Pet Peeve: Affect/Effect

Don’t worry, folks: All is forgiven. I’m not going to name names or point fingers at the perpetrators of this week’s Peeve. Let’s start from scratch and learn the difference between affect and effect.

Most commonly, when you’re using a noun, it will be effect. When you want a verb, it’s usually affect. But to be fair, I have to admit that both can be used two ways. Let’s start with the most common usage for both.

Affect: The Verb
To affect something is to act on it and change it somehow:

The weather affected her mood.
(It changed her mood, or at least influenced it in some way. It was sunny and that made her happy; or maybe it was rainy and that made her angry.)

It can also mean to touch or move someone emotionally—as in, to rouse affection:

His letter affected me deeply.

Effect: The Noun
An effect is a change brought about by something else.

I hope Dad’s lecture had the right effect on you.
Within minutes Angie felt the effects of the poisoned dart.
The actor’s soliloquy had an immediate effect on the audience.

It can also mean an impact or impression, as in special effects or

The whole street blazed with Christmas lights; the effect was spectacular.
Wanda paused for dramatic effect before announcing the murderer.

Here are the less common ways of using both words:

Affect: The Noun
This is the least common use of the four meanings we’ll discuss. A person’s affect is the outwardly demonstrated manifestation of his or her emotional state. Psychiatrists use this term a lot; how is a patient acting? What is her demeanor? Does she seem calm, happy, distressed, angry? What can we see on her face that reflects her emotions? That’s her affect.

Effect: The Verb
In this sense, effect means to bring about, to cause to come into being, or to accomplish:

Throughout his long career, the senator effected real change.

Pet Peeve: Climatic vs. Climactic

I’ll make this short and sweet. There’s no such word as anticlimatic.

Okay, I guess there could be. But what would it mean? The word climatic refers to climate—as in, the weather of a particular region.

Seattle’s climatic conditions make it difficult to schedule a picnic.

Climactic—note the interior c—refers to climax, as in the highest point of dramatic tension or, well, any other sort. Never mind—we won’t go there.

The commercial interrupted the climactic scene of the movie.

And back to the word anticlimatic, which would mean—what? antiweather? I’m not sure I know of anyone who is anticlimatic, but the word anticlimactic (again, interior c) refers to something that should have been really exciting but turned out to be a big letdown.

After the high stakes of the blackjack tables, our midnight penny-ante game must have seemed anticlimactic.

Pet Peeve: Less Is More

True confession time, blog readers. This isn’t my pet peeve; it’s Hubby’s. And here’s the true confession part: It’s his peeve about me.

I’ve told you before that my grammar isn’t perfect—not in writing, and certainly not in speech. Here’s a gaffe I make so often it sets Hubby's teeth on edge:

I wish less people would mow their lawns on Sunday morning.

The gaffe isn’t, of course, with the assertion, because Sunday morning is for me a time of quiet reflection (and sometimes sleep). The problem is with the word less.

Less is an adverb relating how much. But it can only be used when referring to amounts, not numbers. In other words:

I would like less than half a glass of juice.
No, I’d like less than that, please.
Sheila’s car has less than half a tank of gas.
John has less hair than Nigel.

Because I’m speaking of volume, not number, I correctly use the word less. But in the case of the annoying lawn mowers, the word should be fewer:

I wish fewer people would mow their lawns on Sunday
morning.
I would like fewer than 3 eggs.
Fewer than fifty people attended the concert.
Nigel has fewer pimples than John.

For volume, use less. For numbers, use fewer.

Sorry, dear.

Much Ado About Commas

Think the fuss about commas is much ado about nothing? Think again:

The Comma's Dirty Little Secret

The comma is arguably the most misused, least understood member of our punctuation family. People feel free to throw them into their sentences willy-nilly without much regard for the rules. What gives?

Here’s the dirty little secret grammar nazis the world over don’t want you to know: The rules are—well—bendy.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. Commas come with a nice set of firm rules that someday we’ll talk and no doubt argue about. But remember what a comma is for in the first place.

It’s a pause.

No matter what rule I come up with, someone will certainly find it violated in writing—good writing, in fact. Because good writers do break grammar and punctuation rules, usually deliberately, and many see the comma as the poetic pause that it is. For example:

The way to a man’s heart is certainly through his stomach.

That's a perfectly fine sentence just the way it is. But is this wrong?

The way to a man’s heart is, certainly, through his stomach.

Actually, it isn't. We don’t need the commas to make the sentence correct, but they don’t hurt it, either. The reason has to do with the Reader Voice.

You probably don't know what I'm talking about since I just made that phrase up. The Reader Voice is that soothing voice in your head that you hear as you read. (Mine sounds a lot like Gregory Peck. To each her own.) In lieu of moving our lips or reciting aloud, many of us hear the words in our head as we peruse the page (screen). In the example above, the writer stuck in those commas so that your Reader Voice will pause and consider the word certainly. You’ll hear the sentence differently with the commas than without.

So why bother with comma rules at all? Commas do enhance understanding. And in some cases, putting them in the wrong spot will result in miscommunication. As writers, we have to know how the mechanics of our sentences work so that they do the job we’re asking them to do.

Pet Peeve: “Literally”

Okay, class. Who knows what the word literally means? Agnes?

“Really. Truly. Actually.”

Lovely. Well done, Agnes. As for the rest of you, who might blithely write, “Whenever Jeremy talks to me, I literally have butterflies in my stomach,” I’m sorry to hear you’ve ingested insects. But that’s no excuse for misusing this word.

If Candace feels like she has butterflies in her tummy when Jeremy talks to her, then that’s what she should say. To say she literally has them means she “really, truly, actually” does. The opposite of literally is metaphorically—i.e., “what I’m saying is just an expression, a metaphor.”

Here are some other examples:

The thief literally tore the mattress apart looking for the hundred dollars.
(Correct. The thief took a knife and slashed the mattress open.)

The thief literally turned the room upside down looking for the hundred dollars.
(Really? The floor is now the ceiling? Huh.)

When Romeo asked Juliet to the prom, she literally stared speechless at him for two full minutes.
(Lame, but possible. She stood there, agog, until her vocal cords remembered how to work.)

When Romeo asked Juliet to the prom, she was literally struck dumb.
(Ummm ... did he somehow confer laryngitis? Is she permanently mute?)

Get the idea?

One final note: It would be unfair not to mention that Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, 11/e, revered by writers and editors alike, claims a meaning (2) for literally:

2. in effect : VIRTUALLY

Venerable Webby goes on to quote Norman Cousins: “...will literally turn the world upside down to combat cruelty ...” and adds this note:

usage Since some people take sense 2 to be the
opposite of sense 1 [“actually”], it has been frequently criticized as a misuse.
Instead, the use is pure hyperbole intended to gain emphasis, but it often
appears in contexts where no additional emphasis is necessary.

For shame, Webby! Bowing to the masses! Well, grammar hounds, I say stand up to this shameful pandering. The hyperbole is in the metaphor; it never needs the addition of literally, which only confuses the matter. I don’t care who you quote. Cousins should have said, “ ... will turn the world upside down to combat cruelty.” Why stick literally in there and make yourself look like a baboon?

Literally.

Passive vs. Active Voice

What is passive voice and why do writing teachers cringe whenever they see it? These are the questions of the week.

You might wonder what this topic has to do with grammar. Passive voice isn’t incorrect grammar, strictly speaking. But in this space we also address clarity, precision, even beauty in the written word. Besides, passive voice is a term some kid taking an English comp class might need to know. Her Google search has led her to us; let’s not disappoint her.

Voice, as we’re discussing it here, has to do with how a subject and verb work together in a sentence. First let’s look at active voice, which is a straightforward, subject-verb-object construction:

Babe hit a home run in the bottom of the ninth.

Who’s our actor in this scene? Babe. What did he do? He hit. What did he hit? A home run.

Here’s how to spell it out in grammarese:

Subject = Babe
Verb = hit
Object = a home run

(In case you’re wondering, in the bottom of the ninth is frosting on the cake. It’s not part of the discussion here.)

Active voice charges out and fights dragons. Subject! Verb! Object! What could be easier?

Pat stepped on her birthday cake!
Buffy dusted ten vampires!
Katie Anne threw a tantrum in the grocery store!

But here's what happens when we change these sentences to passive voice, that namby-pamby way of writing:

A home run was hit by Babe.
The birthday cake was stepped on by Pat.
Ten vampires were dusted by Buffy.
A tantrum was thrown by Katie Anne in the grocery store.

Look what’s happened here. Suddenly the home run, not Babe, is in charge. Babe has gone hiding under the bleachers. We trudge to the very end of the sentence before we even find out who hit the home run. We’ve stripped the vibrancy from the sentence. It’s lukewarm.

The grammatical breakdown looks like this:

Subject = a home run
Verb = was hit
Object = none; by Babe is a prepositional phrase

It’s sad to reduce a great like Babe Ruth to the status of a prepositional phrase, folks. And can we in good conscience relegate the vampire slayer, or even bratty Katie Anne, to the same position? This is why we call this construction passive voice: Our strong, brave subjects—the people doing the hard work in the sentences—are no longer subjects. The objects have taken their place. And, as we learned last week, there’s the rub.

Passive voice is weak. English teachers hate it. In fact, readers hate it. Strong, active verbs rule the day.

Attention spans being what they are, I’ll continue this lesson on Wednesday, when we’ll discuss when, if ever, passive voice is appropriate. Stay tuned.

Another Word Puzzler to stretch those brain muscles on Tuesday! And yes, what would be the fun of grammar without a test on Friday?