Kawaii is the word for the Japanese culture of cute, adorable and childlike. When you see a sushi roll with a cute smiley face, that's Kawaii at work. You might also find it in an innocent, high voice like a child's.

I love how, by adding a couple of big eyes, maybe with a couple of little highlights, a smiley mouth and perhaps a little shy blushing on the cheek, it's possible to transform a cactus or a pencil case into something adorable. As a family, we've enjoyed the card game Sushi Go, which includes cute wasabi, fried shrimp, and even a chopstick holder. It's a bit like the magic of adding googly eyes to anything to make it fun.

The childlike simplicity, sweetness and cute artwork of Kawaii is also in Sanrio's Hello Kitty.

I liked chindogu, the art of unuseless inventions, so much I accidentally sketched it twice: chindōgu back-scratching t-shirt, the 3 tenets of chindōgu

Kawaii

A word spectrum highlights different aspects of a concept from one extreme to another. By arranging words on a spectrum, we can see their subtle differences and nuances.

For example, a word spectrum of happiness might range from "Miserable" on one side to "Ecstatic" on the other, passing through "Gloomy", "Content", and "Happy" along the way.

Or a word spectrum of tiredness might be: Asleep - Drowsy - Groggy - Awake - Alert - Energised

It's not a science, and there's a fair amount of latitude for people to place different words in different positions. Looking at many spectrums, it strikes me that some writers excel at selecting specific and perhaps more intriguing words such as "scrumptious" or "mouth-watering" over the more common "delicious." Roald Dahl often had his characters "guzzle" instead of "eat hungrily," for example.

I became curious about word spectrums when I realised that my understanding of the spectrum of approval was different from that of many of my American friends. In British English, "quite" is often used to mean "a bit less than," but in the U.S., I found it was more commonly used to mean "a lot" or "very."

So, my British English word spectrum of approval would be:

While the word spectrum of approval for many of my U.S. friends might be:

It left me confused several times before I figured it out.

For other variations in interpretation, such as where you might put "awesome", there's an excellent table as a Guide for U.S. students interpreting feedback from faculty trained in the U.K. (and vice versa).

At times, it really matters what someone means with a descriptive word. In the "intelligence" trade "words of estimative probability" relate to specific odds meant by certain terms. For instance, if an attack is "highly likely," just how likely is it? If something is "almost certainly an airfield," how certain is that? Clearly, the choice and interpretation of these terms can be very significant. For a fascinating insight on this, see CIA analyst Sherman Kent's previously classified report Words of Estimative Probability (pdf). Other research has studied individual differences in people's perceptions of probability—and created some fun graphics showing the results.

Estimative probability is also critical in medicine. If exact numbers aren't shared, how frequent is a side effect that occurs "rarely"? Specific guides have been created listing associated probabilities for terms such as "likely", "frequent", "occasional" and "rare".

A reader also shared with me a classic chocolate advert of Fry's five boys, with the face of a boy moving from: desperation, pacification, expectation, acclamation and the realisation "it's Fry's".

More word spectrums, including those illustrated here:

Size: tiny - small - medium - large - huge - gigantic

Frequency: never - rarely - occasionally - sometimes - often - always

Talk volume: whisper - murmur - talk - shout - yell - scream

Intelligence: stupid - dim - average - bright - brilliant - genius

Tastiness: disgusting - bland - tasty - delicious

Word spectrum

Hara Hachi Bu is a saying from Okinawa in Southern Japan that advises people to stop eating when they're 80% full. Okinawa is famous for the longevity of the people who live there.

I learned it from Michael Pollan's excellent book Food Rules many years ago. He shares traditions, including the Ayurvedic in India, the Chinese, and the prophet Muhammad, that all counsel stopping eating earlier than your stomach might be telling you. That, and the German expression, "You need to tie off the sack before it gets completely full."

Hara hachi bu also appears in Dan Buettner's Netflix documentary Live to 100: Secrets of the Blue Zones. Blue Zones are areas in the world with the longest lifespans. Dan Buettner identifies eating to no more than 80% full as one potential factor in Okinawans' long lives.

The more literal translation of hara hachi bu is stomach eight parts (out of ten).

Some other methods to eat less without sacrificing enjoyment include:

Eat slowly so that changes in hunger signals from your stomach have a chance to reach your brain

Avoid distractions such as the TV while eating (when eating dinner, just eat dinner?)

Have a good selection of convenient (stacking) Tupperware for storing leftovers

When drinking tea, just drink tea (I like this sketch—I have it on my wall—so I drew hara hachi bu in the same Ligne Claire style)

Non-stacking Tupperware should be destroyed

It's sometimes misspelled hari hachi bu or said as hara hachi bun me.

Hara Hachi Bu

RAS Syndrome is Redundant Acronym Syndrome Syndrome. It's when an acronym is followed by a word that's also part of the acronym.

PIN number - Personal Identification Number

ISBN number - International Standard Book Number

HIV virus - Human Immunodeficiency Virus

RSVP please - Répondez S'il Vous Plaît — Reply please

While, in principle, the following word is redundant were we to spell out the acronym, that we tend to include it in everyday speech means it's usually serving a helpful function. Quite often, it's clarifying what you're talking about given many people won't know what the acronym actually stands for (see TLAs).

By the way, ATM is technically an initialism, while PIN is an acronym.

I'd guess you've probably come across RAS Syndrome, too. However, I didn't realise there was a name for it until recently, even though it was coined in New Scientist magazine back in 2001.

Also see acronym or initialism, TLAs, Capitonym, pleonasm

RAS Syndrome

Theatre and amphitheatre (or theater and amphitheater) have the distinction that a theatre is one-sided viewing of a central stage, and an amphitheatre has viewing all around. The word amphitheatre derives from the Greek word amphi- loosely meaning on both sides or all around.

For years, I've used amphitheatre for any large open galleried seating, but technically, as for the spectacular Minack theatre in Cornwall, England, if it's one-sided, then it's a theatre.

You'll also see the same pattern in amphoras, which commonly have handles on both sides of the vessel, and amphibians who are at home on both land and water. Plus, related ambivalence, ambidextrous (amphi- Greek, ambi- Latin).

It's fun having an aunt who used to teach classics =)

Also see: classical columns, pyrrhic victory, the Rosetta stone

Amphitheatre and theatre

A greeble, greeblie or greebly, is the name for the small elements that add detail and scale to models and, often, help make them look more advanced and realistic. Greeble can be both a verb and a noun.

Greeble or greeblie, George Lucas' term, originated on the early Star Wars sets when creating the impressively detailed and realistic models. You can take a simple ship, wall or rooftop, and by adding switches, boxes, cabling, lights and buttons, hey presto, there's a whole lot more technology involved. You can add greebles, or greeblies, to something, or you can greeble it.

A common modelmaking technique for adding elements and greebles to make a design look realistic and sophisticated is to scavenge from existing model kits. Borrowing other parts and repurposing them on a new model is called kit-bashing. Speaking personally, it's also very satisfying making up greebles to add to a LEGO build (MOC—My-Own-Creation)—sometimes the most fun part.

Here's Adam Savage, an ex-Star Wars modelmaker discussing greeblies and kit-bashing (video) or an ILM (Industrial Light and Magic) model shop greeblie (video) used on Star Wars Episode 2. Greebles also make an appearance in the fascinating documentaries about the making of the Star Wars films, Empire of Dreams, and the making of episode 9, The Skywalker Legacy. Sometimes, the making-of is more interesting than what was made. I remember the same feeling watching the making of the Lord of the Rings films, too.

Greeble

What does biweekly mean to you? How about bimonthly or biannually?

While each of us will have our own, perhaps unambiguous, reaction to it, the word biweekly is interpreted as "twice a week" or "once every two weeks." I know this from personal experience of confusing people en-masse. The dictionary even carefully, if unhelpfully, defines it as meaning either. It's a strange quirk of the English language. But it's so handy, what to do? An excellent, concise solution is the word fortnightly.

Fortnightly has the helpful unambiguous quality that it means "once every fortnight," so "once every two weeks." And it's also just one word. If something happens "two times a week," I think you need to spell it out or use "twice a week" or perhaps "every Monday and Thursday." Or perhaps semi-weekly might give you some mileage.

The same source of confusion applies to the words bimonthly and biannually—to be sure of being understood correctly, it's best to avoid them. Phrases like "every second month," "every two months," "twice a month," or "two times each year" are helpful here.

Ambiguity in how we talk about time is also illustrated in some of my favourite research done by Lera Boroditsky. For example, if I say, "The meeting on Wednesday has been moved forward by two days," when is the meeting now? It turns out that people are split on whether the meeting is now on Monday or on Friday. And I remember a fascinating example of the Kuuk Thayore aboriginal people in Australia who don't use words like left and right, and instead, always use the cardinal directions like north, south, east and west—"Oh, there's an ant on your southwest leg". There's a taster in her talk, How Language Shapes the Way we Think.

Fortnightly

Writing has power. Power grows through repetition. And repetition, should you reuse the last words of a sentence at the start of the next, is called anadiplosis.

Like the amazing addition of alliteration, anadiplosis is a simple device to give more oomph to your words. Words that are barely changed but pack a lot more punch.

Even if you can't remember the specifics, there's something about Yoda's wisdom that make the logic sound impeccable and irresistible and the message deep. Deep, at least partly, from anadiplosis.

"Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering."

I learned about anadiplosis—and pleonasm, and ordering adjectives—from the entertaining and educational, The Elements of Eloquence by Mark Forsyth. Anadiplosis is from the ancient Greek ana meaning again, and diplous meaning double. The Greeks were fond of their techniques for persuasive speeches.

Anadiplosis

A Pyrrhic victory is one where your own losses or damage make it nearly as costly as defeat.

Perhaps that business rival finally went out of business after you lowered prices so much that you can now barely get by. Maybe you managed to prove you were right at the cost of ruining a relationship. Or it could be that the kids did in fact get in the car and go out on that blasted walk only for everyone to have a miserable time, angry at each other for the rest of the day.

Or maybe, as King Pyrrhus of Epirus found in 279 BCE, you won several battles against the Romans while losing so many of your best warriors as to make you wonder at the worth of the whole campaign.

Pyrrhic victory

It's hard to beat the feeling of the warmth of the winter sun on your face. There's a word for it too: apricity. Uplifting, hopeful, calming — even a few short moments to bask in an unexpected, weak but glorious gleam of winter sunlight is wonderful.

A brief burst of apricity warms the spirits and your skin. It reminds me of distant warm, long, summer days, and the promise of spring in a few months. If it has been bleak and cold, apricity is that much more welcome.

From the UK's position in the Northern hemisphere, with the sun low on the horizon, you can let the sun hit full in your face in the middle of the day without craning your neck or leaning back. It's never too hot to seek shade, and often just the right brightness that facing it dead on with your eyes closed is ideal. Together with the long shadows of winter, the effect can have you swept up with the rays, letting them soak into your skin and transporting you away from the cold under your feet.

From the latin aprico, 'to warm in the sun', and in turn aperio, 'lying open', it has been around since at least 1623. It feels to me like we'd benefit from its resurgence.

Apricity

Is it advise or advice? Devise or device? And if you're using British English, license or licence, practise or practice?

Handily, the general practice is to use an 's' for the verb, and a 'c' for the noun. So advise is something you do, and advice is something you give.

In American English, there is only license and practice for both verbs and nouns. However, in British English, you would you use license if you were licensing someone and what they received would be a licence — with a 'c'. And in British English, you would practise when you went to practice.

Some places suggest thinking of the '-ice' at the end as ice which is a noun. Whatever works for you.

License/licence and practise/practice are homophones

Also see, stationary and stationery, compliment and complement, affect and effect

Advise vs advice and other s and c's

How do you avoid confusion when spelling things out verbally, particularly when the sound isn't clear or there may be background noise? So, for example, something like Y I V B D T doesn't unintentionally get heard as Y Y B P D D. Or perhaps as I Y P V T D. A lot of letters sound similar.

A phonetic alphabet, or spelling alphabet, is a way to ensure all letters are unambiguously heard correctly by using words starting with each letter. The set of words was chosen from 1,000s of tests, including real-life ones, to maximise clarity and avoid overlapping sounds with other letters that might cause mix-ups. When written out they include deliberate misspellings Alfa and Juliett to avoid misinterpretation.

The NATO phonetic alphabet is a standard one, but there are other variations.

Phonetic alphabet

Phubbing: snubbing people for your phone.

We've probably all experienced it — heck, we've probably all done it at one point or another — or at least it's likely to be familiar. Someone in a restaurant waiting for their friends to put their phones down. A family gathering where people are no longer talking to each other. A teacher without the attention of their students. A child failing to get the attention of an adult who's trying to process some messages on their phone.

Research on phubbing, mostly since the word was coined, says it largely has the effects you'd think it would. The effects vary with who's being phubbed and who's doing the phubbing: bosses and employees, family members, parents and kids, or partners. Whoever's phubbing who, snubbing is a suitable root word for it — it's not so nice to feel snubbed.

I learned about phubbing from the Mind over Tech community — they also have a newsletter on forming better digital habits.

The word phubbing has the unusual distinction of being created for an advertising campaign to sell a dictionary.

Phubbing, you may have spotted, is a portemanteau. For more phone annoyance see halfalogue.

See, for example, Knausenberger, J. et al. (2022). Feeling Ostracized by Others’ Smartphone Use: The Effect of Phubbing on Fundamental Needs, Mood, and Trust. Frontiers in Psychology, 13. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2022.883901

Also see: phone zombie, continuous partial attention, when drinking tea

Phubbing

You know that time when you couldn't concentrate at all because of someone having a phone conversation right next to you? It's the trouble with a halfalogue. Hearing only one side of a conversation, it turns out, can be more distracting than hearing the whole dialogue. This might stem from the unpredictability of the conversation — our brains working overtime to connect the dots and uncertain what's coming next.

Halfalogues were investigated in a paper by Lauren Emberson and coauthors: Overheard Cell-Phone Conversations: When Less Speech Is More Distracting. The distraction potential of halfalogues could have more serious impacts on a driver from a passenger's phone conversation in the back.

A halfalogue is a nice extension of the dialogue and monologue.

Emberson, Lauren & Lupyan, Gary & Goldstein, Michael & Spivey, Michael. (2010). Overheard Cell-Phone Conversations: When Less Speech Is More Distracting. Psychological science. 21. 1383-8. 10.1177/0956797610382126.

Halfalogue

A pleonasm is the use of redundant words, often in established phrases or idioms.

I tried to write something, but it's hard to beat this excellent excerpt by the comedian George Carlin from When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops — spot the pleonasms:

"My fellow countrymen, I speak to you as coequals, knowing you are deserving of the honest truth. And let me warn you in advance, my subject matter concerns a serious crisis caused by an event in my past history...At that particular point in time, I found myself in a deep depression, making mental errors which seemed as though they might threaten my future plans. I am not over-exaggerating.

I needed a new beginning, so I decided to pay a social visit to a personal friend with whom I share the same mutual objectives and who is one of the most unique individuals I have ever personally met. The end result was an un­expected surprise. When I reiterated again to her the fact that I needed a fresh start, she said I was exactly right; and, as an added plus, she came up with a fi­nal solution that was absolutely perfect.

Based on her past experience, she felt we needed to join together in a com­mon bond for a combined total of twenty-four hours a day, in order to find some new initiatives. What a novel innovation! And, as an extra bonus, she presented me with the free gift of a tuna fish. Right away I noticed an immedi­ate positive improvement. And although my recovery is not totally complete, the sum total is I feel much better now knowing I am not uniquely alone.”

Other examples people have shared with me include one-year anniversary, and revert back. The other day, I wrote "new discoveries", which Grammarly helpfully suggested shortening to "discoveries." I also wrote "we haven't met before" before deleting "before" along with a face-palm.

Pleonasm

Kintsugi is the repair of a ceramic item, perhaps a bowl or vase, with a bright gold seam. Like wabi sabi, kintsugi reflects a view that wear and use of an object adds value rather than detracts. Rather than try to hide the past damage and the repair instead it is celebrated and enhanced. A bowl repaired with kintsugi might be seen as more valuable than one that had never been broken.

An ebook might reload the same every time. A book, instead, accumulates its previous use in its pages and appearance — the slight bend in the pages, discoloration from fingerprints or sunlight, creases in the spine at frequently visited pages, a pencil mark here and there. The book itself hints at the story of its own life. A well-thumbed secondhand book can be a beautiful thing.

You may have noticed some modern kintsugi in Kylo Ren's helmet.

Kintsugi

When writing for the web every word counts. We scan pages, instructions, and emails, sometimes skipping reading completely. So it's key to make sure that every word is doing a job. Over the years I find there are words that I routinely trim from web copy to save space and keep focus while preserving intent. While context always matters and these can't be cut everywhere, here are a handy few that regularly get the cut from web copy:

Obviously, clearly, of course and the like — if it's obvious then don't write it, if it's not, then it's not relevant. If it's obvious to you and not to me then no need to make me feel stupid reading it

Note, please note, note that, notice — we're noting it by writing it so trim the noise by leaving out reminders for readers to note things. If you really want someone to notice you can use the extra space from removing it by making it bigger or bolder

That — can often be trimmed without changing the meaning of a sentence

Exact — very often makes no difference to a sentence

Famous — if it's famous then maybe I've heard of it. If I haven't, then perhaps it's not so famous

Current — if someone asks for my age or job then it's normal to assume they're not asking for what it used to be

Successfully — it's always nice to trim a long word that doesn't add a lot

Have — like 'that', it can often be removed without changing the meaning of a sentence

All, total — when I take these out I often find it's the default assumption anyway

Interestingly, surprisingly and the like — it may be interesting or surprising to you, but I think it's polite, and briefer, to let the reader decide if it's interesting or surprising for them

If you're writing for the web, try removing some and see if it still works.

Micro-editing redundant words

I'd never heard the words flotsam and jetsam used in any way but together so had always assumed it was a term to mean general debris floating in the water or washed up. It turns out they have distinct meanings that also affect how they're treated by law.

Flotsam, from flotter to float, refers to debris accidentally lost or washed overboard, often from a shipwreck or accident.

Jetsam is debris that was deliberately jettisoned by a boat in distress, likely to try and lighten the load.

Being that flotsam was lost accidentally, under maritime law, it can be claimed by the original owner, but jetsam can be claimed by the person who found it.

The rubber duck in the sketch refers to the story of the thousands of rubber ducks that washed overboard (flotsam) in the Pacific ocean in 1992. Over the next 25 years, the ducks found themselves washed ashore all across the world revealing much of the ocean's currents as one giant connected system.

Flotsam and jetsam

For some obscure reason English speakers will almost always find a flip-flop to be more natural than a flop-flip, or a pitter patter of tiny feet to a patter pitter, or a tick tock to a tock tick. When the vowel changes in a reduplicative term — such as wishy washy or hip hop — it's known as ablaut reduplication and the vowels almost always follow the order I-A-O. If you say them in any other way they almost always sound weird. It's quite fun to think of examples.

I learned this neat thing from Mark Forsyth when learning about the even more surprising English grammar convention about ordering adjectives — he was explaining why we say the Big Bad Wolf (thanks ablaut reduplication) and not the Bad Big Wolf as our other grammar convention would dictate.

A possible explanation is that in making the sounds we start at the front of the mouth and move to the back and that feels slightly easier or more natural as we make the sounds. Try it!

Ablaut reduplication

There's a crucial, and wonderful, distinction between mazes and labyrinths.

A maze is a multi-branching, complex structure with twists, turns, choices, dead-ends and treasure or Triwizard cups in the centre. It's confusing, daunting, exciting, fun, challenging, maybe deadly. A maze heightens awareness, concentration, and your heart rate.

A labyrinth has a single path. One long, twisting, but unwavering path towards the central destination and back out. It's simple, calming, straightforward, reassuring and satisfying. Every step is progress. There are no tough choices to make. No paths, maps or mental models to balance in your head. Nothing to intrude on your thinking, just your next step. A labyrinth gives space for your thoughts, and is calming and peaceful.

If you want adventure and action, find a maze. If you'd like calm and contemplation, find a labyrinth.

No wonder then that walking a labyrinth has been found to reduce stress, increase calm and aid recovery in hospitals and centres for therapy and mental health care. Try tracing your finger over the paths of each to feel the difference. Also see: solvitur ambulando.

The two are based on the hedge maze at Henry VIII's Hampton Court Palace near where we live, and the wonderful Land's End Labyrinth (video) near where we used to live.

The original labyrinth of Crete, of Theseus and the Minotaur fame, was complex and confusing and no doubt not like the labyrinths that have now evolved from it.

Labyrinths and mazes

Wabi sabi is a beautiful Japanese idea and worldview of appreciating the small traits of imperfection, the changes in things as they age, and that nothing is wholly complete. It might be appreciating the unique unevenness in a handmade bowl, the cracks and weathering of wood as it is grows old, or the softened and coloured pages of an old book.

It's a lovely frame of mind that helps us see the beauty in things that aren't perfect and brand new. As a society, it's probably something we could do with more of.

The simple phrasing of nothing lasts, nothing is finished and nothing is perfect is from Wabi Sabi Simple by Richard Powell.

Wabi sabi

The Norse Gods are still among us in the names of the days of the week.

Tuesday — from Old English Tiw, for Tyr the Norse god of combat

Wednesday — from Old English Woden, for Odin the one-eyed king of the gods

Thursday — for Thor, the quick to fight god of ordinary people with his magical hammer Mjollnir

Friday — for Frigg, wife of Odin and goddess of marriage and motherhood

While Saturday, Sunday and Monday follow the celestial bodies Saturn, the sun, and the moon.

As a wonderful introduction to the Norse myths and gods you could do much worse than the entertaining and beautifully produced Illustrated Norse Myths I was commanded to read by our 9-year old.

Illustrations based off of those by the excellent Matteo Pincelli.

Days of the week

Ah, that satisfying, superior, at once gleeful and slightly sinful feeling when the aggressive driver that blazed past you a few miles back is pulled over by the police at the next exit. That feeling is schadenfreude (a nifty German word made up of “schaden” for damage, harm or hurt and “freude” for joy) to describe the act of taking pleasure in others’ misfortunes.

I hadn’t thought much of it before reading some excerpts from Tiffany Watt Smith’s book Schadenfreude. She makes a compelling case for the benefits of examining the moments when we feel superior at another’s expense as a small window into ourselves. A little twinge of joy when a colleague doesn’t get a promotion might reveal your jealousy of their situation or a deep-down resentment of unfairness. If the person who pushed in front of you in line drops their ice cream right after buying it, your secret twinge of joy might be a sense of justice and equity for obeying the rules when they didn’t. Schadenfreude can be a little boost to your own self-esteem or a valuable window into your own weaknesses.

For a mini-intro, try Tiffany Watt Smith’s TED Ideas article: Do you secretly feel good when others stumble? 5 ways to make peace with this very human emotion.

I revised this sketch for the book Big Ideas Little Pictures.

Schadenfreude

Chindogu are inventions that are not really useful yet are not completely without use. They make sense, but you’d never use them. They are also, as a result, often really funny.

This chindogu article gives some great examples while also sharing the 10 tenets of what makes chindogu, chindogu. Things like: there must be the spirit of anarchy —  they represent freedom of thought and action. And they must exist — just the idea isn’t enough; they must be made.

Apparently, the selfie stick was invented as chindogu but failed as people evidently actually found it useful — though you can still see why it might have started as chindogu.

Also see: affordance, forcing function, and more genius from the Japanese: Tsundoku

Chindogu

Remarkably, when we describe a noun we almost always, unconsciously, arrange adjectives in this order: opinion, size, age, shape, colour, origin, material, purpose.

If you try mixing them up in a different order it just doesn’t sound right. Compare, for example, a super little Italian coffee, to an Italian little super coffee. Or as Mark Forsyth points out in The Elements of Eloquence: How to turn the perfect English phrase, you can have a great green dragon, but not a green great one.

Ordering adjectives

A capitonym is a word that changes meaning and sometimes pronunciation when capitalised.

For years as a kid, no joke, I couldn’t understand why there was a polish club at the bottom of our road. Yes, it was a Polish club.

Capitonyms are also heteronyms when they change pronunciation as for polish and Polish.

Capitonym

Tsundoku is the beautiful Japanese word for the acquiring and piling up of books without reading them. Constructed from 2 words loosely meaning piling up and reading.

The sketch is loosely based on my parents’ bedroom while I grew up, both of whom are experienced and talented tsundoku-ers/tsundokists.

Tsundoku

We all know that you make an acronym by taking the initial letters of a set of words and putting them together. So Random Access Memory becomes RAM, or the United States becomes the US. But I only found out recently that these two examples are actually different.

An acronym is when the initials of a set of words are said as a word, like laser (light amplification by stimulated emission of radiation), radar (radio detection and ranging), sonar (sound navigation and ranging), NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization) or NASA (National Aeronautics and Space Administration).

An initialism, by contrast, is when a set of initials are pronounced as letters when you say them, like FBI, CIA, US, BBC or CD.

This sketch was revised for my book Big Ideas Little Pictures. Here's the original.

Acronyms and initialisms

This one rewards a little close attention—looking at each of the words and figuring out their different meanings or sounds.

I’ve always loved heteronyms and how we can have a single word spelt the same and yet pronounced quite differently — like read — and how that clearly makes English a crazy language to learn. And, as you probably do too, I pretty much woke up at night thinking how you could sort words into groups of the same or different spelling and the same or different sounds and begin to make sense of these curious groups of words like homographs, homophones and heteronyms.

Words with different spellings and different sounds generally just mean different words.

There are nice buckets of other words too, like, contranyms — words that can be their own opposite. And also aptronyms (good for nominative determinism).

I did think a third axis of the same or different meaning may give the complete picture but would probably just serve to confuse things.

Some Greek: homo—same, hetero—different, graph—written, phone—sound

Mad props to the incredible poem The Chaos by Gerard Nolst Trenité. The poem gives an amazing number of examples of some of the craziness of the English language. Here's an excerpt from the start:

Dearest creature in creation
Studying English pronunciation,
   I will teach you in my verse
   Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.

I will keep you, Susy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy;
   Tear in eye, your dress you'll tear;
   Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet,
Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!
   Just compare heart, hear and heard,
   Dies and diet, lord and word.

Sword and sward, retain and Britain
(Mind the latter how it's written).
   Made has not the sound of bade,
   Say-said, pay-paid, laid but plaid.

Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as vague and ague,
   But be careful how you speak,
   Say: gush, bush, steak, streak, break, bleak...

Homonyms, homographs, homophones, heteronyms… 

The Oxford comma is the comma after the penultimate item in a list. It’s normally a matter of style — you can happily choose to leave it out — though in some cases it can clarify what would otherwise be an ambiguous meaning, as in this well-cited book dedication “To my parents, Ayn Rand and God.” Or, more pertinently, in a recent legal case where ambiguity hinging on the lack of an Oxford comma is costing a dairy firm a $5m overtime payment to its drivers.

The Oxford comma

A word from the Sami people of Northern Norway, Finland or Sweden, from ‘coffee’ and ‘boil’, used as a measure of distance for how far you can go before you need a cup of coffee.

Kaffikok

Nominative determinism is the idea that people might inadvertently be drawn to careers related to their names. It suggests that if you are called Baker, you might unknowingly gravitate towards a career in baked goods. Sort of the opposite of someone with the surname of Baker because the family was once bakers.

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Category: words