Tag Archives: writing

When did I start saying “awesome”?

23 Jun

My friend Chris, English by birth, Romanian by circumstance and love, and an editor/writer/educator (etc.) by trade, once exhorted me (no, no. That’s too strong a word. He encouraged me) to cut back on my use of gratuitous exclamation points. I had already brought this problem up about myself, so it wasn’t unasked-for advice. It was good advice. I knew in my writing (informal writing, on Facebook, for example) that I was coming across like a giddy teenager rather than a mature (ahem) person who takes writing seriously, who, in fact, teaches others to do the same. Because Chris is as serious about language as I am, I take his suggestions seriously. They are always well thought out, always correct, always meant to make me a better writer. The exclamation point, we would agree, has been overused to the point of meaninglessness. It should be added sparingly to those sentences where it truly belongs, where one is truly stating something exciting or outrageous or uncanny or amazing (or, okay, when one is sending birthday greetings).

I like the deadpan style of exclamationmarkless written speech. I like words, expressions and punctuation marks to adhere to their original meaning. No, I don’t mean that. I like American English because it is such a linguistic stew. I do not believe in keeping American English “pure” (which is hardly possible anyway, considering its origins and development). I like the way American English picks up bits of immigrant and foreign speech. I like the regional differences that reflect history. The thing is, I like English. I like it. I like the combination of smooth and guttural sounds. Like all living languages English is adaptive. It mutates. It evolves. But as it evolves it seems to be getting muddier and grubbier, rather than more clear and precise (and isn’t communication the point?). Sometimes now I come across written stuff I cannot comprehend, not because it’s difficult subject matter, but because it’s written in some sort of code known only to the writer, some combination of punctuation marks, symbols, upper and lower case letters thrown together helter-skelter. I’m not even talking about text-writing here. Extreme brevity has its place, especially when the writer is being charged by the character. But in most forums for regular written English, notes and signs and adverts and status updates and email, blogs and online news stories and essays, the writer should have enough time and leisure to make it right, to write the right thing, even to write the elegant thing.

That was a digression, I see. I set out to compare the overuse of exclamation points with the overuse of “awesome.” Both have been stripped, through sheer ubiquity, of their power. While watching a home show the other day (my guiltiest pleasure), I counted more than 20 incidents of “awesome” in half an hour. It began to grate on my ears, much like “like” or “uh.” Or, do you remember “not”? It was a trend (thankfully dead now) to make a statement with which you did not believe, and add “not” to the end. I still shudder.

What is an exclamation mark for? To show astonishment, wonderment, awe. Oh, there’s the connection (here I’m tempted to add an exclamation mark, especially since this is an actual exclamation, but I’d feel sheepish doing so). Are you really astonished that someone bought new shoes or got a “B” on a test? Really? Do you usually live in a cave with no human interaction? Okay, then. You might well be astonished by anything your fellow humans do.

F. Scott Fitzgerald advised (no, that’s not strong enough. He exhorted): “Cut out all those exclamation marks. An exclamation mark is like laughing at your own jokes.”

The exclamation mark and the word “awe” are similar. They have specific purposes, to indicate some thing, or quality, or experience that is exceptional.

Dictionary.com defines “awe” as “an overwhelming feeling of reverence, admiration, fear, etc., produced by that which is grand, sublime, extremely powerful, or the like.”

The key word here is “overwhelming.” Awe is the kind of experience you have that leaves your knees weak and watery, maybe after coming face to face with a Great White Shark that decides not to have you for dinner. It’s not a “nice” feeling. It’s not benign or small or cute. A bit of décor cannot actually be awesome. Really. It’s not “grand, sublime,” or “extremely powerful.”  It’s a chair. It might be sleek or lovely or well-made or shabby or of a pleasing color. But it’s a chair. What power could it possibly have over you? Why would it inspire dread? Wait, you have a phobia of chairs? Okay. But you are an exception.

Maybe “awe” has lost its power because we have lost our power to be awed. Maybe nothing, now that our idols (political, artistic, athletic, musical, etc.) have all been knocked down to earth, now that we have instant access to information about the universe, now that we can watch a revolution happening before our eyes or a volcano spewing, now that we can easily get the “back story” of practically anyone in moments, nothing is really capable of filling us with feelings of wonder, of reverence, of dread. When I stand on the edge of a precipice, looking down, often looking out at the woods below, and I think “I could fall, I could be swallowed up into that vastness,” I remember as a student reading about the “sublime prospect,” the capital-R Romantic idea of nature’s power (think of a raging river or a tremendous storm or the view from a steep canyon), that inspired dread and reverence.


Then again, maybe it’s just another example of laziness, of growing linguistic vagueness. It’s not English’s fault. The words are there. But it’s easier to use a catch-all word than to find the more precise one.

I don’t know the answer to my question. I don’t remember when I started saying “awesome” to describe quite ordinary things. I like to think I have some tiny effect on keeping language from becoming a meaningless blob of gobbledegoop. I like to think that as I hold out I can inspire others to come over to my way of seeing, to start caring, to start a whole new generation of great English users. But it seems the other side has grabbed me—Graboid style—instead. At least I can do this: just stop already.



3 Jan


Q: What made you interested in jellyfish blooms?

A: So, I saw one when I was a kid and just started asking questions about it.

Q: How do you get your cakes to come out so nice and fluffy?

A: So, I use whipped lard instead of butter.

Q: How was the concert the other night?

A: So, it was awesome. So, we go and there’s all these losers waiting outside and this guy with like really cool hair tells us to come in cuz he’s a roadie and he can invite friends and we’re really cute.

Q: What’s your favorite season?

A: So, it’s fall.

The questioner is not immune:

Q: So, how do you get your cakes to come out so nice and fluffy?

A: So, I use whipped lard instead of butter.

“So” appears to be the new “like,” the way “like” was the new “uh.”  “So” has become a grunt, a noise, a non-word, a placeholder, an awkwardness posing as fluidity.

At first, I thought of this new verbal phenomenon as akin to coming into a conversation in medias res.  You start a conversation and the person you’re conversing with treats it as though it has always been going on, with brief interruptions.

“Hi Brad.”

“Hi. So, I saw Sam the other day and he said to say hi.”

But it’s not an interrupted conversation. You haven’t broached this topic before. You might not even be broaching a topic now. You might just be greeting someone on the street. You might be interviewing someone on public radio. You might be relating to your instructor why you weren’t in class for the exam. And you might be a teenager, or a scientist, or a financial analyst or even a teacher having a private and informal or a public and formal conversation.

It is a corruption of the conjunction “so.” Where conjunctions join, show relations, hook back to previous thoughts, this version of “so” hooks back to nothing. It joins no two things. It stands there all alone, grunting and filling the air with white noise.

The placeholder “uh” and its cousin “um” indicate awkwardness in speech. They tell us that the speaker is searching for the next word or thought, possibly having lost his or her place (something I must sympathize with: see “Lethologica” for more on that). “Well,” another placeholder, also suggests that the speaker is searching, needing a little more time to frame the next sentence, to find the more perfect expression. I’ve heard “well” used in classrooms and conferences as a way to clear space for the speaker to respond to an awkwardly stupid question in a gentle way. “Well, that is one possibility. But here I am focusing on something a little different.” “So” is just a mindless jerk, a jab, a foot kicking in the door of conversation, a harsh and rude entry with an aura of self-entitlement.  The speaker assumes the listener’s interest and attention.

I’m afraid. I’m afraid that we will only hear “so” as hemming and hawing more often. I’m afraid I will get used to it, the way I’ve almost gotten used to “their” referring back to a singular subject, or the way I feel less and less inclined to draw a line between “every” and “day” on signs. I’m afraid I’ll even adopt it as I have “like” (causing much yelling at myself to STOP THAT!). I’m going to try to hold out.  Want to join me?

On Babbitt

17 Dec

My little Signet paperback of Babbitt is falling apart. It came into my hands used, dozens of reads and 20-odd years ago, and now has clumps of pages coming loose. I lie in bed reading, pinching them together, knowing that I’ll have to put this book away for good soon. I’ve resorted to sticking clips all over it. I love this copy. Being used, it holds the traces of others’ lives as well as mine: on the inside front cover is a drawing of a curly-headed girl named Barbie Mack.

I’ve preserved a bookmark, a folded slip of paper that notes that Barbie, or Babs, was given this book by her friend, Janet, for her 19th birthday, indicated by the drawing of a birthday cake.  


The map of a street on the other side of the slip might show that the two friends lived near each other. (I can’t help thinking that Janet, knowing nothing about this novel, made a connection to her friend’s name—Babs/Babbitt—and that’s about all the thought that went into the selection. But I could be wrong. Still, I can’t rectify the image of young women who draw childish pictures for each other with this deeply satirical novel.)

Babs annotated bits of the text. Mostly these are light underlines and exclamation points.

But my favorites are more editorial. On one page Babs has crossed out a line and made   changes:

Here (right) she has moved nearly a whole paragraph describing Babbitt in sleep. The “Yet” of the remaining sentence now makes no sense, as it has nothing to attach to, Lewis’s point being that this very ordinary looking chap, a bit babyish with his pink, round face, harbors in his subconscious fanciful and escapist dreams. Babs has ruthlessly dispatched the sentence which Lewis used to link the end of Babbitt’s fading dream of the fairy child with the jarring clangs and clamors that threaten to wake him.

On the following page (left), she makes a more subtle editorial change.

Lewis’s sentence reads, “He glanced once at his favorite tree,   elm twigs against the gold patina of sky, and fumbled for sleep as if for a drug” (7). But Babs  doesn’t like the sound of that “gold patina of sky,” so changes it to “golden sky.” (Babs, I fear, may have gone on to be a critic.) The difference between these two expressions is what  makes one thing worth reading and another not. The hard sound of “gold,” the even harder, metallic sound of “patina.” This is not a soft, comforting sky, a welcoming sky: Babbitt clings to his dream because he has begun to lose his faith in the everyday world, he’s begun to question and doubt and feel something missing.

My friend Lynn once asked me why: why Babbitt? She’d read my Facebook profile, scanned my book list, and seen that I read that novel every year, at least, usually when I’m feeling, something. I don’t know. When I feel like I need it. I reread many books. Rereading is one of my greatest textual pleasures. One, I do not have a good memory, so I’m constantly rediscovering wonderful lines and words and scenes and descriptions. Two, rereading is taking a book to another level of ownership. I own these books over time, after reading 10, 15 times. I own them. No one has the same relationship with them that I do.

But that’s not why Babbitt. That why rereading. I can understand why someone would wonder why I am so in love with this novel. It’s far from obvious, though I’d never thought about it before. Why this traditional novel, written by the long-dead Sinclair Lewis in 1922, many years before even my parents were born, much less me? It’s not such a distant world that it’s unrecognizable, like a Medieval tale of knights and damsels, or a Renaissance play of crowns and intrigue. It’s very much in the modern world. Let’s start with the obvious differences. George Babbitt is a middle-aged man, at 46 several years younger than I am now; though I’m older, I perceive myself as much younger than Babbitt. He’s balding; I have too much unruly curly hair. He runs his own successful real estate office; I’m a part-time college writing instructor. He blithely cuts corners and justifies cheating his employees out of commissions; I am constitutionally incapable of cheating on anything, to the point where I come off as strident and prissy. Babbitt is a booster, clubman, and believer only in what his Republican newspapers tell him; I’m left of left, never boosted anything, have never been a joiner, and am practically paranoid about being sold a bill of goods by any media outlet. He cheats on his matronly, clueless wife; I adore my husband, who is much hipper than I am.

I could go on, but that’d be, like, relating the whole book. The fact is that I do identify with this man who wakes grumpily and reluctantly from dreams of the “fairy child” at the beginning of the book, after a night of prohibition drinking with his booster friends, to find that his perfectly ordered and ordinary world no longer thrills him. The rest of the book follows Babbitt as he drifts, grumps, badgers himself to get a grip. The usual pleasures: securing a slightly-shady property deal, trading kidding barbs with his club pals, just don’t do it for him all of a sudden. He makes several social strides. His booster speeches get him past previously closed doors. But even his successes don’t curb his yearning for that something intangible represented by the fairy child. He questions his beliefs in the native goods of business and capital and boosterism and conformity, for a while. Politically he is a bit of a mush-head, so is easily led from one set of uninterrogated beliefs to another by a group of silly flappers and young men who call themselves “the bunch.” His disapproving friends, most of them businessmen and “pillars” of the community, punish that treachery with social ostracism, he panics and repents, and back he goes to the refuge of the stodgy and familiar.

Babbitt is a novel about materialism, dissatisfaction and restlessness. But that makes it sound drab and dull. If that were all it was, it wouldn’t be readable, much less rereadable. The thing is, it’s funny. It’s witty and warm and very real. It is writing like this that keeps pulling me in year after year (pages opened at random, really).

Businessmen meeting on a train:

“That’s right, brother. And just look at collars, frinstance—”

“Hey! Wait!” the fat man protested. “What’s the matter with collars? I’m selling collars! D’ you realize the cost of labor on collars is still two hundred and seven per cent. above—”

They voted that if their old friend the fat man sold collars, then the price of collars was exactly what it should be; but all other clothing was tragically too expensive. They admired and loved one another now. They went profoundly into the science of business, and indicated that the purpose of manufacturing a plow or a brick was so that it might be sold. (119)

Babbitt’s character:

The whole of the Glen Oriole project was a suggestion that Babbitt, though he really did hate men recognized as swindlers, was not too unreasonably honest. …

But Babbitt was virtuous. He advocated, though he did not practise, the prohibition of alcohol; he praised, though he did not obey, the laws against motor-speeding; he paid his debts; he contributed to the church, the Red Cross, and the Y.M.C.A; he followed the custom of his clan and cheated only as it was sanctified by precedent; and he never descended to trickery—though, as he explained to Paul Riesling:

“Course I don’t mean that every ad I write is literally true or that I always believe everything I say when I give some buyer a good strong selling spiel.” (40-41)

Babbitt getting ready for the day:

He roused himself and spoke gruffly to his bath-things. “Come here! You’ve done enough fooling!” he reproved the treacherous soap, and defied the scratchy nail-brush with “Oh, you would, would you!” He soaped himself, and rinsed himself, and austerely rubbed himself; he noted a hole in the Turkish towel, and meditatively thrust a finger through it, and marched back to the bedroom, a grave and unbending citizen.

There was a moment of gorgeous abandon, a flash of melodrama such as he found in traffic-driving, when he laid out a clean collar, discovered that it was frayed in front, and tore it up with a magnificent yeeeeeing sound. (80)

If language has flavor, Babbitt is written with a sharp but pleasing tang. Lewis has chosen every word for its sound, its specific meaning and its connotation. “Golden” is a soft and mundane description of a morning sky. “Gold patina” is vivid. He’s grabbed the speech of his day and laid it out there, a ridiculously difficult thing to do for most of us. He’s poked fun and peeled back layers of hypocrisy and exposed the silliness of his characters, while never being mean or removing their humanity (as Dickens does, but does oh so perfectly). Any fool can pick up a pen (how Luddite an expression!) and write something with a plot. Anyone can “write” a piece of fiction. That is easy. Just make some crap up and throw some words onto a page. Load your prose with mushy adjectives and trite expressions. Repeat the lazy thoughts and clichés of the populace and you’ll probably even have a hit. Anyone can do that, and too many people do. The works of hacks will die, though. And I’ll still be reading Babbitt, I hope, in 40 years.

%d bloggers like this: