I was still in my light khaki shorts when this instruction from my father literally changed the course of my life: “Anak, always have a dictionary by your side. Knowing words is half the battle won.”
I barely understood what he meant back then. Given that he was my father, of course I obliged him for as long as he’d shell out the money for it. At 10 years and a day, I only had enough mullah for marbles. And so he got me this really thick dictionary, this monster of a Webster, which, to me, looked like it weighed a hundred pounds and brandished fangs.
Little did I know back then that my dad would soon go into self-imposed exile in the United States (he was a wanted man by the martial law government). Soon after he left for San Francisco a few hours before martial law was declared in September 1972, we kickstarted our 25-year correspondence.
His instructions were simple: one, to write him a letter three-to-four times a week on yellow paper, minimum 10 pages, back-to-back, which came with a promise that he’d write to me as frequently as he can; and two, to write in English. There was a subtext to the second rule: use two-to-three new English words each time.
The little English I knew at 10 I’d learned from Hanna Barbera cartoons, the comic strip of the old Manila Times, and elementary textbooks. Growing up in a household where our small library overflowed with penny Westerns, collections of Playboy’s Party Jokes in pocketbook form, to say little of that wayward tome, The Book of Torture, which I gladly lapped up for my personal kiddie entertainment, hardly bode well for my unusually large brain (they thought I had hydrocephalus when I was born).
Being the dutiful son, I did what I was told and began reading the dictionary, starting with “A”. This section proved too extraterrestrial for me: abreact, abstergent, abutter, acanthine, acedia, adiaphorous, allodial, alliaceous, alpenglow. Sounded like Klingon on steroids.
I skipped the rest and went on to “B”: babiroussa, bagasse, ballonet, basuco, beaujolais, boustrophedon. Nerve-wracking to say the least.
However, no one warned me about section “F”. Suffice it for this piece that after reading this Frankenstein of a section, with its fanciful framboesia of forgery, fratricide, free love and fornication—to say little of freedom—I considered myself damaged goods at 10 years old.
The next 25 years proved to be quite a challenge. To impress my dad, I chose the most difficult words. He soon called me out on this and said that I should write to communicate, not discombobulate my reader. So, to impress, thereby confuse the reader, was out of the question. I kept my writing simple, using only the newest, albeit simplest words.
To expand my letters, I began writing bits of white lies—my first little attempts at fiction—to keep my dad entertained. I chose my words carefully, always with the mind to tell a simple story. This was also the time I took an interest in the word’s etymology, or the origin of words and the development of their meanings. Forced my mom to buy me the Dictionary of English Usage.
Choosing the right word is not as easy as it seems. Several considerations come to mind: the exact meaning of the word and how the tone and texture of each fit into the idea being presented; its contribution to the sentence’s cadence, the smooth transition between words and lines without falling into snags and repetitions. Is the word modern or archaic? Is it hate speech?
The choices are myriad. In relation to the English language, it is said that based on the entries in the Second Edition of the 20-volume Oxford English Dictionary, there are 171,476 words in current use with 47,156 considered obsolete.
That’s a mouthful to choose from. One National Artist, during a writing workshop, said that if one’s vocabulary does not go in excess of 5,000 words, he or she should forget about writing altogether. A bit too stern, but not altogether bad advice if a career in writing is what you’re after.
To fully grasp the significance of choosing the right word, I believe the novelist Mark Twain had laid it down pat for us: “The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter. ’tis the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.” That needs no further explanation.
In relation to choosing the right words, when writing in English, one must be extra wary when picking an idiomatic expression. Filipinos are generally guilty of ‘reinterpreting’ idiomatic expressions, resulting in funny ‘transliterations’ of the original. “Cope up with” should be “cope with,” for example.
One doesn’t “win by a landscape” but “ by a landslide”. It’s not “annulled and void” but “null and void”. The “splitting image” of your brother is gross (reminds me of some horror movie highlighting murder by chainsaw), hence try “spitting image”. To be “mute and academic” is an oxymoron (as most academics I know are quite outspoken); thus, to presume they are outspoken is moot and academic.
And regardless of common use, “irregardless” just doesn’t pass muster. So, my advice is that you shouldn’t go out into the forest “by your lonely,” better “by your lonesome”.
And for Chaucer’s sake, please stop pluralizing words which are already penned, by and large, in plural form, such as food, furniture, aircraft, evidence, stuff, clothing, concrete, education, homework, wood, knowledge, livestock, scenery, luck, etc. So, to say “I wish you all the lucks in the world” may not be as philanthropic as you think.
Traditionally, the word “media” is considered the plural form of “medium,” but current usage when referring to “mass media” or “social media” turns it into collective singular. So, “medias” is a pair of socks in Tagalog.
There, their and they’re are three different words (the latter a contraction of two words), so are assure, insure and ensure. It pays to learn their usage. Tread slowly when writing you’re or your and it’s and its. The contemplation of the word farther may leave you a bit exhausted, but one shouldn’t go further than the next rule of grammar to grasp their differences.
Now, between ignominious and pitiful, I suggest pitiful. I love the word acquiesce, but to agree to serves the purpose of being understood.
If you’re a writer of erotica and wish to impress your readers, the word sesquipedalian, meaning “longwinded,” may do just that. But sticking to its Latin meaning might serve a more salacious purpose: “a foot and a half long”.
If you’re on a really tight deadline, using the word supercalifragilisticexpialidocious might keep you from beating it. I suggest the use of wonderful.
Of course, who could forget the word floccinaucinihilipilification, which is pretty much without value in and by itself as a word. Thus, it is best to stick to its shorter form—valueless.
Lest I forget, allow me this one dig: never write in phone text mode. While you may think it a novel idea to write a full-length novel using broken spellings, I strongly suggest avoiding its use. I just find it really lazy.
Writing is all about expression, not making an impression. What other people think about your writing is really unimportant, hence impressing others is little more than just vanity garbed in impressive vocabulary. I learn difficult words and their etymology for the entertainment they offer me. Writing, though, is a whole different circus. When tempted to do a grammatical high-wire act, make sure the safety nets are in place.
Falling in love with words is like falling in love with a new and strange country. Everything about it is just positively enthralling, surreal. With every enchanting discovery comes the image of a newer world that you can now describe.
Essayist Christopher Hitchens wrote:
“A writer who falls in love with a new and strange country will always find experience heightened in this way. The dawns are more noble, the crags loftier, the people more genuine, the food and wine more luscious.” No image, scent or taste goes to waste. All but the most regrettable is discarded.
The words you’ve committed to memory shapes the world that is now visible and tangible. Without these words, the world remains dark, its dank corners indescribable and fall largely out of sight.
This is probably why some people find it difficult to see through the social and political smokescreens of which tyrants are known to create. What they cannot describe or shape in the form of words simply do not exist for them.
In relation to words, the more you know the merrier. You begin to see the human landscape as this is meant to be seen—in full unabashed wonder. You will know what questions to ask if and when you know the right words to use. Your vision becomes more focused, more in tune with reality than what had largely been an unfinished puzzle.
In principio erat Verbum. In the beginning was the Word.
And so we begin.