The excellent freelance writer Jon Penland took this picture on his travels around the county, and posted it on Facebook. When I first saw it I was amused. The sign reads, “Park closed from Sunset to Sunrise. Violators will be trespassed.” But I didn’t hate the sign. It’s actually charming. And I like that all the words are spelled correctly. It makes me think of the spell check poem: they did manage to get the words right. But why capitalize “sunset” and “sunrise”? I assume because they just didn’t know any better.

I was going to razz Jon about his pedantry. But I don’t know him that well, and he wouldn’t understand that I would actually be razzing myself. I once found a flier from a local transit system with many errors in it. So I marked it up and mailed it back to them. But it was thinking back on that act that I realized that I was wrong. The truth was that the flier, while wrong, was perfectly clear. And it came from a transit system, not a publisher. So what’s the big deal? Ever since, I’ve tried to be more understanding.

Is Trespass Wrong In This Context?

It looks like the writer meant “arrest” or “prosecute” where they wrote “trespass.” However, the use of “trespass” in this way is not actually wrong. Look at the definitions of the word. One is “to do something that hurts or offends someone.” Certainly, being arrested would fall within this definition.

But even more, another definition of trespass is “the legal action for injuries resulting from trespass.” I wasn’t aware of that definition, but maybe the writer of the sign was. Maybe the big joke is on all of us and the sign, while unusual, is precise. I doubt it, but it does take some of the fun out of laughing at the sign.

Consider also how one of the most famous passages from the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 6:12) is often translated, “And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Now the sign is starting to seem more reasonable. And in this context, it has an almost Quentin Tarantino feel to it: the cops aren’t just gonna arrest you; they’re gonna trespass your ass. Say it like Samuel L Jackson! It’s fun: trespass your ass!

Odd Language Is Edifying

I don’t want to take away anyone’s fun. It’s nice to laugh at odd signs. But we can also learn from them. We can delight in their idiosyncrasies. It reminds me of this great scene from A Late Quartet. In it, Christopher Walken’s character tells a story about Pablo Casals (which is apparently true) where he praises a young musician who performs poorly because of a few brief moments of delight and transcendence.

I don’t hold it against anyone who laughed at this sign. It is odd. It is almost certainly the result of ignorance. And I laughed at it myself. But if we look for the good in it, it’s actually lovely. Right or wrong, it offers us a new way of looking at the language.

And to take us back to the Sermon on the Mount, I have no trouble forgiving the trespass of that sign (if it be a trespass). I have trespassed so much worse in my own life!

I got an email message from one of my writers about our style guide, “Frontend vs front-end vs front end?” I love that because writers tend not to pay attention to style guides. And the truth is that while writers should have a decent knowledge of the style guide, it is really for the use of the editor. The better the writer knows the style guide, the less work there is for the editor. But this was a really good question. It wasn’t in the style guide, and I had to decide.

Frontend?!

The problem with dealing with these variations of “front-end” is that the style guide already dictates “backend.” So the obvious answer is “frontend,” right? Well, no. It just didn’t feel right. Consistency is a great thing if you can get it. But it doesn’t trump readability. And when I see “frontend,” I do not see “front-end.” I see “fron-tend.” And I don’t want to make the reader have to figure out anything.

What’s more, I think that backend is a more common phrase. Now this would probably not be the case if I were editing for a automotive website. But I work for a website about websites. And we mostly talk about the “backend.” The front-end is more or less a given — the default. It’s what your audience sees and all you ultimately care about.

Front End?!

Of course, I could have gone with “front end.” But that’s a problem. It works. It’s clear. But it isn’t quite right. The front-end is a single thing. The two words go together. But I should note that around here, I often omit hyphens that I would include if I were being more careful. But who has the time to be careful around here? I don’t even have time to be careful when I’m working there. I could easily spend twice the time I do editing.

But this is one thing a style guide is for. Given that I’ve written this article, I will remember. But often, when editing, I will only remember that I have made a decision about “frontend” vs “front-end” vs “front end.” I won’t remember what it is. The style guide allows an editor to fret over such matters just once.

Remembering “Front-End”

When I first got the message, I immediately thought, “Well, it’s ‘backend.'” That’s one I run into a lot so I have it memorized. And so I really wanted to use “frontend.” It’s just easier. You don’t have to remember anything. And that has always been my approach to grammar and style: make it simple. It seems most of the grammar articles I’ve written here make that point. I have banished blonde and annunciate. But alas, I have introduced another inconsistency into my style guide.

But it is necessary. I often say that style guides are arbitrary. And indeed they are! But they are not completely arbitrary. Their ultimate purpose is to make communicating with the reader as easy as possible. It’s useful to look back at texts from the Elizabethan era — before English spelling was standardized. It is really hard to read! You have to sound out each word. It’s madness!

Inconsistencies

So it must be “front-end” and “backend” — at least for now. I could, of course, go the other way: turn “backend” into “back-end.” It’s a thought. And the great thing is that in the electronic age, all it would take is one SQL query to fix all the previous style. But I won’t. Because I like a clean style. It is USA, not U.S.A. It is Dr Knowitall, not Dr. Knowitall. If a hyphen is unnecessary, it must go, even if it makes my work (and that of my writers) slightly harder.

I know! I can hear Mozart’s Concerto No 3 playing on the world’s smallest violin.

Writing is unnatural for humans. What we are good at is speaking. And that is why we so often get messed up when writing and why there is a whole subculture of people who get their kicks out of noticing errors. Some people thrill to see a self-published book that starts with a “forward” rather than a “foreword.” In matters grammatical, I feel very much the way I do in the Democratic primary: I do take a side, but I’m very sympathetic to the other side. Let us consider, for example, the phrase “just deserts” — meaning deserved consequences.

Most people think the phrase is spelled “just desserts.” And why not?! That is, you may have notice, the way it is pronounced! And it makes sense. If you eat all your dinner, you justly get dessert and if you don’t, you justly get nothing. This is one of the great charms of language. There are so many instances like this. My favorite example is the phrase “beat red.” It is supposed to be “beet red” — in reference to the root vegetable. But “beat red” makes its own sense, given that a good beating will tend to turn the skin beet red. And given the term is used almost exclusively to describe the color of a human face, “beat red” really does make more sense.

Humans are wonderful at this kind of thing. I even think of humans as little more than pattern matching machines. Show a human something meaningless, and they will find meaning in it. When I was a young child, it bothered me that we used BC and AD for dates. Okay, BC stood for “Before Christ.” But what’s with AD? I asked a lot of adults, and the response was always pretty much the same: a shrugg of the shoulders and the question, “After dead?” Well, it’s actually just Latin, anno Domini — year of God. But we try!

The Two Deserts

So what’s up with “just deserts”? Well, when the word “desert” entered the English language around the 13th century, it did it in two ways. First, there is the desert that we all know from nature shows, but generally try to avoid. It comes from the Latin word desertum, which means roughly wilderness. And it comes from an earlier Latin word deserere, which means leave. It is where we get the soft e-sound as in “edible.”

The other “desert” comes from the Anglo-French word deservir — or the past participle of it. Regardless, it means deserve. And it is from this Anglo-French word that we get the soft-i sound as in “dessert.” And thus, “just deserts” sounds exactly like “just desserts.” Merriam-Webster defines this version of “desert” as “the quality or fact of meriting reward or punishment.” I’m sure it would be marked “archaic” if it weren’t for a bunch of moral philosophers and the single construction “just deserts.”

Just Deserts or Just Desserts, That Is the Question!

The phrase creates a bit of a problem in writing. It is about as likely to be spelled one way as the other. And I dare say that if you asked one hundred reasonably literate people to spell the phrase, 90 of them would spell it “just desserts.” If you spell it that way in your writing, you are wrong historically. That is not the way the phrase has been spelled and I dare say there is no style guide that would accept it. On the other hand, if you spell it “just deserts” you come off as a bit of a prig.

Luckily, there’s really no reason to use it. “He got what he deserved” works as well as, “He got his just deserts.” And there’s nothing terribly colorful about the phrase. But if you have to use it, I’d stick with history, and use “just deserts.” But if you want to use “just desserts,” I completely understand.

Okay, I rail against grammar pedants around here a lot. But there is something that drives me crazy. Here’s an example, “Besides medical care, Shady Brooks also offers a free euthanasia program.” But I’ll bet that almost no one sees the problem with this sentence. Certainly the many professional writers I work with don’t — despite my explicitly telling them about it. The problem is that “also” is redundant.

Once you say “besides” you make concrete that there is something else. So you could write, “Besides medical care, Shady Brooks offers a free euthanasia program.” Or you could write, “Shady Brooks also offers a free euthanasia program.” With the original construction, you are smoothly, but no less annoyingly writing, “Shady Brooks offers other things besides medical care. Besides medical care, Shady Brooks provides a free euthanasia program.” It makes me long for my very own euthanasia program.

From Repeated to Redundant

Now, I get it. Writing is about more than simple clarity. And the sound of the language is really important. But we often train ourselves to like the sound of noise. That is what that redundant “also” is. I assume that it, like so much else that is annoying in the language, comes from advertising. Repetition is highly effective in advertising and rhetoric. “How much would you pay for this knife? Don’t answer yet!”

There is a well known phenomenon in chess. A new player will improve over a period of time and then plateau. In fact, I remember reading a book about this phenomenon and how to break out of it. This sort of thing is true of almost everything. I think it is more a matter of interest than anything. Like me on the guitar. I’m fine with how well I play. I don’t actively work to improve anymore. But for whatever a reason, I have never found that I plateaued as a writer. I’m constantly learning new thing and improving.

Writing Better

But so much of writing is simply a matter of pulling out the crap — the redundant stuff. And this doesn’t mean that everyone needs to write like Hemingway and Steinbeck. Faulkner is a wordy writer, but I task you with finding a redundant word in The Sound and the Fury. I find that day by day I write less and less. When we start as writers, our work is filled with literary tics because we are just talking on the page. But slowly, we notice and expunge them.

It’s not my intention to look down on any writer. My own writing is highly intuitive. Most of the time, I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. For me, writing is more about hearing than grammar. In college, music majors spend their first two years struggling with “ear training” courses. English majors do too, but they are called “literature” classes. Listen to it again, “Besides medical care, Shady Brooks also offers a free euthanasia program.” It isn’t so much that it is redundant. And it certainly isn’t wrong. But it sounds to me like a middle school band grinding its way through the Allegretto of Shostakovich’s Leningrad symphony. Yet it sounded fine to me just five years ago.

One final note: I doubt you will find this complaint mentioned anywhere else. Grammar pedants tend to get annoyed by constructs like, “Besides, he was a jerk!” But the fact that the grammar pedants haven’t glommed onto this obviously redundant expression is part of what I’m getting at. You’ve got to hear the language — not memorize rules.

Afterword

Days after writing this, I came upon the following sentence, “It notifies you if your server is not configured correctly, and also scans for viruses and malware.” This is case where the “also” is essential to the meaning of the sentence. Without it, the sentence would imply that “it” only scans for viruses when the server is not configured correctly. Personally, I’d rather have two sentences, but this one works well enough.