “Slow down, you move too fast”).
TORTUOUS/TORTUROUS
The former means twisty, winding, serpentine; the latter means like torture. A tortuous journey can be torturous, but there is no judgment inherent in “tortuous”; it’s merely descriptive. “Torturous,” no matter how you slice it, or are sliced by it, is unpleasant.
UNDERWAY/UNDER WAY
As above, with “everyday” and “every day” and “onboard” and “on board,” “underway” is an adjective, “under way” an adverb. You won’t have much (or any) use of the former, so odds are you want the latter. The voyage is under way, the project is under way, your life is under way. More and more lately, “underway” is used as an adverb. Bummer, I say.
VALE/VEIL
A vale is a valley; a veil is a face covering.
As picturesquely funereally evocative as the notion of a “veil of tears” might be, the phrase—going all the way back to Psalm 84—is properly “vale of tears.”
WAIVE/WAVE/WAVER
To waive is to renounce or cede, as one waives one’s right to a trial by jury.
To wave is to flap one’s hand about (or to curl one’s hair).
A customs inspector who lets you pass without examining your luggage is waving—not waiving—you through.
To waver (not to be confused with a waiver, which is a document of relinquishment) is to tremble or to vacillate.
WHOSE/WHO’S
“I don’t know whose books those are.” “Whose” is a pronoun denoting belonging.
“Who’s on first?” “Who’s” means “Who is.”
WORKOUT/WORK OUT
The former is a noun; the latter is a verb. You’re not on the way to the gym to “workout.” You’re on the way to the gym to work out. And to give yourself a workout.
YOUR/YOU’RE
This should be old hat by now.
Just like “whose” and “who’s.” “This is not your book but one stolen from the library. You’re in a world of trouble.”
SKIP NOTES
*1 Or normality, if you prefer that alternative.
*2 Pseudonyms are not alternate identities but simply alternate names used for professional, literary, political, or, occasionally, terroristic purposes: Currer Bell for Charlotte Brontë, Lewis Carroll for Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, Leon Trotsky for Lev Davidovich Bronstein, El Guapo for Alfonso Arau, etc.
*3 It used to be “heighth” and now it’s not, and these days “heighth” is generally characterized as “nonstandard” or “dialectical.” How’s that for an unsatisfactory answer?
*4 Whence the term “brownie points”? No one’s 100 percent certain; it’s one of those wonderful word mysteries. I like the idea that not everything can be or needs to be known.
*5 I’ve occasionally seen “venerable” used to mean, solely, eminent or to mean, solely, old. I’d say that it’s best used to mean both, together.
*6 Hanging, get it?
*7 For a riveting account of what those internment camps were like, read Farewell to Manzanar by Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston and James D. Houston.
*8 Conjugating “to lie” in the sense of to tell a whopper is pretty easy, so I’m parking it down here at the bottom of the page: I lie, I am lying, I lied, I have lied. But not to you.
*9 According to a 2000 Wired article, whose author spoke to the hotel’s public relations people, “The building’s current name dates back to the early 1990s…when its former owner deliberately chose to spell ’Millennium’ with a single n….He was well aware that the spelling was wrong [but] figured the small aberration in nomenclature would make the hotel stand out from the crowd.” Yeah, right.