All You Create

When I worked on Coleman packaging back in the day, I had to look up mantel and mantle to figure out which word described the little, cream-colored, filmy piece of netting that was either included with the company’s lanterns or sold separately. Not being a camper, I was not particularly familiar with this tiny piece of cloth. And to this day, I still have to look it up.

To clarify:

• Mantel — a shelf; you often hear of the mantel (shelf) above the fireplace opening.
• Mantle — a cloak; the tiny mesh mantle gives light by incandescence when placed over a flame, but any kind of cloak, or something that covers or envelops, can be considered a mantle.

Easy schmeezy.

Happy trails!

SAK

This one should be easy enough, right? Oh, I don’t know; perhaps I can complicate things sufficiently. Let’s see what happens.

Let’s say a writer (a male in this instance, not that it matters) writes a book. He chooses particular words and phrases in a particular order — in order to get across a particular meaning. By trying to get across his meaning, the writer is implying. The writer writes and implies meaning.The same could be said of a speaker (this time, a woman). She implies meaning by the words she chooses to say.

In these same two scenarios, an audience is either reading or hearing the words. The audience is, thus, inferring something from those words — interpreting, if you will.

• To imply is to mean something with the words chosen.
• To infer is to evaluate the meaning of the words chosen.

Another way to look at it is that the act of implying is more active, while the act of inferring is more reactive (the one doing the inferring is actively doing something, too — inferring — but doing so in reaction to something that has come before — the words). One could argue that the person who wrote or spoke the words with implication did so in reaction to some previous stimulus, and to that I say, “Yes, that is probably correct, and that angle is for another day.”

The AP Stylebook states it in a simpler fashion, so if that’s your thing (and why the heck wouldn’t it be, because my ramblings can be a bit hard to follow), here it is:

Writers or speakers imply in the words they use. A listener or reader infers something from the words.

See? Simple and easy.

Happy trails!

SAK

My family went to dinner the other night to a casual pasta joint in town. It had been a mighty warm week, but that evening was slightly cooler, so we decided to eat our meal on the restaurant’s terrace. With young and somewhat-messy kids, that’s often a good idea, especially as we were the only ones who chose to eat outside at that moment.

Anyway, halfway through the meal, it hit me: Use this situation as a teaching moment.

Every night, my husband and I read two books to the girls. They have several (!) in the “Fancy Nancy” series, and one — “Fancy Nancy Sees Stars” — shows the family eating snacks outside one evening. Fancy Nancy, who adores language (the fancier, the better — get it?), points out that eating outside is called dining alfresco.

How correct she is. The term alfresco stems from Italy in the 1700s, meaning “taking place or located in the open air.”  The slightly odd thing to me is that I grew up thinking that alfresco was spelled as two words: al fresco. Webster’s New World Dictionary lists both spellings, thank the gods, but the primary (and thus more-acceptable) spelling is as one word.

So alfresco it is. You should try it, by the by. Dining alfresco is quite refreshing, as long as it’s not sweltering where you are.

Happy trails!

SAK

One of my favorite quotes from the comedic genius otherwise known as “Wayne’s World” is Garth’s exclamation: “Live in the now!” OK, who am I kidding? That movie has about 180 quotes that keep me rolling almost 20 years (!) later. But I digress.

“Live in the now” is an appropriate concept to apply, I suppose, to captions and cutlines (which, coincidentally, are the same thing). The little line of copy that typically resides just below a photograph within an article is called a caption or cutline; the AP Stylebook folks prefer the term caption. No matter what you call that line, though, the cutline tells the photo’s story of who, what, when, where, why and how. If you think about it, cutlines are the most-read copy, aside from headlines; people tend to read the headlines and cutlines to determine whether to spend precious time reading the entire article. (Gasp — an entire article? The horror.) Although the second sentence is acceptable in either the present or past tense, the first sentence should almost always be written in the present tense.

Two questions arise:

1. Why the present tense? My best guess is that the photo captures a moment in time, and the present tense gives more oomph to the image — a feeling of immediacy that makes what happened in the photo seem more relevant than if it happened, let’s say, three days ago. Three days ago? That’s in the past, man. We want to know what just happened, man! We want to feel like we’re in the loop, man. Using past tense just may encourage the feeling of old news. And who wants old news? Not me, man.
2. What are the rare situations that would require a cutline to employ the past tense? Nuts if you’re thinking this, because I don’t have the answer to that one. I’ve checked out the AP Stylebook website and style guide and can’t find a reference to the past tense. Again, my best guess is that the AP Stylebook folks are not talking about the first sentence in a cutline, but the second. It’s apparently OK to write the second sentence in either present tense or past tense, depending on the publication’s or client’s preference. Wacky! So — if you have documented proof of a reason to use the past tense in a caption or cutline in the first sentence of a caption or cutline, please send it my way.

Perhaps this isn’t the most exciting example of a cutline, but it is accurate. And how cool would it be to have an avocado tree growing in your backyard? Sh’yeah!

Happy trails!

SAK

A week or so ago, I was headed to bed much later than I should have been. And in my sleepy state on my way to bed, I had this epiphany: Life and the ongoing pursuit of happiness and improvement revolve around the idea of agitation.

Granted, I can’t for the life of me remember what happened that day or evening to make me think such a thing. But something must have triggered it. The only thing I did that made me remember this epiphany the next morning at all was reach for a pen and paper to scribble something down. What did I write? Get ready — it’s mind-boggling:

• agitation
• teeth
• exercise
• clothes

That’s it. Those were my clues to myself that would surely be crystal the next day, reminding me of the key to the mysteries of the world. Oy.

And now, a week or so later, I’m trying to piece together that instant “aha” feeling I had that night. Here’s what I’m thinking:

Everything (OK, maybe not everything, as everything (!) has an exception) in this world that can be improved, that has to do with vigor of life, must be agitated in order to make a positive difference.

Let’s look at my examples.

Teeth

In order to clean our teeth, we have to scrub them with a medium-soft toothbrush. We have to agitate the gunk that’s accumulated on the surface of the teeth and in between the teeth to dislodge said gunk and get those pearly whites pearly-white. No agitation, no healthy teeth. Say “no” to agitation, say “hello” to tons of problems with gum disease and stinky breath.

Exercise

With exercise, the name of the game is movement. We have to move (faster! harder! higher! more!) in order to stay — or get — healthy. We have to agitate our state of inactivity in order to get the blood pumping, the brain firing and the fat cells freaking out. No agitation, no good number on the scale. Say “no” to agitation, say “hello, my little friend” to cardiac issues.

Clothes

Clothes get clean, of course, by the agitation of washing machines. They get tossed around in swirling water, and all that motion is what gets the dirt out. No agitation, no clean shirt to wear on your hot date. Say “no” to agitation, say “where you been all my life?” to dull, marred clothing.

Other examples, I’m sure, abound. Some combination of Newton’s laws of motion must be at the root of this truth, though I’m most definitely not the one to explain them to you.

But I’ve also thought about what agitation in life means. Agitation in this sense means disruption — something that upsets our proverbial applecart. We live our lives, doing our routines, doing what we’re supposed to do, not disrupting the social order, minding our own business. Yet somehow, stuff gets all messed up. Something happens that jolts us out of our daily grinds, and what do we have to do to either fix it so that we can go back to our routine or find a better path? Something. We have to do something. We have to move.  To do something out of the norm. To agitate.

And that thing that we do — whatever it is — can be agitating to us. Doesn’t have to be agitating in the annoying sense of the word, but it often is, at least at the beginning. And why is it annoying? Because it’s most probably out of our comfort zone.

The thing is, though, that it’s that very agitation, the act of doing (and doing something a bit odd to us) that makes us move forward as people, as an integral part of the human race. It helps us grow. It’s a very personal thing, this agitation, but it’s a great thing, truly.

So what’s my takeaway from this little epiphany? It’s simple to think about, not the easiest of tasks to start, yet ultimately fulfilling as interactive beings on this here planet:

Embrace agitation, in all its forms. It’s the stuff that dreams are made of.

Phew! That was fun.

Happy trails!

SAK

I love food. More specifically, if I were a player on “Survivor,” I would love food, but as I’m just an average Jane doing my thing in this world and not having to eat bugs to survive, I love good food. One part of food — one of many, I dare say — which I love most is the language of it. Food in its presentation state isn’t just food; it’s much grander than that.

For example:

• Cow is not cow; it’s beef.
• Pig is not pig; it’s pork.
• Goose liver is not goose liver; it’s foie gras.
• Bull testicles are not bull testicles; they’re Rocky Mountain oysters.
• A pan full of everything but the kitchen sink is not a pan full of everything but the kitchen sink; it’s paella.

Granted, nothing in the above list would make it onto my pescetarian plate (not even seafood paella, as I’m relatively picky when it comes to seafood, as well). However, the point is the same: The language of food romanticizes what ends up plated in front of eager patrons.

One such subtle change in the language of cuisine that I’ve recently noticed has to do with beans. Yes, beans. Those plain-ol’, little, inexpensive peas, beans and lentils are also known as pulses. I think I heard the term a year or so ago (which could easily mean I heard it five or more years ago) but dismissed it as random terminology.

Pulses are random no more. Not only is Wikipedia fully up on it, but pulses also made it onto the menu of the restaurant that just topped — for the second year in a row — the S. Pellegrino World’s 50 Best Restaurants list. That’s pretty impressive for a lowly seed and its brethren.

Pulses carry with them a bevy of benefits:

• High in protein
• High in fiber
• High essential amino acid content
• Virtually fat-free
• Affordable
• Versatile (pulses are either a mainstay or an accompaniment in nearly every world cuisine)

For me, though, the main emphasis of this post is to emphasize the use of the term “pulse” rather than the oh-so-2010 term “bean.” Since it seems to be incorporating itself into the lexicon a bit more frequently these, days, I’m thinking that making a three-pulse salad or American chili with pulses and Cherokee purples sounds much more palatable and in-the-know.

Et tu?

Happy trails!

SAK

It’s a crapshoot, I tell you.

I had just started in a new position at a new agency and was excited to start things off right with an updated AP Stylebook. Makes sense, I thought, since my own copy of the veritable writer’s bible was the 2007 version. Staying current with the 2010 version (even though it’s already 2011, thank you very much) seemed like a grand idea, especially since the 2011 version wasn’t going to be published for a few months yet.

The 2010 version, for those with inquiring minds, is the first book put out by the AP folks with website spelled as one word and all lowercase. That, my dear readers, was a monumental advancement. Ask any writer or editor you know (hell, you can even ask an opinionated designer or two — they’ll freely offer their belief system on the now-antiquated two-word Web site); he or she will probably be able to explain in four-part harmony the beneficial or detrimental nuances of using one word or two, depending on his or her preference.

So — back to the crapshoot.

As a writer and editor in my new digs at Armstrong|Shank Advertising, I thought it appropriate to get my hands on the latest AP Stylebook. The office manager said, “Hey! No problem. We’ll order one of those suckers right away.”

Cool!

It arrived lickety-split and I set to work, prepared for whatever odd grammar question could arise.

Then, just a few short days ago, the AP Stylebook folks threw a grammar wrench in my well-laid plans. They decided to cave under the pressure of the masses and allow email to take the place of e-mail.

And that, my friends, is huge. Even bigger news than Web site to website. It’s so huge because, in the history of the English language, no compound noun that starts with a single letter has lost its hyphen. For example:

• A-frame
• G-string
• S-curve
• T-ball
• T-shirt
• U-turn
• X-ray

It seems odd to me that the hyphen isn’t there, too, because for the two people who don’t yet know what electronic mail is, reading the word sans hyphen could theoretically make it sound like ehMAIL. And that, as the rest of us electronic whiz kids know, isn’t how it’s supposed to sound.

Why should e-mail lose its hyphen? My best guess is because the masses, in all their texting and tweeting and e-mailing (er, emailing) glory, decided that it’s just too darn difficult to add the hyphen to a word that gets typed or written on such a frequent basis, and those masses revolted to the point of forcing the hand of the AP Stylebook editors.

So — lazy wins.

And you know what? I’m sort of OK with that. I don’t really think it’s the wisest decision based on correctness, but I’ll be a much happier — and faster — tweeter with this new rule in place.

For the record: Email is correct to start a sentence; email is correct in all other sentence locations. Fun times.

Happy trails!

SAK

So today is Monday, March 14, 2011. This means that yesterday was the day we all changed our clocks to account for daylight saving time. We “sprang forward” since it’s spring, and we’ll “fall back” an hour next autumn.

According to the AP Stylebook folks (and they know their stuff), daylight saving time  occurs “from 2 a.m. on the second Sunday in March through 2 a.m. on the first Sunday in November in areas that do not specifically exempt themselves.”

A few details to remember when writing about daylight saving time:

• Daylight saving time is also known as daylight time.
• Do not use a hyphen.
• Do not use an ending “s” in saving.
• Unless it begins a sentence or is associated with a specific time zone, all letters are lowercase (the exception would be the “D” in daylight).
• Saving is dropped when the concept is used with the name of a time zone (e.g., Mountain Daylight Time, Central Daylight Time).

A little history
George Vernon Hudson, an English entomologist and astronomer who lived in New Zealand, proposed the idea of daylight saving time in order to enjoy the benefits of added daylight in the hours after work. He had initially suggested a two-hour jump. (Can you imagine?)

Who benefits from daylight saving time? In particular, retailers (more time for shopping after work) and outdoor sports (more time spent making points and defending goals). Who suffers from the time shift? Farmers and those with other sun-based jobs, as well as nighttime entertainment.

Me? I’m OK with falling back in the autumn, because hey — I enjoy an extra hour of sleep in the a.m. The whole spring-forward thing really ain’t my bag. But, of course, no one asked me.

So — I hope that you all remembered to set your alarms and actually got up when they went off this morning. Only eight months until we can fall back in time.

Happy trails!

SAK

Ever since I was a kid, my ears have liked to play tricks on me:

• Excuse me while I kiss this guy!
• Dirty deeds and the thunder chief!
• There is a place in time sweet as honey!
• All I can do is just pull some teeth or two!

So my life goes. Songs haven’t been the only things that I’ve mistakenly spoken or written about. A biggie that stands out in my mind is the beige folder that’s in every office in America. Also the beige envelope with the little button that you wind a string around to keep the envelope’s contents from spilling out onto the floor. You know what I’m talking about.

The vanilla folder.

Well, it is sort of vanilla-like in color. And a gazillion other people also call it the vanilla folder, even though that’s not the thing’s name.

That beige folder (and its kissing cousin, the large beige envelope) is called a manila folder.

The manila folder got its name from the original fiber content of the paper — manila hemp — which was derived from the leaves of the abacá (a species of banana that grows in the Philippines). Manila is also the capital of the Philippines, which is a primary abacá producer.

Coincidence? I think not.

So while a folder may remind you of vanilla and be as exciting as imitation vanilla, by any other name — and any other color — that file folder your carrying around is still a manila folder.

Happy trails!

SAK

I woke up this morning not thinking of anything in particular to write about for a Bloody Well Write entry, so I let my mind wander.

It led me to a time several years ago, before I was married. I remember going to lunch with my boyfriend at the time (the one I ended up marrying, thank the gods) and we stopped by an estate sale afterward on the way back to work. The house was in my neighborhood, a ’50s-style long ranch with long, flat stones adorning the facade that are just not my cup of tea. The layout of the home was a bit awkward, especially given today’s popularity of open plans. The red carpet was, uh, something to behold. And the majority of the items being sold were, again, not to my taste.

In the sunken living room, however, I fell in love with a painting. A ginormous painting, perhaps 6 feet tall by half as wide — much larger than anything I had hanging on my walls. Thick swirls of orange paint told a story of a guitarist in Spain, playing his heart out with one foot propped on a chair in the foreground, an old man sitting in the background, listening to the emotion pouring out of the guitarist’s instrument.

And did I mention the orange paint? Oh, my. I was in love.

Except that the price was just slightly out of my league. Not even that much money, really, but I couldn’t justify spending that kind of money on art.

Do you have any idea how many times I’ve mentally kicked myself for not buying that painting? Do you? I’ve scoured the Internet, hoping that it was some sort of reproduction, to no avail. Even today I did some more searching. Nothing. Nada.

So the next best thing I can do for the time being is to write about it, and its inspiration as I would imagine it — flamenco.

The dance is intense and postured, and it often includes much stamping of the feet. Several styles exist; some are more flamboyant, with lots of skirt tossing and flailing arms, while others are more controlled, with stronger backs and movements that surround the body rather than extend from it.

The songs are categorized into three groups: Cante grande deals with the heaviest of subjects (e.g., death, despair, religion), cante intermedio is not quite as heavy but still moving and cante chico includes the subjects of love, happiness and tawdry subjects.

The guitar — ah, the guitar! — is similar to a classical guitar, except that it’s lighter in weight. A traditional flamenco guitar has Spanish sycamore, cypress or rosewood on the back and sides and spruce on the top. It also has a plastic tap plate that helps protect the guitar from the rhythmic finger strikes that are typical of flamenco music. Flamenco guitar players, called tocaores (from an Andalusian pronunciation of tocadores, “players”), improvise rather than follow written music, and the resulting percussive, rhythmic sound is, in my opinion, easily the most romantic music around.

I suppose I could write some more about the construction of the guitar or the position that the tocaores hold the guitar, but I’d rather hear some music and pass it on to you.

Happy trails!

SAK