'Irregardless' and other words that aren't wrong but are OK to hate

I have a friend who uses the word “irregardless.” I hold my tongue. Sometimes I think it would be in her best interest to know she’s using a word so universally despised. But, as I’ve learned the hard way, people don’t appreciate having their language nitpicked — even if the criticism is dressed up as constructive.

“Irregardless” is one of those words that strikes us as just wrong. But the twist is: It’s not. It’s a real word, listed right in the dictionary. It means “regardless.” So we can hate it because it’s unnecessary. We can hate it because it’s likely some users are conflating “regardless” with “irrespective.” But we can’t say it’s not legitimate.

Quite a few words work like this. We hate them. We’re right to hate them. But we can’t condemn them because they’re not wrong. Here are some more to loathe and let live.

Impactful. I’ve been criticized for using this word. Until that moment, I thought “impactful” was great, especially when writing about writing. What better way to say a sentence hit home than to call it “impactful”? But that one brief, fleeting criticism spoiled the word for me. I now cringe when I hear it, even though it’s perfectly correct.

Enormity. This word sounds like it’s closely related to “enormous,” so people use it to refer to size. Logophiles know that’s not the primary meaning. In its primary form, “enormity” means “great wickedness.”  To anyone privy to that fact, “enormity” is about as elegant as “huge-ity” or “biggity” — pure silliness. But in fact, one of its definitions is “the quality or state of being huge.”

Spectate. Yuck, right? Here’s a real-world example of “spectate” originally from NBC News cited in Merriam-Webster’s dictionary: “Clark and Daly met outside Joe’s Pizza, both unable to spectate from the sidelines.” If this sounds to you like a word that people with bad taste willed into existence only recently, you’re right. It is a newish word. But it’s real nonetheless.

Enthuse. I consider this word an occupational hazard. Writers I edit try to find alternatives to “said” when they’re attributing quotations, and this is one of their creative solutions: “This pizza is great,” she enthused. I replace it with “said” every time, and I have an excuse. Traditional journalism doesn’t get fancy with speech tags. The words should never upstage the information. So … chop, chop. But I can’t tell the writers they’re wrong because “enthuse” is, in fact, a verb.

Burglarize. If “burgle,” is a verb (and it is), and “burglar” is one who burgles, then surely “burglarize” is both unnecessary and wrong — like saying that dancers “dancerize” or that sculptors “sculptorize.” It’s a good bet that this process explains the origins of the word “burglarize.” But regardless of whether you could call its birth a mistake, it’s a real word now.

Incentivize. Speaking of words that use “ize” to make verbs where they perhaps should not, “incentivize” rankles language lovers far and wide. It sounds slapped together by people who were more interested in sounding business-fancy than speaking well, and in fact it was slapped together kind of recently. But we’re stuck with it. “Incentivize” is officially OK now.

Conversate. If you can’t believe I’m about to defend this abomination, well, neither can I. “Conversate” is awful. Surprisingly, though, it has its fans, like a listener to a 2023 episode of the “A Way with Words” radio show. But if you want to hate it, know that plain-language media like journalism hate it, too. There aren’t a lot of editors in the English-speaking world who wouldn’t change “conversate” into plain-old “talk,” “chat” or “discuss.”

Couple, each, politics: Some words make subject-verb conjugation hard

If you think everyone’s out to get you, you’re paranoid. But if you think words are out to get you, you’re right. English has a lot of words that seem custom-made to undermine your ability to make verbs agree with subjects, creating a grammatical error called subject-verb disagreement.

Even if you’re not familiar with the concept, you’re already pretty good at making your verbs agree with your subjects. You never say, “I is here.” You never write, “The dogs has puffy tails.” You never say, “He be the man I’ll marry.” Instead, you know instinctively that the verb should match the number of the subject: “I” is singular, requiring “am.” “Dogs” is plural, so it takes “have.” “He” is singular, so it takes “is.”

But some words make this simple process so difficult that we all make mistakes, or at least find ourselves uncertain how to phrase something. Here are some terms that, if you’re not careful, will mess up your subject-verb agreement.

Couple. This word means two of something. But is it plural? Yes and no. Compare these two examples, both of which are correct: “The couple is in therapy.” “The couple are going their separate ways.” In the first, we use the singular verb “is.” In the second, we use the plural verb “are.” That’s because “couple” is what’s called a collective noun, a category that includes “family,” “group,” “team,” “band,” “bunch,” “minority” and “majority.” Many collective nouns can change number depending on whether you’re focusing on a single unit or whether you’re talking about people or things acting independently of each other. Go with your gut and you won’t go wrong.

Politics. Her politics are very reasonable, but politics is a difficult profession. If “politics” were plural, you would say, “Politics are a difficult profession.” If it were singular, you’d say “Her politics is very reasonable.” But obviously those are wrong. The correct verb form is whatever works best in your sentence. Other words, notably “ethics,” work the same way.

Each. “Each is able to choose for himself.” But “A number of families will attend and each have their own objectives.” Just like “politics” and “couple,” “each” seems to be sometimes singular and sometimes plural. But unlike those other words, “each” has a strong leaning: It’s almost always singular unless that’s just too weird.

And. In simple sentences, this conjunction makes subject-verb agreement a breeze: Raoul and Sven work together. But there are lots of situations in which “and” can complicate matters. Consider “Their high water and fiber content makes these vegetables heart healthy.” Is the subject of the verb the singular “content”? Or is it the implied plural “fiber content and water content”? I don’t know.  

Or. Like “and,” “or” is a coordinating conjunction. But unlike “and” it can’t make a subject plural. “Jenny and Trey have your keys,” but “Jenny or Trey has your keys.” In more complicated sentences, this fact gets lost: “Crossing tracks or trespassing on private property are two of the most common occurrences.” The “or” creates a subject-verb agreement error because only one of those two things is the subject of the verb.

“As well as.” Expressions like “as well as” and “along with” work like “and.” They connect nouns. “Steve, as well as his dogs, love the park.” But the commas are your clue here that these nouns aren’t connected the same way that “and” would have connected them. The dogs are not part of this sentence’s subject. Steve is the only subject of that verb, so it should be the singular “loves.”

Of. The preposition “of” is handy for tacking descriptive information onto nouns: A flock of birds. A team of rivals. A bunch of grapes. Notice how in many cases the head noun can be singular even though the noun after “of” is plural. That can make it tough to know which one the verb works with. When in doubt, go with whichever best captures your meaning: A flock of birds is overhead, but a team of rivals are fighting among themselves.

Subtle tells for fake news

When I started as an editor, the only things that looked like news articles were news articles. You could rest assured that the people who wrote and edited them were journalists whose job was to follow a very specific, regimented procedure called journalism.

Those days are gone. Now, even savvy news consumers find it hard to know whether they’re reading quality information produced exclusively for readers’ benefit or something with an agenda.

The agendas may not be nefarious. They may not even be hidden. Sponsored content, for example, is clearly labeled (or it should be) and may contain real value for the reader as incentive to sit through the sales pitch. Think: an article like “10 Fun Things to Do in Austin” sponsored by just one of those things, like a concert venue, or by the local visitors bureau.

But most not-really-journalism articles are much worse — everything from deliberate spin and sensationalist clickbait to scams and foreign propaganda.

In all those years of editing, I learned a few subtle tells of (let’s call it) fake news. Here are a few red flags to look out for.

Facts reported in quotations. “Peptides are short chains of amino acids,” said Dr. Murray. Writers who aren’t experienced journalists see nothing wrong with a quote like this. But real reporters understand their job is to verify facts and stand behind them — not palm off this responsibility onto a speaker. Quotations are for opinions, reactions, unique insights and facts that can’t be attributed to a better source. “Our research has shown peptides may do such and such thing. It’s remarkable,” Murray said.

Titles capitalized — or there at all. I attributed the last quotation to just Murray, not Dr. Murray. That’s because journalism outlets aren’t keen on using titles. “Dr.” is unpopular with a lot of news styles, which prefer to give a clearer explanation of a doctor’s credentials: Alicia Murray, a pediatrician at St. Larry’s Hospital. Business titles are usually lowercase in real news: “said Moneybank vice president Jeff Reed.” 

Poor use of single quotation marks. Most writers I've worked with haven't fully mastered the use of single quote marks. Most editors I've worked with have. So a writer will put single quote marks around a word they're calling attention to, like 'boomer,' and an editor will change it to "boomer." When you see single quote marks used this way, it often means you're looking at an article that didn't come from real news pros. Similarly, professionals know that the punctuation here is wrong: “He turned around when Kim yelled ‘ouch’.” The period goes before the single quote mark, not after.

Initials in parentheses. This one is far from universal. Some quality publications including magazines write: The Association of Retired Tuba Players (APTP). But most news organizations observe this Associated Press Stylebook rule: “Do not follow an organization’s full name with an abbreviation or acronym in parentheses or set off by dashes. If an abbreviation or acronym would not be clear on second reference without this arrangement, do not use it.”

Dashes in ranges. Forget what you've heard about dashes being a sign of AI writing. There’s no basis for that. But dashes in number ranges can be a clear sign you're not reading professional journalism. “Children ages 5–8 are admitted free.” Many journalism outlets are steeped in a tradition of using words instead: “5 to 8.” The dash is especially telling when a number range is preceded by the word " between,” which logically pairs with “and,” as in “between 5 and 8 years old.” Even if you could argue that a dash can represent the word “to” in 5–8, in no circumstance does it mean “and.”

Present tense speech tags and fancy speech tags. Speech tags, or quotation attributions, are terms like “the mayor said.” Many news agencies prefer this past-tense approach to alternatives like “says the mayor.” And when “said” is replaced by a fancier word like “enthused” or “reflected,” that’s a red flag, too.

Adverbs: The descriptors of last resort

In the British comedy series “Trying” (highly recommend, by the way), a schoolteacher played by Sian Brooke tries to convince a fellow teacher that she doesn’t have romantic designs on a handsome single dad.

“I am really, genuinely, honestly not interested in him. OK?” Brooke’s character insists.

Her colleague isn’t buying it. “No,” she replies. “One adverb too many. Now I’m sure.”

Years ago, I dedicated a whole chapter of a book to the lesson the “Trying” writers delivered in just one minute of dialogue. The lesson is this: Adverbs, especially used to excess, can backfire, undermining the message and discrediting the person delivering it. Used poorly,  they tell your reader or listener: “My nouns and adjectives aren’t adequate on their own. They need bolstering. They need to be beefed up by additional words that drive home the fact that they mean what they’re supposed to mean.”

The evidence is hidden in plain sight in the great writing we enjoy every day. It’s the stuff we don’t notice because it’s not on the page. Take note of how often your favorite writers don’t use adverbs and you’ll see what I mean.

For example, here’s a passage that did not appear in Patrick Radden Keefe’s “London Falling”: “By the time Zac Brettler finally arrived at Mill Hill, he was completely surrounded by the next generation of eagerly aspiring Lebedevs.”

Those adverbs would have done a disservice to this otherwise solid sentence: “By the time Zac Brettler arrived at Mill Hill, he was surrounded by the next generation of aspiring Lebedevs.”

The following passage did not appear in Andrew Ross Sorkin’s “1929”: “Riordan had gently sat down in a generously overstuffed armchair in the corner of his bedroom, gingerly pulled out a pistol he had surreptitiously taken from the bank’s cashier desk, and violently shot himself in his right temple.”

Now see how much more impact the real passage had: “Riordan had sat down in an overstuffed armchair in the corner of his bedroom, pulled out a pistol he had taken from the bank’s cashier desk, and shot himself in his right temple.”

Even an innocuous seeming adverb in a short sentence can weaken the message. Compare, “The boss is extremely angry” to “The boss is angry.” In the latter, the anger is more menacing because it needs no assistant.

The lesson here is not that adverbs are bad. They’re crucial. And when you realize what a huge word category adverbs are, including terms like “therefore,” “tomorrow” and “here,” you see that most of them aren’t even optional. The lesson is that manner adverbs should be used sparingly.

Manner adverbs are those “ly” words we know so well, like “slowly” and “happily,” along with some that don’t end in “ly” but that also modify actions or adjectives, including  “fast,” “late” and “very.”  

They can be a sign that your verb or adjective is too weak. “She loudly closed the door” would be better as “She slammed the door.”

Or they can be a sign that you think that your verb or adjective is too weak, even though it’s fine: “The views are truly breathtaking.”

Of course, sometimes manner adverbs work beautifully. That’s especially true when they form the predicate of your sentence, as “beautifully” does above. Other times, they carry real meaning. “Extremely wealthy” can tell your reader something “wealthy” alone cannot. “Drove recklessly” can tell your reader something that “drove” cannot. The examples are endless.

So try your sentence without the adverb first. If it loses nothing of substance, keep it out. But if the adverb adds important information that your verb or adjective can’t convey alone, keep it in.