Sometimes I actually think before opening my eager-to-set-the-record-straight yap.

Not often. But sometimes.

Like the time a friend called a biopic a documentary, the time my next-door neighbor trotted out the myth that doing crosswords and Sudoku staves off dementia, or the many times someone misconjugated lie or lay.

I could have invoked the infamous skeptic opener, “Well, actually …” But upon brief reflection, which was all I had time for, I felt that—in those specific instances—correction would have been needless and, therefore, annoying, possibly humiliating, and not at all helpful. So I let it go.

I am not the only skeptic whose Tact and Timing switch has rusted. It’s easy to forget that not everyone shares the skeptic’s zeal to dethrone misinformation—and that not all misinformation is created equal. If you think sugar makes kids hyper, you’re wrong, but not on an anti-vax or climate change-denial level of wrong.

Before you @ me, permit me to acknowledge that there’s something to be said for nipping in the bud all misinformation large or small. Granted, thinking that embraces benign misinformation may sooner or later embrace malignant misinformation. Still, I submit that there is room for judgment and restraint.

I know of no hard and fast rule for determining when correction is needful and when it’s only tiresome. I suspect that placing yourself in the Other’s shoes might help. And perhaps learning to recognize the difference between a desire to help and a need to appear smarter-than.

Wherein I critique the copy on an Arby’s cup, in the process admitting that I actually bothered to read the copy on an Arby’s cup. It’s on my marketing website. Read it now by clicking here.

To say that I prefer being called Steve is to understate. It’s more accurate to say that I detest being called Steven. Why I detest it would take too long to explain. Besides, that I want to be called Steve is really all anyone needs to know.

Most people are great about that. But some jerks, upon learning that I detest the version ending in n, think that using it makes them hilarious.

No. It makes them jerks.

Some jerks actually argue with me. More than one jerk has said, “It’s just that I like to use more formal names.” What the hell? Am I supposed to say, “Oh, well, in that case, carry on”? This is not about what you like. It’s about what I asked you, as a friend, to call me. Why is that so hard?

Even more unbelievable is this one, which I also often get: “What does it say on your birth certificate?” What the hell? If my birth certificate adds the n, are you going to overrule me? This is not about a piece of paper. It’s about what I asked you, as a friend, to call me. Why is that so hard?

If you can bring yourself to understand or, even better, empathize, wonderful. If you can’t, that’s okay, too, as long as you do me the favor of calling me what I ask you to call me. It is common courtesy.

Now, shall we switch gears?

Suppose you’re asked to use names and personal pronouns that, for whatever reason, make no sense to you. Do it anyhow. Refusal is not taking a stand. It’s being a jerk.

And for Pete’s sake don’t ask what’s on that person’s birth certificate. This is not about a piece of paper. It’s about what a fellow human being wishes to be called. Why is that so hard?

MORE THAN one “expert” advises targeting an eighth-grade reading level when writing for the average adult.

​Not sure what that means? Never fear. The Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level measurement will help you. There’s even a Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level measurement feature built into Microsoft Word.

To the eighth-grade-level assertion, I say balderdash (with a few caveats that I shall list below). Write well, and you needn’t worry about how many of your readers didn’t make it to ninth grade.

Consider typical tips from eighth-grade-level writing proponents: keep sentences and paragraphs short, keep it clear, use active voice, avoid jargon, always choose the smaller word if it will do, eliminate redundancies, and edit out all superfluous words. All of that is great advice for skillful writing. If the Flesch-Kincaid Guide and the Word feature help you to that end, good for you, avail yourself of them. 

My gripe is that too-long sentences and paragraphs, lack of clarity, overuse of passive voice, excessive jargon, needless use of big words, redundancies, and unedited, unpruned prose are not hallmarks of post eighth-grade-level writing. They are hallmarks of bad writing. 

If readers can’t follow you, before you dismiss them as having a too-low reading level, consider that maybe your writing sucks.

​Now for some caveats. ​No matter how skillful your writing: 

(1) You should always know who your reader is and write to reach that person. “Write to” is not to be confused with “talk down to.” Knowing more about a given topic than your reader is not the same as thinking you’re smarter than your reader.

(2) Skillful writing can do only so much to make a difficult subject accessible. More than five decades have passed since I completed my eighth grade reading class, but you will lose me no matter how skillfully and accessibly you write about, say, trigonometry or physics. 

(3) There’s no guarantee that people will grasp what you weave between the lines. For instance, not everyone gets underlying themes, sarcasm, or the unreliable narrator technique. It may not be your fault if some readers “just don’t get” what you’re trying to say. But then, it may indeed be your fault. If precious few readers get what you’re trying to say, it is definitely your fault.

(4) Reading level and breadth of knowledge are not the same thing. I can reference a hypnogogic state without defining it when I write for Free Inquiry, but you can bet I’ll define it if I’m writing for the Salt Lake Tribune. Or I’ll make it clickable, as I did here.

(5) The United States and, indeed, the world has a serious literacy problem. The cure isn’t to dumb down writing, but to promote education.

Alternate title: “Listen, you arrogant twit ...” Read this post on my marketing blog (click here).

I ENJOY STUDYING history, but I wasn’t terribly fond of my high school American history class. Our “teacher’s” method consisted of making us memorize names and dates. He graded us on our ability to regurgitate them on demand. No discussion, no exploration. Just names and dates. 

​A few weeks into the semester, Mr. [Withheld] was hospitalized with a serious illness. The other history teachers had combined and were team teaching their classes, so we joined them. Theirs was a wonderful approach. We discussed not just events, but their context, causes, implications, surrounding issues, and lasting effects. We loved it.

One day during school lunch with my friends Bob and Tim, I said, “I hope Mr. [Withheld] will be okay and return to teach.” Bob said he hoped so, too.

​Tim said, “I hope he dies.” 

We laughed at Tim’s audacity. He was, of course, being hyperbolic, but in that moment I realized I’d not said the honest but the dutiful thing. Although I didn’t wish Mr. [Withheld] dead, I didn’t want him to return, either.

Fast-forward to today. I wish I were the kind of person who could say—and, more important, mean—the dutiful thing, the thing I like to imagine a good humanist would say, e.g., that I hope Trump recovers. But I wouldn’t mean it. I wish Trump out of office by any non-illegal means possible. If COVID removes his office and, yes, even his life, the world will be better off for it.

Even so, the wait will have been too long and the price too high. He will leave in his wake 200,000-plus COVID-related deaths as of this writing, ramped-up racism and sexism, the intrusion of the religious right into the justice system, strengthened white supremacy, policy made from ignorance, climate catastrophe, science denialism, environmental rape, dictators with Trump’s lipstick on their butts, increased income disparity, sabotaged relationships with allies, disenfranchised voters, vigilanteism, diminished human equity and rights, anti-Muslim policy, locked up children, separated families, and cruelty to the LGBTQ and the non-binary. For starters.

If, unlike me, you can honestly wish Trump well, you are more magnanimous than I. Either that, or you actually support Trump and his policies, which is another way of admitting that you are morally and intellectually bankrupt. 

Mr. [Withheld] recovered and dragged us back into drudgery. I hope Mr. Trump does not.

Screenwriters and playwrights, please be advised that use of any of the phrases listed below will henceforth be deemed an admission of lack of imagination:

“This isn’t over.”
“Look at me.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Let’s split up.”
“Who else knows about this?”
“The evidence points to him, but he swears he didn’t do it.”
“This isn’t you.”
“This isn’t who we are.”
“We’re not so different, you and I.” 
“I’m nothing like you!”
“We are nothing alike.”
“There is no ‘we.’”

Also deemed an admission of lack of imagination:

Walking calmly away with an explosion behind you
Stealing a car thanks to a key stored on the visor
Bringing back the same bad guy death after death
Escaping through a ventilator shaft

Kindly suggest additions by clicking COMMENTS.

You don’t have to be a writer to appreciate this wonderful tribute to writer’s block from Gary Larsen. In deference to Larsen’s copyright, I have masked most of the image here, but you can view it au complet on his website by clicking anywhere on the box below or by clicking here. Enjoy.