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Vonda N. McIntyre (a writer whose work I hope you’ve read) has been posting some snarky comments about the verb “seem.” It seems that some writers seem to find a reason to seem uncertain about things going on in their books…they seem unable to say what someone felt, only what someone seemed to feel, seemed to think, seemed about to do, etc. “Seem” has its uses (every word has its uses) but some words seem to fit a writer’s need not to say exactly what he/she means. Thus, “seem” upholds the banner of “weasel-words.”
Weasel-words coat clean, functional, strong, sharp-edged prose with a softening layer of doubt, uncertainty, indecision, and faux-courtesy. (The last is more common in conversation.) Weasel-words cut the power of strong active verbs. “He seemed to think” rather than “He thought.” Notice that not only does “seem” lack the conviction of “thought” but “thought” itself has been reduced from an active form to an infinitive, pushed out of the verb place into that of a “what” (what he seemed…) They add words (padding), something known to most students told to write an essay of a given length.
And weasel-words pass unnoticed when writing because they’re not grammatical errors. “They seemed to be uncomfortable” is not wrong, the way “They is uncomfortable” is. It doesn’t stick out as wrong; it sounds like normal speech; no junior high English teacher will flag it with a red pencil. We hear weasel-words every day; we hear them, see them, use them, without paying much attention to them. They smooth utterances out; they’re an easy way to provide comfortable prosody. We all use them. I use them. (I try to edit them out, but this morning I found three snuggled into the corners of half a chapter.) Recognizing when these perfectly grammatical constructions are appropriate, and when they’re weasel-wording, takes persistence and enough self-doubt to examine the phrases critically.
But Vonda’s right: overuse of “seem” leads to flaccid, dull, writing, and the same is true of other weasel-words. I won’t list or give examples of every form of weasel-wording, but for those who want cleaner writing, here are some to watch out for in your own work.
When you see verb forms other than ordinary active (past, present, or future) you may be looking at weasel-wording. Infinitives are easy; that handy “to” catches the eye. Assisting the infinitive-form of weasel-wording are weak active verbs (seem, begin, want, try, start, etc.) As the writer puts down whatever scenes are passing through the writer’s mind, it’s very easy–automatic, in fact–to use these everyday, not-specific-enough verbs with an infinitive. “He seemed to be trying to say something.” “She began to feel strange.” “They started to sense danger.”
What could replace those uncertainties, those nonspecific phrases? What shows the POV character that”he” is “trying to speak?” Use those details. What kind of “strange” did “she” feel (dizzy, blurred vision, nausea, euphoria?) What senses contributed to the sensation of danger? (Sound or silence? Something unfamiliar? Movement or stillness?)
Infinitives are easy to spot as “not being a verb right this minute” but other forms, also common in weasel-wording, sneak past the quick look. Progressive forms, for instance. “He was running” instead of “He ran.” Sometimes they occur on their own, but sometimes they, too, have helpers. Often those helpers are weaker or unspecific verbs (thought, felt, considered) but Vonda’s unfavorite “seem” gets in the act too. “He thought about cleaning the room.” “He felt like resting until lunch.” “She seemed to be catching a cold.”
Notice that–except in dialogue, a different animal altogether–these phrases don’t do much to move the book along or make a situation clearer. In real life, it may be different, though we all know the difference between thinking about losing weight or cleaning the house and actually doing something concrete to move the process along. We know that feeling like resting or working or going to the movies isn’t doing it.
So when writing (not thinking about writing) those suspicious phrases require a second, very analytical, look. It’s true that actions have beginnings and endings, but is it important to the story that Jack and Jill began to go up the hill? Or that they went up the hill? At some point Jack started his fall–but does that matter, or “Jack fell down and broke his crown?” As if to prove that a sometimes-weaselly word may be perfect in another setting, there’s “And Jill came tumbling after.”
Modifiers also contribute weasel-words to the average text. I pruned one out this morning. A character “almost shook his head” . The non-action conveyed nothing of the personality and did not move the plot along or contribute to the understanding of the situation. Almost-but-not-quite shaking a head is…nothing, really. Either he shook his head, or he didn’t shake his head…and that’s assuming there’s a reason to notice and care which. Would a head-shake matter? Out came “almost shook his head.” Nobody saw;’ nobody cared. In other places I’ve found I’ve written “almost hungry,” “almost too tired,” “almost finished.” As with the travel-weary child in the back seat, whose “Are we there yet?” isn’t soothed with “Almost,” the word has been used so much that we aren’t soothed to find it in every other paragraph. We should be almost over almost.
And I am definitely over this post (looking at the time and the work remaining for the day.)
Comment by Jenn — February 2, 2012 @ 4:05 pm
I never thought about any of this before. I will cut and paste as it deserves more than one reading.
Happy Candlemas!
Comment by Jonathan Schor — February 2, 2012 @ 6:23 pm
And of course there are the “no see ems” – the invisible bugs that eat you alive. And surely you knitters know how to sew a fine seam.
Sorry, but it seems I couldn’t resist.
Comment by Moira — February 2, 2012 @ 7:21 pm
Great post, and very thought-provoking, thank you.
Allow me to nominate Corporate America as the biggest culprit in the seeming conspiracy to seemingly make us all seem uncertain. (Unless, of course, you’re the boss, in which case you can say whatever you want.) Corporate culture not only encourages but very often downright requires this nonsense. You can’t seem to be too critical of a coworker (even when it seems your job is to be critical), and if it seems as though they might be taking something a little too personally, you might seem a bit too direct. Heaven forbid.
Pardon me while I – well, you get the idea. Not a big fan; I’m pretty forthright, and known for it.
Three cheers for past-paced narrative, and down with the weasels!
Comment by Dave Ring — February 2, 2012 @ 8:17 pm
My candidate for most loathsome weasel word of the last year is “supports” as used in nearly every drug commercial. Works wonders when you want to suggest your product will help its purchasers without the risk of making a real efficacy claim that might be challenged.
Comment by Sarah — February 3, 2012 @ 12:15 am
May I have permission to show this in my class and to link to it on my course e-learning site? I had a ‘grammar review’ class with my students today and was trying (unsuccessfully I suspect, given the attention I wasn’t getting) to explain WHY the simple form was more useful in technical writing than the progressive. This piece is something they might actually get!
Comment by Gareth — February 3, 2012 @ 4:15 am
I find myself striking out weasel words a lot. To quote from my favorite writing book (no prizes for guessing who) “Avoid the use of qualifiers” Not quite same as the weasels but I love the description ‘These are the leeches that infect the pond of prose, sucking the blood of words’.
Sometimes I think it shows the insecurity of the writer who instead of writing a nice active short sentence prefers to use longer weasely qualified passive sometimes wrapped up in a subjunctive. (I’m mainly reviewing technical or technical marketing material, but good writing is still good writing).
Comment by pjm — February 3, 2012 @ 5:55 am
Australians traditionally like understatements. For example “better than a poke in the eye with a stick” means “good”, and thanks to a certain cricket commentator, “ordinary” can mean “bad”. These are not really weasel words though.
My own hates are the uselessly extended words like “utilise” for “use” and “methodology” for “method”
Eschew obfuscation!!!
Peter
Comment by NancyNew — February 3, 2012 @ 7:00 am
I’m a technical writer. Most of what I write, no one wants to read–policies, SOPs, safety and compliance programs, handbooks, training. I’ve adapted a method, based on Jefferson Bates’ “Writing With Precision,” for efficiently cutting out the crap–and the impulse to load on the “In order to” and “utilize” nonsense? I’ve trained myself, but other people’s writing I handle…another matter altogether.
1) Search for and recast to eliminate non-specific referents (there is, there was, it is, it was).
2) Recast to eliminate most forms of “to be.” This action alone eliminates most passive voice instances.
3) Lose the “of” clauses.
4) Every writer has an “irritants” list. Search and re-write.
5) While editing and proofing, list possible inconsistencies (percent/%, fly fishing / flyfishing and so forth). Use the find function to track them down and correct.
These steps work for my own writing–but I developed it while working as a co-author for a technical writer who hated to re-write.
Nancy
Comment by Annabel (Mrs Redboots) — February 3, 2012 @ 9:05 am
I was required to use the passive voice when reporting on scientific experiments – still the norm in science journals today. And while I absolutely see that “he almost shook his head” could be unhelpful to the story’s flow, I can think, off the top of my head, of at least two instances where it might actually progress it:
“Pongo almost shook his head, before he realised that even that much movement might cause Bingo to see him.”
“Pongo almost shook his head, but caught himself – he really didn’t want to appear to disagree with Bingo just now.”
Or whatever…..
Comment by elizabeth — February 3, 2012 @ 9:34 am
Sarah: Yes. I hope it works for them (and you.)
Gareth: Sometimes it’s writer-insecurity (you see that in student papers when they’re trying to be impressive and don’t know how) but sometimes it’s habit, habit strengthened by reading habitual dull writing in that company or that academic department. I remember clearly the startling difference between the official stuff we got in the military and one particular pay officer (a major–I remember his rank) whose memos were crisp, clear, brief–models of good writing. (My sense of humor got in the way of simplicity in those days–I once wrote a required report on the progress (nil) of a software project in limerick form. As I was not completely stupid, I had also written it in the usual format, complete with graphs. The lack of progress resulted from a senior commander’s decision have it redone in a different language.)
pjm: I would call those reversals rather than “understatements.” But local usage where I grew up was “OK” for “good.” “Quite nice” was “outstanding.” For reversals we had “Not too bad” or “not too shabby” for “good” and “incredible” for bad. I don’t like “utilize” or “methodology” either. “Utilize” expands to “utilization” (“the utilization of toll roads…”) I’m also opposed to police-speak, as when someone showed up in our graduate lab late one night to demand the wearabouts of two “individuals” (people, or persons) and in the use of gender instead of normal speech: “Two males were engaged in an altercation concerning a female…” instead of “Two men were fighting over a woman.”
Nancynew: Very organized.
Comment by Gareth — February 3, 2012 @ 9:35 am
Annabel I also remember the science teaching which required you to use passive and impersonal, but sadly the English teaching didn’t cover the opposite and how to make things ease to understand, lively and clear. So we all learned because we HAD to to write boring and dry but not interesting and vibrant.
Comment by Wickersham's Conscience — February 3, 2012 @ 8:05 pm
I think it was Jasper Fforde, possibly in “Tuesday Next,” who wrote about the “seem” problem.
“Seem seems seemingly apt, but seem is seemingly inapt when seem seems seemingly inept. ”
Fforde’s treatment of “the that problem” is even better, but too long to reproduce here.
Comment by pjm — February 4, 2012 @ 7:36 am
I, too have taught scientific writing, though I was usually pleased if the correct things were reported in any way, shape or form. I was reminded though of Asimov’s “On the endochronic properties of resublimated thiotimoline”.
BTW I found the that problem – excellent!
Peter
Comment by Kathy_S — February 4, 2012 @ 10:39 pm
I think that weasel words and qualifiers are critical, especially in scientific writing, but that’s because I’m easily infuriated by overinterpretation of data. I’ll vote happily for strong and vibrant language, but only when accurate.
This artist expresses the problem all too accurately. 🙂
http://www.phdcomics.com/comics/archive.php?comicid=1174
(I’m glad “seem” and its ilk are still allowed in dialogue! I much prefer characters who admit to uncertainty. Yours and Vonda’s, for example.)
Comment by elizabeth — February 4, 2012 @ 11:59 pm
Kathy_S: I think you’re confusing what I mean by weasel words with necessary qualifiers. Good clear writing makes misuse of data more obvious; fuzzy writing can obscure it.
What the artist actually shows is not a problem with “strong and vibrant language” but that different groups have different motivations when faced with any statement, whether clearly written or fuzzy. They will use that original statement for their own ends, and fuzzy writing offers them just as many opportunities to misuse it.
The benefits of clear writing are manifold and have been discussed by editors of leading journals. Precision and clear writing go hand-in-hand. Clear writing reveals logical gaps better than fuzzy writing, allowing either the paper’s author (or supervisor, or journal editor or reviewer) to notice and correct it. Great use of active verbs not only make work easier to read, but help determine who did what.
Consider the problem of ethics in science, specifically the recurring problem of establishing who was actually responsible for what part of the research reported in a paper. If from the outset the paper reported who designed the experiment, who collected the data, who analyzed the data, etc. the process would be more accountable.
For instance, the difference between “It was hypothesized that…” and “We hypothesized that…” is the difference between an anonymous and unknown subject and a defined subject. The latter makes the claim that the authors of the paper hypothesized whatever it was. Similarly for “the [substance] was crystallized in the presence of lipids” v. “We proceeded to crystallize the [substance] in the presence of lipids…” (In both cases, the active forms just quoted appeared in the 26 January issue of NATURE; I created the passive forms–similar to passive forms found elsewhere in that paper and in other papers in the same issue–as examples. [substance] was specified in the paper, but I can’t do superscripts and subscripts in these blog comments.)
Comment by Jonathan Schor — February 5, 2012 @ 6:59 am
Having been an Income Tax Agent for many years, I can appreciate technical writing – I had to write reports on each case I handled, and I handled a lot of them. After a while the verbiage just flows out.
Ms. Moon’s writing is a bit tougher as not only must she convey information but she has to do it in an original and interesting manner as possible. I always marvel at how well she writes and will sometimes read a section just looking at the words and structure.
It is always a pleasure to see a workman’s fine output.
Comment by Kathy_S — February 5, 2012 @ 9:09 pm
I have no objection whatsoever to active voice in scientific writing, and agree that injudicious use of ‘weasel words’ can blunt the narrative. My objections are really to the mangled science resulting when students (and reporters) blindly apply advice on writing. Some have so internalized the concept that qualifiers and “weasel words” weaken the message that they “strengthen” their writing into unsubstantiated generalizations and absolutes. They have to be beaten about the head before accepting that “caused” is not a succinct, passive-voice-avoiding equivalent of “is correlated with.” And try explaining that precise hedging of conclusions supported by the data is not a form of wishy-washy waffling!
The cartoon, in my opinion, illustrates the problem, but with broader implications for society. To what extent, for example, does the quest for juicy sound bites promote scientific illiteracy?
Comment by Genko — February 6, 2012 @ 10:52 am
My favorite qualifier to edit out is “very.” It crops up all the time, and whenever I look at it critically, I find that it adds nothing, and in fact weakens whatever it is meant to strengthen. And yet, I still use it, both in speech and writing. If I reread and notice it, out it comes.
You are right that speech is different, and there qualifiers do seem to help move the conversation along (note the qualifiers in that phrase!) — they take up space and allow for voice inflection, I suppose. Some tentativeness is often appropriate in speech, but when you are writing (or maybe even telling?) a story, good narrative demands active and direct language.
To add to the difficulty, e-mail and blogging (and all the other electronic communications out there, with texting yet another problem) are somewhere between writing and speech. Lots of people “write like they talk,” and therein perpetuate sloppy writing.