A plumb is the weight on the end of a line that one uses to plumb, and “plumb,” as an adjective, means precisely vertical.
Also, what a plumber does for a living is plumb.
A plummy speaking voice is too rich, too proper, too self-conscious—that is to say, too-too.
POKEY/POKY
The pokey is the hoosegow, the clink, the slammer, the big house—a prison.
Something poky is irritatingly slow, or provincial, or frumpy.
In America we do the hokey pokey (and we turn ourselves around). In England they do the hokey cokey (and they turn themselves around).
POPULACE/POPULOUS
“Populace” is a noun; it means population or, particularly, the so-called common people.
“Populous” is an adjective; it means well and densely populated.
PORE/POUR
To pore over something is to examine it closely. Pores are those things on your face that get clogged.
To pour something is to tip it—water, wine, salt, sugar, what have you—out of a container.
PRECEDE/PROCEED
To precede is to come before.
To proceed is to move forward.
PREMIER/PREMIERE
As an adjective, “premier” means first or top-ranked; as a noun, it’s a head of state.
A premiere is a debut, as of a play. To premiere a movie is to open it.
PRESCRIBE/PROSCRIBE
To prescribe is to authorize medical treatment or the taking of medication, or otherwise to direct authoritatively.
To proscribe is to forbid.
PRINCIPAL/PRINCIPLE
How many times was it explained to you in elementary school spelling lessons that “the principal is your pal”? And what was your level of horror when you realized that the principal was not your pal but a terrifying martinet?
Consider that realization a principal (that is to say, primary) life lesson. In fact, you might deem it a principle—a fundamental truth from which more advanced truths derive—on the road to mature cynicism.
One’s principles are one’s amassed moralities; villains are unprincipled.
One’s principal is, as well, one’s amassed bank holdings that one aspires not to touch so that one can live entirely on one’s interest. Good luck with that.
PRONE/SUPINE
Obviously there’s no confusion of vowel order or consonant doubling here, but I include these terms because they are frequently mixed up and I can’t figure out where else to park them.
For the record:
To be supine is to be lying on one’s back.
To be prone is to be lying on one’s stomach.
Beyond “lead” when “led” is meant, I’d say that “prone” for “supine” (or vice versa) is the commonest error to get past writers, copy editors, and proofreaders and find its way to print.
You can devise all the mnemonics you like (if you’re supine you’re lying on your spine, if you’re prone you’re…oh, the heck with it), but I never—never—fail to consult the dictionary whenever I’m faced with either word.
PROPHECY/PROPHESY
“Prophecy” is the noun, “prophesy” the verb. An oracle prophesies a prophecy. The plural of “prophecy” is “prophecies”; the third-person singular of the verb “prophesy” is “prophesies.” (I prophesy, you prophesy, he prophesies, she prophesies, they shall have prophesied, we all scream for ice cream.)
RACK/WRACK/WREAK
Setting aside the meanings pertaining to cuts of meat, the storage of clothing and spice tins, the corralling of billiard balls, the accumulation of points, and rude references to a woman’s bosom, let’s focus on “rack” in the sense of pain: A rack is a nasty device (we may think of it as medieval, but it has a long and distinguished history going back at least to the first century A.D.) to which one is fastened by the wrists and the ankles and, well, you know all the shrieking, limb-dislocating rest. To be put to the rack, then, is to be tortured, and thus one’s body is racked with pain. One contemplates effortfully by racking one’s brains. A painful cough is a racking one. And an anxiety-inducing experience is nerve-racking.
Or is it?
To wrack is to wreck, to destroy. Was that awful hour you spent locked in a room full of rambunctious kindergartners simply nerve-racking, or was it utterly nerve-wracking? Is your moldering ancestral manse going to wrack and ruin, or merely rack and ruin?
You’ll be either elated or pained to the point of destruction to learn that the differences between “rack” and “wrack” have become so confused over time that many dictionaries simply list them as synonyms, and many stylebooks, after halfhearted attempts to nudge a few meanings in the direction of either, shrug resignedly and move on.
The suggestion of The New York Times Manual of Style and Usage to avoid “wrack” entirely and use “wreck” when you mean wreck is, all things considered, not a bad one.
And what of “wreak”? To wreak is to cause (in an unnice way) or to inflict. An army wreaks havoc. A storm wreaks damage. The preferred past tense of “wreak,” I should note, is not “wrought” (which is an ancient past tense of “work”; it still turns up in the phrase “wrought iron”) but, simply, “wreaked.”
REIGN/REIN
Monarchs reign.
Horses are reined.
If one is granted the freedom to make one’s own decisions and run one’s own life, one is given free rein. Free rein, please, not free reign: The phrase is taken not from the devil-may-care actions of kings or queens but from permitting one’s mount to do what it likes—the opposite of maintaining a tight rein. Unfortunately, “free reign” makes a kind of sense, so it’s frequently—though, still, incorrectly—used.
RELUCTANT/RETICENT
To be reluctant is to be resistant, unwilling.
To be reticent is to be silent, uncommunicative.
One is reluctant to do X; one is reticent about subject Y.
“Reticent” is increasingly often used to mean “reluctant.” I see no good reason to allow the distinction between these two to collapse, though many have given up on it.
RETCH/WRETCH
To retch is to heave, to gag, to nearly vomit. I think it’s wonderful that the English language has a word for “to nearly vomit.” (The word can also be used flat out to mean “to vomit,” but there are so many other colorful synonyms for that action that surely we can leave “retch” for the preface rather than the conclusion.)
A wretch is a person on the darker side of the happiness/niceness spectrum, from the muddy gray of the deeply miserable poor unfortunate to the full-tilt blackness of the scoundrel and the miscreant. And the blackguard.
RIFFLE/RIFLE
This duo plays well to the onomatopoeia/mnemonics crowd, because to riffle something is to thumb lightly through it, as, say, through the pages of a book or a deck of playing cards, and the word “riffle,” at least to my ears, has that lovely susurrating sound built right into it. To rifle through something—a room, a desk drawer—is to rummage with criminal intent to steal. That the verb “rifle” is the same as a noun for a firearm should also make it easier for you to remember which one of these is which.
ROGUE/ROUGE
Careful there, you typing fingers.
A rogue is a scoundrel, a ne’er-do-well.*27 (See also “wretch,” above.)
Rouge is that which one applies to the lips or the cheeks to redden them.
SEGUE/SEGWAY
The music-derived “segue” means, as a verb, to transition seamlessly and, as a noun, such a seamless transition. Before the invention of the motorized two-wheeled Arrested Development punchline—the Segway—“segue” was, lacking a homophone, likely never misspelled. Now it is. A lot. A smooth change is not a “segway.” Ever.
SENSUAL/SENSUOUS
“Sensual”
pertains to the physical senses; “sensuous” involves aesthetic matters. The Oxford English Dictionary tells us that John Milton is thought to have coined “sensuous” in the mid-seventeenth century so as to have a word for the pleasure of the finer senses that would have, unlike “sensual,” no sexual connotation. Unfortunately, hardly anyone then or since has been able to remember which is supposed to be which, and the publication in 1969 of the racy how-to bestseller The Sensuous Woman—which should, according to Miltonian rules, have been called The Sensual Woman—likely muddied the distinction forever. If you’re leaning toward the use of either word and fear that your reader will be confused, you might do well to simply choose another term altogether.
SHONE/SHOWN
“Shone” is the past and past participle of shine (so is “shined,” if you like “shined”). “Shown” is the past participle of “show.”
STANCH/STAUNCH
These two derive from a single root, and each is occasionally offered as a synonym for the other, but if you’re, as I perennially am, in a compartmentalizing mood:
Use “stanch” when you mean to stop the flow of something, as blood from a wound, or to hold something in check, as to stanch the rising violence in a war-torn country.
And use “staunch” to describe someone who is indomitable, steadfast, loyal, and strong.*28
STATIONARY/STATIONERY
To be stationary is to be unmoving.
Stationery is writing paper (and, often included in the idea, the full array of envelopes, pens, pencils, and ink).
SUBTLY/SUBTLETY
Be careful to discern between the adverb (“She insinuated herself subtly into the conversation”) and the noun (“He wheedled money out of his parents with great subtlety”).
This one involves less definition confusion than typing confusion, but it’s a massively popular example of the latter.
TENANT/TENET
A tenant is a rent payer.
A tenet is a belief, a principle.
THAN/THEN
Beyond mixing these up with a slip of the fingers, many people mix them up syntactically when they mistype “No sooner had we placed our order with the waiter then the restaurant caught on fire” when they should be adhering to the correct construction “no sooner had x than y.”
THEIR/THERE/THEY’RE
“Their” is a possessive meaning belongs to them: I can see their house from here.
“There” is a direction indicating a place that is not here: I can see their house, which is over there.
“They’re” is a contraction for “they are”: They’re walking to their house.
As with “it’s/its” (above), “to/too” (below), and “your/you’re” (yet further below), you simply need to get this right. It’s not enough to know the differences, one must also apply them.
TO/TOO
I know I shouldn’t have to clear this up, but you’d be saddened to learn how frequently adults get it wrong.
“To” is, among many things, a preposition, as in “He walked to the store”; what is called an infinitive marker, as in the verb “to be”; and an occasional adverb, as in “She yanked the door to”—which is to say, she pulled it shut—or “He came to”—meaning he became conscious.
“Too” means also (as in “eating one’s cake and having it too”) and excessively (as in “Slow down, you move too fast”).
TOOTHY/TOOTHSOME
To be toothy is to have prominent teeth, or simply a lot of them.
To be toothsome is to be tasty; often the term is used to describe things that seem, in anticipation and as yet untasted, to be tasty, as a toothsome morsel. And that sense of anticipatory salivation is why “toothsome” is also applied to people who are sexually appealing, I imagine.
TORTUOUS/TORTUROUS
The former means twisty, winding, serpentine; the latter means like torture. A tortuous journey can be torturous, but there is no judgment inherent in “tortuous”; it’s merely descriptive. “Torturous,” no matter how you slice it, or are sliced (see “flay,” above), is unpleasant.
UNDERWAY/UNDER WAY
As above, with “everyday” and “every day” and “onboard” and “on board,” “underway” is an adjective, “under way” an adverb. You won’t have much (or any) use of the former, so odds are you want the latter. The voyage is under way, the project is under way, your life is under way. More and more lately, “underway” is used as an adverb. Bummer, I say.
VALE/VEIL
A vale is a valley; a veil is a face covering.
As picturesquely funereally evocative as the notion of a “veil of tears” might be, the phrase—going all the way back to Psalm 84—is properly “vale of tears.”
VENAL/VENIAL
“Venal” means mercenary, bribable, corrupt.
“Venial” means pardonable; a venial sin is one that will not send you to hell.
WAIVE/WAVE/WAVER
To waive is to renounce or cede, as one waives one’s right to a trial by jury.
To wave is to flap one’s hand about (or to curl one’s hair).
A customs inspector who lets you pass without examining your luggage is waving—not waiving—you through.
To waver (not to be confused with a waiver, which is a document of relinquishment) is to tremble or to vacillate.
WHOSE/WHO’S
“I don’t know whose books those are.” “Whose” is a pronoun denoting belonging.
“Who’s on first?” “Who’s” means “Who is.”
WORKOUT/WORK OUT
The former is a noun; the latter is a verb. You’re not on the way to the gym to “workout.” You’re on the way to the gym to work out. And to give yourself a workout.
YOUR/YOU’RE
Just like “whose” and “who’s.” “This is not your book but one stolen from the library. You’re in a world of trouble.”
*1 Bound galleys are early bind-ups of typeset text—prettily designed but not yet proofread—sent out to reviewers, bookstore buyers, and people who, hopefully, will provide the publisher with burbling blurbs of praise with which to festoon the finished books. Alliteration, amirite?
*2 The 2010 film starring Annette Bening and Julianne Moore is The Kids Are All Right.
*3 Or perhaps you do. “Why is a paragraph not alright. A paragraph is not alright because it is not alight it is not aroused by their defences it is not left to them every little while it is not by way of their having it thought that they will include never having them forfeiting whichever they took. Think of a paragraph a paragraph arranges a paraphanelia [sic]. A paragraph is a liberty and a liberty is in between. If in between is there aloud moreover with a placed with a placing of their order. They gave an offer that they would go. A paragraph is meant as that.”
*4 OK, I’m hiding this down here in a footnote because I almost feel, copyeditorially speaking, as if I’m giving comfort to the enemy: When it comes to exasperation, “Alright already” looks all right to me. But that’s as far as I can go. Today.
*5 Or normality, if you prefer that alternative.
*6 Pseudonyms are not alternate identities but simply alternate names used for professional, literary, political, or, occasionally, terroristic purposes: Currer Bell for Charlotte Brontë, Lewis Carroll for Charles Dodgson, Leon Trotsky for Lev Davidovich Bronstein, Carlos the Jackal for Ilich Ramírez Sánchez, etc.
*7 That’s not a nice thing to say about someone’s merry sister.
*8 It used to be “heighth” and now it’s not, and these days “heighth” is generally characterized as “nonstandard” or “dialectical.” How’s that for an unsatisfactory answer?
*9 Whence the term “brownie points”? No one’s 100 percent certain; it’s one of those wonderful word mysteries. I like the idea that not everything can be or needs to be known.
*10 As it were.
*11 As it were.
*12 Or, if any of the things being conjoined are multiword things, en dashes, e.g., “a memoir–cum–murder mystery.”
*13 Pretty much everyone I know.
*14 Is there any particular difference between “tetchy” and the perhaps more familiar “touchy”? Not particularly. They both mean irritable. That said, “tetched” means something quite different: slightly deranged.
*15 I’ve occasionally seen “venerable” used to mean, solely, eminent or to mean, solely, old. I’d say that it’s best used to mean both, together.
*16 I recommend both enthusiastically. They’re superb, and elegant, and unnerving.
*17 One of the unlikelier confusions I’ve run across as a copy editor is that between “ancestors” (the family members who preceded you) and “descendants” (one’s direct progeny, and theirs). Nonetheless I encounter it once or twice a year, so: Fair warning.
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