I wrote a lot of bad poetry in college. As part of this literary rite of passage, I
went to a handful of poetry readings hosted by the English department, and at
one of these, during the question-and-answer period, the poet on deck said the
following when asked what advice he had for aspiring poets: “Just sit down see and what you can do with the
language.”
Until that moment, I hadn’t really grasped what language is.
A lifetime of schooling didn’t teach me that language isn’t just a set
of vocabulary and usage rules: It’s both
tool-kit and rule-book, enabling and constraining, frustratingly insufficient
and transcendently beautiful. We
struggle to express ourselves within its framework, but it never stays
still. It mutates constantly, and even words
we thought we knew shift in meaning with every new reader and every fresh
reading.
The more I use language for everything from text messages to
novels, the more I’m struck by what a miraculous and versatile thing it is. Which is why I’ve been dismayed by a few conversations I’ve been reading on a handful of popular blog posts discussing
the quality of certain books. There’s a
recurring theme that it “shouldn’t matter” if a writer uses proper grammar or
makes good decisions about words as long as “the story is good.”
I understand the premise that in a novel, it’s the story
that matters. And if a bunch of
misplaced modifiers and faulty parallelisms bug me, I don’t have to read
it. The trouble is, the misuse of
language doesn’t just screw up a single story.
It has a reflexive effect on language itself. A writer who uses words carelessly chips away
at the integrity of our man-made, culturally negotiated system of expression,
and that definitely, absolutely matters.
All of us who use language have the power to change it. If enough of us adopt new slang or use new
rules, those elements will be assimilated.
I love this about language. I
love that we can create new words and expressions that convey emotion and
meaning (“jump the shark,” the verbification of “Google”). But a writer is not just a consumer of
language. A writer is a caretaker.
A text to my mom about my new pair of black suede slouch boots (OMG so
CUTE u gotta c them!) doesn’t have nearly as much power as a book meant to be
read by the public. People are gonna
read that story, and it’s going to influence them, however subtly and
imperceptibly. Using words carelessly is
like leaving soda cans on the ground at Yosemite. It’s offensive when everyday visitors do it. When the park rangers do it, it’s
destructive.
Misusing language blurs the boundaries and crushes the
nuances we could have used to do something interesting and fresh. A new word creates a sharp, startling, useful
new image (unibrow, agritourism), but a misused word just gets conflated with
other words. Take my (admittedly nit-picky)
pet peeve: comprise. Many folks use
“comprise” just like they use “compose,” when in fact its meaning is closer to “embrace” or “enclose.” To borrow Strunk & White’s illustration from The Elements of Style: a zoo comprises animals; it is not comprised of animals. I see “comprise” misapplied so often, I think
it’s probably already lost. Just one
more precision tool turned into a blunt object.
God knows I’ve been guilty of some pretty appalling abuses
of language (see above: bad poetry), but I try to treat it like the commonly
held commodity it is. I don’t think that
means we can’t take liberties to get our points across. Taking risks, breaking rules, trying new
things—that’s part of how language evolves, and that’s a good thing. It’s great that language can change to
accommodate the pressures applied to it by culture. It just shouldn’t change because we’re too
lazy or careless to use it well.
