Tag Archives: autocorrect

“I have diffidently put effort in.”

Awhile ago I devoted a post to ruminating on an example of this word, “diffident.” That writer was writing about fast food as an eating “path,” and I was comparing this concept to the two paths in Frost’s poem “The Road Not Taken,” especially since my student said the fast-food road was “diffidently not the only one.…”

Today I’m looking at two more examples of that word, edging its way (modestly) into a sentence where it does not belong.

In the example headlining this post, my student assures me (the reader) that he has tried all semester. And in fact, he did work quite hard, coming to my office to work through rough drafts, revising and developing his thoughts. He “diffidently put effort in,” he assures me.

In another example, another student also praised the writing course:

“It was tough but diffidently worth it.”

Now, wouldn’t you think this was the same writer in all three examples? But it was diffidently not.

None of the writers actually meant “1) distrustfully; 2) with hesitation in acting or speaking through lack of self-confidence; 3) reservedly, unassertively, shyly” (as Webster’s New Collegiate would have it).

The Fast-food Road Not Taken was not an unassertive road, shyly admitting to being one of several; the student who tried did not try hesitantly or distrustfully; the course did not lack self-confidence or deny its value.

I knew what all three of them meant, and so do you: they meant “definitely,” not “diffidently.” They meant the opposite of what they wrote.

Can this be blamed on AutoCorrect? Or are my students not hearing words correctly? Does the cacophony of modern life drown out significant differences in sound that would communicate significant differences in meaning?

I can’t say, but the possibility scares me, especially since so many of my students admit to doing so little serious reading, and seem to pay such light attention to what they do read. If we are going to leave literacy and again become an aural culture, then shouldn’t we be paying closer attention to pronouncing words carefully? And, ironically, isn’t careful pronunciation partially dependent on attentive reading?

Well, be on the lookout and see what you encounter. And meanwhile, please do encourage young people to “own” their experiments and efforts. Trying diffidently will only obscure errors and blur intentions. We want no timorous students, but instead learners who are bold enough, and wise enough, to present their ideas and work unafraid, confident that any corrections or questions they receive will only help them grow.


“Some feel that college is not nectary.”

Well, simply, we must insist that students TURN OFF “autocorrect” in Word. They moan and groan about the autocorrect feature on their phones but don’t seem to realize the same zaniness can creep into a Word document on their computers.

My student was writing on the question of whether college is “for” everyone, a question governing a group of readings in their comp textbook. And all he had meant to type here, in what was, I confess, a rough draft, was “Some feel that college is not necessary.” (I try not to write about rough-draft bloopers; I don’t feel the mistake actually qualifies as an “error” until it has passed the student’s final proofreading. But my student had printed out his draft for us to discuss, and we both laughed at this, once he’d noticed it. We both felt it should go into the blog.)

Then together we tried to imagine a nectary college. Would it be sweet? Drippy? Sticky?

One possibility we didn’t think of: attractive to BEES? But sure enough, when I got to my next class, there looping around students’ legs and bookbags, soaring into the overhead lights, swooping past our heads, was a bee.

Well, actually it was a yellowjacket. October is the month when they start buzzing around looking for a fight.

I try to live and let live, but I’m allergic, and half the class was making little panic noises, and everyone was watching that son-of-a-bee (wasp…yellowjacket). Not the greatest way to talk about Everyman, with everyone in the throes of attention deficit.

One of my guys picked up his Norton Anthology (all five hundred pounds of it), declared, “I’m Beowulf,” and went after the bug. Got it, too. General applause.

As we settled back into our seats and the lesson, he commented, “Well, glad to know I haven’t been lugging that thing around for nothing.”

There were no traces of nectar on the book.