Young Writers Society

Josh leaned forward in his chair, and his expression told me his admonishments weren’t over. He had already berated me for my first offense: the use of the word “myriad.” Though it appeared mid-sentence, it now stood out on the page as if I had bolded it, italicized it, and underlined it twice.

“I bet you and me are the only ones in this room who even know what it means,” he said in a low voice.

That seemed unlikely. I glanced around the nondescript gray room, filled with pairs of college students sitting at small, round tables like ours.

“Josh, we’re in the writing center.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “You could ask anyone in this room what myriad means, and I bet they wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

I was pretty sure the other tutors could. “Sure, whatever.”

“I’m just saying. If it was me, I’d just say ‘many.’”

How utterly dull.

Josh spent the next half hour attempting to convince me to dumb down the “big words” in my story. Among the offenders were “bespectacled” and “intoxicated.” Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have used words the multitudes are apparently incapable of learning.

I nodded without listening as Josh pointed out yet another too-complex word. It wouldn’t have been so irritating if he’d given me suggestions for improving the story, as well - patching up a plot hole or developing a character - but no. He focused solely on my diction. It’s not as if I use such words to impress people. It’s not as if I throw around words like “hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia” without knowing what they mean. I just read a lot. Words like “myriad” are at my fingertips.

At the end of our session, Josh escorted me to the door. Maybe it was a gesture born of his natural Southern gentlemanliness, but more likely it was because of what happened next.

Before I could make my escape, he stopped by the front desk. A chunky girl with a bush of kinky hair that had been tamed into a ponytail was poring over the check-in sheet. Josh rapped the desk with his knuckles and asked her, “Do you know what a myriad is?”

She looked up and blinked at him. There was a pause as she shifted from one foot to the other, but then she decided he was serious. “Could you use it in a sentence?”

“No,” he said, but context is important. I vetoed his no and gave her the offending sentence from my story. Her expression cleared.

“Oh, so it’s like a plethora.”

I could have kissed her. Instead, I grinned, thanked her, and shouldered my backpack. As I headed out the door, I heard her say, “Fallout Boy has a new album coming out. I’m so ecstatic.”

“Just say happy,” Josh growled.

My grin broadened. Good word, ecstatic.

I’m not sure what Josh’s problem is with “big words,” but he’s not the first person to tell me I use too many of them. I usually respond by asking, “...which word did I use that was big?”

To which the invariable reply is: “I don’t know, but it was big!”

Very helpful. Thanks.

It doesn’t help that I’m a snob about the idea of “big words.” I don’t consider a word “big” unless it has more syllables than “Elizabeth.” What people mean, of course, is that the words I use are unfamiliar, but perhaps “unfamiliar” is too big a word for them.

It’s not that I resent being told I “use big words.” But I resent being told I should simplify my language because “most people don’t know those words” - especially since “most people” can’t recall which of my words are above them. I don’t think of my words as “big.” How can I simplify my language if no one can tell me which words need to be dialed down?

Besides, I love words: their history, the relationships between them, the different shades of meaning each one can possess. The way they look when I write them down; the shape of them in my mouth. Why do words like “bespectacled” and “intoxicated” exist, if not for me to use them?