Grammar, etc.

Among the words that befuddle writers are “that”, “which” and “who”. Although they may seem like simple enough terms, each serves a variety of grammatical functions, depending on its role and position in any given sentence. As some of the functions these three words fulfill are similar, confusion over their usage can arise.

I have written before about the subtle but important difference between “that” or “who”. Now let’s explore the relative merits of “that” and “which”.

And yes, I did commit a mild pun there, for “that” and “which” are both relative pronouns. This means they stand in place of a noun and relate to a specific antecedent that has appeared earlier in the sentence. For example:

I chose the flowers that I like.
The flowers are blue, which is my favourite colour.

In the first sentence, “that” refers to the flowers. In the second, “which” relates back to blue.

While it may seem that these words can be used interchangeably, many grammarians agree that the choice of “that” or “which” is determined by whether or not the clause it introduces is defining or non-defining. In other words, your selection of one or the other is based on how crucial the information in the clause is to the overall meaning of the sentence.

To help clarify this, Mark Tredinnick offers a handy distinction in The Little Green Grammar Book between definition and description. A restrictive clause defines the antecedent by providing essential information about it, whereas a non-restrictive clause describes it through offering additional details that are no doubt fascinating but not necessary in order for the sentence to be meaningful.

Referring back to our examples, the clause “that I like” is restrictive because it defines the flowers I chose. In contrast, the clause “which is my favourite colour” is incidental to the statement that the flowers are blue. It describes my attitude towards the colour blue but does not define anything in the sentence.

Incidentally, non-restrictive clauses, including those beginning with “which”, are typically preceded by a comma. This is because these clauses tend to be parenthetical, which is a fancy way of saying that what they contain is not vital.

I did mention that we would discuss the ‘relative’ merits of these words, and it is important to note that there are regional and stylistic variations to the usages I have outlined here. In documents I edit, I ensure each “that”, “which” and “who” is employed correctly, according to my understanding. However, not all writers in all places adopt the same practices. Some are guided by preferences that differ from my own, which is fine. (See what I did there?)

I guess in a sense, you could say that it’s all relative, except for when it is definitive, which is relatively easy to decide, provided you keep in mind what is essential and what is additional.

That makes all the difference.

Do you get muddled betwixt “that” and “which”? Do you have any techniques for remembering which to use when? Are you clear about the difference between restrictive and non-restrictive clauses?

I use them often, as you may have noticed. Adverbs. They’re those nifty little words that, depending on your perspective, either give precision to your prose or needlessly clutter up the page. Some writers rail against them. (Hello, Stephen King.) Others dispense them with delicious effect. (Oh, hi, Stephen Fry.) In my view, adverbs are elements of language that can, like all others, add style to your writing. The key is knowing how and when to employ them.

You can generally recognise adverbs by the suffix ‘-ly’ that is appended to them, although it is important to note that not all words ending in –ly are adverbs and not all adverbs end in –ly. Their name indicates that their role is to ‘add’ something to a verb, although they can be used to modify other parts of speech too. This includes:

• adjectives (such as utterly fascinating, quite delightful)
• other adverbs (very cleverly, unreasonably often)
• clauses or sentences (Potentially, this is getting a bit technical).

Adverbs modify or specify such things as:

• Time (soon, later, afterwards)
• Place (nearby, overhead, beneath)
• Manner (exquisitely, unwillingly, predictably)
• Degree (mildly, intensely, extremely)
• Frequency (often, regularly, infrequently)
• Probability (likely, possibly, maybe)
• Emphasis (very, quite, positively)
• Duration (briefly, interminably, always).

There are also a cluster of interrogative adverbs whose purpose is to form questions relating to time (when), place (where), reason (why) and manner (how). Fortunately, you don’t need to remember all of this in order to use adverbs effectively. (See what I did there?)

Arguments against the use of adverbs invoke an apparent ineptness on the part of the writer, who may be depending on them to carry a weight of meaning and emotion that might otherwise be conveyed through sturdier words like verbs and nouns. It is true that excessive use of them can be a lazy way to “tell” readers what is happening and how they should feel about it, rather than “showing” or guiding them to this knowledge. Yet equally, one of the qualities of good writing is that it persuades us.

Through engaging with well chosen words, we become willing to believe in imagined worlds, innovative ideas, dramatic events and exhilarating theories. Words do have power, and writers are entitled to use all the linguistic gifts available to them in order to express their message in the best way they can. I believe this includes adverbs, despite what other experts might say.

Sometimes the touch of specificity given by an adverb is necessary to deliver an exact meaning or image. At other times, the vehemence of a writer’s feelings can be concentrated through a few rigorous adverbs. Then there is the outright glee of scattering them joyfully, exuberantly, willingly and wantonly, for the simple reason that words are fun.

Not every verb requires modification, and nor does every sentence need an adverbial adornment. To develop your discernment, learn to identify adverbs both in your own writing and in the material you read. Consider the effect they have and try rephrasing various sentences that contain adverbs while still retaining the meaning. You can then decide which version better expresses the idea, image or emotion in question and choose whether to use them or not.

It really comes down to a matter of taste. Adverbs suit the style of some writers but they hang inelegantly in the text of others. There is no need to shun them, and none to include them if you’d rather not. Either way, it’s up to you. Entirely and completely.

Whatever your preference, just remember as with all your words to use them artfully.

Do you have an affection for or an aversion to adverbs? Would you say they add or detract from the writing you read? Are there any you find particularly appealing? Feel free to share in the comments below.

Sources consulted for this article include The Little Green Grammar Book by Mark Tredinnick (University of New South Wales Press, 2008), A Short Guide to Traditional Grammar (2nd edition) by J.R. Bernard (Oxford University Press, 1993) and Dictionary of Grammar (Redwood Editions, 1998).

Once upon a time there was a word and the word was “your”. Or maybe it was “you’re”. And each of these words had the same sound but neither carried the same meaning, and thus were the people confused. And the writers of English did wail and gnash their teeth, and their teachers did sigh and some rolled their eyes, and the proofreaders hastened to fix every glitch, and the editor took a deep breath and said, “It’s ok. I can explain.”

So here goes…

The words “your” and “you’re” are homophones. This has nothing to do with their sexual preferences or mode of communication and everything to do with the fact they sound alike when spoken. The “homo” part of “homophone” means “same”, while the “phone” bit refers to sound.

Homophones such as “your/you’re”, “whose/who’s”, “to/too/two” and the infamous “their/there/they’re” are often confused or misused when written, which can be annoying. Fortunately, it is also avoidable. We do want our story to have a happy ending, after all.

The simplest way to choose the appropriate version of such words is to learn the distinctions between each and then pause before using them to consider which spelling is correct for the meaning you intend. Likewise, when looking over your own or someone else’s work, take particular note of these terms and check make sure they are right. If necessary, consult a dictionary, grammar checker or cheat sheet until you feel confident about which (but not “witch”) word to use.

For our currently unfolding fable, the difference is easy to pick.

It marks the place where something has been left out, which in this case is the letter “a” from the word “are”. If you can substitute “you are” for “you’re” without unraveling the sense of your sentence, then you’ve chosen accurately. If not… Well, you’ll probably want to address that.

The word “your” is the possessive adjective that relates to the pronoun “you”. It signifies ownership, as in “your thoughts”, “your words”, “your magnificent wishes”, and so on. You’ll usually find it hanging around in front of a noun (a person, object or concept).

To test if this is the homophone you really want, try switching “your” for another possessive adjective, such as “my”, “her” or “his”, just to see if your phrase is still meaningful. At this point your syntax is likely to wrinkle, but you will have a sense of whether (not “weather” or “wether”) you’re on the right track.

All clear?

But wait! There is a twist in this tale. It comes in the form of two additional homophones for “your” and “you’re”, although these characters appear more rarely. The word “yore” refers to a time long past, while “yaw” (as a verb) means to waver or deviate from a set course, or (as a noun) describes the action of such deviation.

Perhaps the lesson in the story is this: provided you know your “your” from your “you’re”, you’re less likely to yaw. If you know what I mean.

Maybe it’s just better to say that homophones can be confusing if used without care. Give them a little consideration, however, and we can all live grammatically ever after.

The end.

Do you get confounded by homophones? Is there a technique you use to choose wisely? Are there other areas of grammar that would you like to understand better? Feel free to continue the narrative…

There is no denying that Christmas is a difficult time for many people. The reasons for this vary, but they are often quietly personal. An article I read a little while back highlighted this issue by sharing the story of a woman whose son died in a car accident during the festive season. It contained these lines:

“Christmas has changed for her family. She fears, possibly forever.”

While the meaning here is sorrowfully obvious, it is also imprecise in its current form. Each of these two sentences is complete and correct in itself. The effect is that while their individual meanings could be seen to relate to one another due to proximity, they are not actually connected.

The statement that “Christmas has changed for her family” expresses one thought, as does the second sentence about the woman’s fear. Read on its own, this latter statement does not give any indication of why the woman is afraid. It only proclaims that she experiences fear and that this feeling might endure, “possibly forever”.

By placing each thought in a separate sentence, the writer has isolated the cause of the fear from its source, which relates to the way that Christmas has changed. In so doing, the meaning of these lines becomes ambiguous. To remedy this situation, we need to associate the fear with its reason more clearly. One way to do this is as follows:

“Christmas has changed for her family, she fears. Possibly forever.”

This version maintains the structure of the original but shifts the full stop so that both “Christmas” and “fears” appear in the one sentence. However, it creates a sentence fragment with the words “Possibly forever”. Lacking both a subject and a verb, this phrase is grammatically incomplete. Nevertheless, it could be used in this way for a deliberate stylistic effect.

A more correct form of expression would see the sentences reframed as:

“She fears that Christmas has changed for her family, possibly forever.”

Now the entirety of the meaning is conveyed in a single, if sad, statement.

In selecting these sentences as an example to disambiguate, I am conscious of the need for a degree of delicacy. Part of me wonders whether it is appropriate to use the story of a family’s bereavement for this purpose, but there is another part of me that reads this tragic tale and wants to ensure it is given its full significance through clear and correct expression.

I have said before that editing, for me, is about showing respect. This respect is given first to the writer but I believe it is due to the subject of the writing too. That is why this is a good example to use.

Incidentally, having recently written about embarrassment, I also want to make it plain that I do not cite these examples of ambiguous writing in order to shame or demean anyone. That is why I do not specify where I find these snippets, nor name those who write them. I’m sure we can agree that all of us are at times clumsy in our written expression. Indeed, it is when writing about the things that matter most to us that our words may get especially tangled.

It is never my wish to make anyone feel bad about their writing. Instead, my intention is to show how the subtlest of alterations can make a distinct difference to the way our words and our stories are read.

I hope that is how you see it too.

How did you read the original sentences used in this example? If you encountered them in an article, would they have bothered or stopped you, or would you have understood their implied meaning? How important is precise expression to you, both when you read and when you write?

I know what it’s like. You’re full of ideas that you’re eager to share. You want to say everything all at once, give your reader every detail, say all of the things, all in one go, immediately and now, because it’s really important and you just have to get it out there, all of it, this instant!

But sometimes you need to stop.

Or rather, you need a full stop.

Let me introduce you to one of those pesky grammatical gremlins: the run-on sentence. Also known as a comma splice, this particular glitch occurs when two complete sentences get squished together with nothing but a comma between them.

Here’s an example.

Good writing is a genuine pleasure, it can open up entirely new worlds in your mind.

The problem is that the phrases on either side of the comma are complete sentences in their own right. That means they deserve to begin with their very own capital letter and end with their own full stop.

Just as a reminder, a sentence is complete and correct when it contains an independent clause. This is a clause that has both a subject, which is the thing or person doing something, and a verb, which is the action being done by the thing or person. (It’s even better when the subject and verb agree with each other, but that’s a topic for another article.)

The subject and the verb may be joined by other grammatical elements, like objects or complements, but the whole point of a sentence is to communicate a coherent idea. It’s what they are designed to do.

This is why comma splices aren’t so nice. They comprise two (or possibly more) complete thoughts that ought to reside in separate sentences. When this doesn’t happen and a sentence runs on, there can be a feeling of breathlessness in the writing. It is as if everything becomes rushed. Individual ideas pile up on one another and the discrete expression of each gets blurred.

Fortunately, it is easy to mend a comma splice. The simplest way is to insert a full stop and capital letter.

Good writing is a genuine pleasure. It can open up entirely new worlds in your mind.

Other appropriate punctuation, such as a semicolon or dash, can likewise replace the comma, or you could add the word “and” or another appropriate conjunction after the comma to create a compound sentence.

Good writing is a genuine pleasure, as it can open up entirely new worlds in your mind.

See how easy it is?

Learning to detect and correct comma splices in your own writing is a skill that is worthwhile nurturing. One approach for this is to check each comma in turn and assess whether it should be a full stop instead. This involves having some understanding of clauses and sentences, which is in itself is a good idea if you want to improve your writing.

You might also try that magical trick of reading your writing aloud. It may not always help you detect a run-on sentence, but it can be a useful practice anyway.

Ideas, like people, need space to breathe. By making sure you have a single idea in a single sentence, you will avoid comma splices and keep your writing nice.

Do you have a tendency towards run-on sentences? What will you do differently now you understand more about them?