Clayton vs. Microsoft Word

Hello readers! I recently finished the second major draft of the third book in the Highmoor series. This means that I have now addressed the concerns raised by my diligent and brutally honest review team, and we have reached the final stretch of our journey towards getting this book on the digital bookshelves. The review team are pondering the new-and-improved manuscript, and I am polishing the sections that have been given the green light.

I always underestimate this stage of the book writing process. The plot, character motivations and pacing have been nailed down, but I am now faced with a towering, potentially infinite pile of tiny decisions regarding the structure of paragraphs and the order of clauses. The message is there, but the wording needs to carry it home. I’m caught in a battle of chopping and changing the positions of words, all in an effort to make the writing “flow” in a natural manner. It needs to be good enough to keep the reader engaged, but how good is good enough? There comes a point when I wonder if people would notice the difference.

My Wordst enemy

Editing is an arduous process, but I am not facing this battle alone. I am shadowed by an ominous presence – a quiet but foreboding companion who lurks at my shoulder, judging every letter that I dare to place upon the page. They never speak up without being asked, but they make no effort to disguise their quiet tuts or disappointed sighs when they perceive a sentence to have been structured incorrectly. They are very particular about the order of clauses. And I have decided that enough is enough. I’m using this blog post to protest against their misguided ideals.

The arbiter of human expression

The ominous presence is, of course, the spelling and grammar checker in Microsoft Word. I won’t deny that the spelling checker is useful, stepping in with corrections when I have hit keys in the wrong order (or when I’m being genuinely stupid), but the grammar checker leaves a lot to be desired, especially for creative writing.

Microsoft Word is unashamedly zealous when it comes to critiquing grammar and vocabulary choices. I understand why it wants to step in; after all, humans can only communicate effectively when our expressions follow the same set of rules, and computers should be great at enforcing rules. But one of the joys of language is its flexibility. Language is composed of building blocks which we don’t mess with (for the most part), but we use them to build whatever we like, expressing ourselves in a manner unique to us. Our use of language is an integral part of sharing our stories and our identities, and it has been for thousands of years. However, Microsoft Word is oblivious to this – perhaps even disapproving. The moment it perceives your writing to be “ineffective”, it offers up a barrage of tips and alternatives.

As to what constitutes “effective” writing, Microsoft Word has a very specific agenda. If it determines a sentence to be sub-par, it will throw out a blue dashed line to alert the user that they are in need of help. For example, it instantly flagged the phrase “in need of help” (which I included deliberately) and told me to “try using a verb instead of a noun phrase to be more concise”, recommending that the user is not “in need of help” but simply “needs help”.

Of course, this suggestion isn’t wrong. But the original sentence wasn’t wrong either. Both versions mean the same thing, but for some reason, Word is very particular about the phrasing. It isn’t bold enough to modify my writing automatically, but I can’t help but doubt myself when blue dotted lines pop up in the wake of my cursor. What if Word is right? It should know best. It has the capacity to know more about grammar than I ever could, and it has all kinds of fancy algorithms for spotting mistakes. I don’t want these blue lines in my document. They’re ugly. They make it look like my writing is full of errors. Maybe it’s best to just accept the grammar recommendations and move on?

This is how Microsoft Word became the arbiter of human expression. No longer is it differentiating right spelling from wrong spelling. It differentiates correct writing from ideal writing – and what it considers ideal is entirely inflexible. It can’t understand the subtle difference between a user “being in need of help” and a user “needing help”, because this difference will depend on a context that it cannot perceive. Perhaps the sentence needs more syllables in order to keep the rhythm of the paragraph? Perhaps the writing style is deliberately archaic to add another level of meaning or character? Word does not care – it yearns for brevity above all else.

You can ignore it, though – right?

Currently, Word is not so bold as to automatically correct your grammar errors in the same way it corrects common spelling mistakes. There is also the option to turn off the grammar checking entirely, removing all the blue lines from your document. As such, there is no way for Word to enforce its grammar standards beside quiet and persistent nudging. The problem is, I don’t want to turn off grammar checking entirely (because sometimes it catches genuine mistakes), but leaving it on puts me in a state of constant self-doubt that isn’t particularly conducive to creative writing. The blue lines are distracting and irregularly spaced, if nothing else.

My solution to this problem is to forgo Word entirely when writing the first and second major drafts of my books. Instead, I use LibreOffice, with its clunky, archaic interface and bare bones spell checker. It’s basically one step above a typewriter, which is perfect. It doesn’t tell me how to use commas, or that some readers might find the word “crap” offensive, or that I should probably use “must” instead of “have to” for the sake of brevity. Using LibreOffice also provides me with a change of screen scenery (screenery?) after a day spent using Word at work.

However, once the second major draft of a novel is complete, and I am satisfied with the “flow”, I start to make use of Microsoft’s spelling and grammar checker. The search interface in Word is unbelievably useful, allowing me to find common errors such as double-spaces, and accidental misspellings such as writing “reigns” instead of “reins”, or “Lyn” instead of “Lynn” (if you’ve ever read the first editions of my books, you probably noticed that a few of these slipped through the net). Word does have its uses. But it also oversteps the mark.

Some of my favourite Word recommendations

If you open up the “Editor” in Word, under the “Review” tab, you can scan through every spelling and grammar error in your document, and every potential “refinement” that Word has identified. These are divided into eight categories: clarity, conciseness, formality, inclusiveness, punctuation conventions, resume, sensitive geopolitical references, and vocabulary. Word then has the audacity to give your document an “editor score” indicating how many errors you need to fix.

In just the last paragraph, Word took issue with “many”, because “specific numbers or examples add impact to a resume” (it assumes you must be writing a resume by default). It also took issue with “these are divided” because “saying who or what did the action would be clearer”. This second example, to me, demonstrates the biggest problem with the grammar checker: Word cannot detect or respond to context outside the remits of a single sentence. It’s genuinely pathetic.

Here are some of my favourite, most stupid examples of Word recommendations from Sylvre, the second book in the Highmoor series:

“Ada crept around until she was hidden behind the pillar.”

Word suggests that “saying who or what did the action would be clearer” – as if this was a complicated scenario. We have Ada, and we have a pillar. She is hidden behind it. Perhaps it should be “she was hiding” – but if someone is hiding, that is not the same as being hidden. You can be hiding ineffectively, but hidden is hidden. I’m genuinely not sure what the issue is here.

“It’s not impossible.”

Word tells me to “try rewording here to avoid a confusing double negative” – as if this phrase could possibly cause confusion (or fail to make sense). Word is apparently oblivious to the subtle difference between something being “possible” and “not impossible”. You use the latter if you are trying to convince someone, challenging an existing belief, because the “not” adds emphasis. Sadly, Word doesn’t understand such nuances.

“…with nearly two millennia having passed…”

Word tells me that “words expressing uncertainty lessen your impact” – and suggests that I remove the “nearly”. But what if I’m talking about 1964 years? I don’t want to be specific in this scenario, because I’m setting the scene, and rounding to the nearest century should be perfectly acceptable – especially in a fantasy world where all historic records are kept in dusty tomes or on stone tablets. I think Word is totally wrong here. The impact of this statement is increased by discussing millennia, because that’s a bloody long time.

“Is he alright?”

Word suggests that “this term may strike your reader as too informal” – and that I should consider “all right” instead. To my understanding, the term “alright” has been in use since the late 1800s and is a well-established word in its own right, alongside already, altogether and always. Until now I hadn’t really questioned it, but apparently most formal writing should use the unabridged version. I personally use it only in reference to someone’s health or as an affirmative, rather than for a collection of correct answers. But what do I know. Apparently I am now an “alright” advocate.

“She rested her hands on Nia’s shoulders.”

According to Word, “original language adds impact to a resume” – so I should consider using “firsthand” or “direct”. Quite how these replacements make any sense in this context is beyond me. Did Word really just see “hands on” and hit the panic button?

“…a blast of cold air.”

This one is more irritating than amusing. Word suggests that “more specific adjectives are clearer and add impact” – and that I should consider “chilly air”, “frigid air”, or “freezing air”. Did it really have the audacity to suggest that cold is too basic? I can’t believe that Word has an agenda to remove specific words from our language. Cold is cold, and I’ll use it to describe cold things, thank you very much.

“…with an arm and a leg anchoring her in place.”

Word tells me that “overused expressions lessen the impact of your writing” – so I should consider “a lot”. Again, this makes no sense in this context. Word couldn’t comprehend that we have a character literally clinging onto something.

“man-made”

According to Word, “this term may not be inclusive of all genders” – so I should consider “manufactured”, “synthetic”, or “human-caused”, none of which make sense in a Medieval fantasy setting. Tell me, are the ramparts of this fortress synthetic, or part of the natural hillside?

“horsemen”

In a similar vein, Word suggests that I consider using “equestrians” or “riders” to avoid being exclusionary. However, in my mind, there is a significant difference between horsemen and riders, regardless of gender. Horsemen imply conflict. They have a specific job, and it involves demonstrating power. Trust me, the Book of Revelation would hit different if it concerned the four equestrians of the apocalypse. What are they, a polo team?

“The Steward of the Sylvre Kingdom, and his wife, known as the Sylvre Stewardess.”

Again, Word is worried about inclusivity. Have I considered “flight attendant” instead? The flight attendant of the Sylvre Kingdom, upholding the rule of law in the absence of the monarch? Hmm. Let me think about this. I do remember that one character in Lord of the Rings… What was he called… Ah yes, Denethor II, the flight attendant of Gondor. I think he forgot where the parachutes were stored.

“…he brought that crazed horse back under control.”

Word took great offence at this. Apparently, “this term implies mental health bias”. The poor horse just needed reasonable adjustments at work.

“We talked about the logistics of rebuilding the community…”

Finally, Word tells me to “try avoiding words that might be unfamiliar to a reader” – and that I should consider “coordination”, “organisation” or “planning”. This was the only word in the entire novel that it considered difficult, and I just can’t fathom how “logistics” is deemed to be a challenging term in a novel that describes weapons of Medieval warfare.

RIP Clippy

I’ll end this blog post with a brief obituary. For those that don’t know or don’t remember, Clippy (full name Clippit) was the animated paperclip that lived in the corner of Microsoft Word documents until 2003. He was the friendly interface of the Office Assistant, which stepped in with tips and advice when it determined the user to be in need of help. The classic intervention that everyone (over the age of 24) remembers is: “It looks like you’re writing a letter. Would you like help?” which appeared if you were foolish enough to type “Dear” at the start of your document.

Microsoft removed Clippy and the Office Assistant package in 2007, having disabled them in 2003. People detested everything that Clippy stood for. He was intrusive and annoying and patronising, and his advice wasn’t even that good. But in retrospect, Clippy was a lesser evil. You always knew where to find him. You always knew where to direct your anger.

When Clippy was retired and melted down, he was replaced by an invisible force that is arguably worse than he ever was. The examples I listed show quite how basic Microsoft’s grammar checker really is. It shuns artistic or creative expression, and in its attempt to help users craft more appealing resumes, it crushes individuality. To someone with confidence in their own writing ability, this makes little difference. I can ignore its stupid suggestions, even if the blue dotted lines make me second guess my wording choices. However, I can’t help but wonder about the impact of Microsoft’s rigid grammar checker on people who aren’t as stubborn as I am – for example, on people still learning the language.

What might have happened if my earliest attempts at creative writing had been in this modern version of Word? As a child, I wouldn’t have had the confidence to push the grammar suggestions aside. I could have learnt some devastating habits. My voice might have been completely different, all at the whims of a near-sighted algorithm.

Surely Microsoft can make something better?

In this age of AI and language recognition, you would think that Microsoft could develop a grammar checker that understood context. Some of the recommendations listed above (especially “not impossible” and “hands on”) have no business being there. And if the software had any sense, it could see that I am writing a novel, not a resume (can you imagine sending someone a 300-page resume?). I want Word to notice when I misnumber chapters, or when I accidentally drop an “n” from Lynn’s name. I want it to comprehend the timeline of the story, and the distances between places, so that it can step in and query inconsistencies.

Some of these features can’t be far off. In fact, I’m surprised that they aren’t here already, given the recent integration of ChatGPT into Bing. It’s genuinely surprising how ineffective, and how potentially damaging, the Word grammar checker can be.

In summary…

Hopefully you gained something from this rant. I don’t mean to turn these blog posts into therapy sessions, but some of these issues have been plaguing me for years. In terms of the book itself, I anticipate at least a few more weeks of editing. And when it does come out, I’m sure that it will contain plenty of minor spelling and grammar errors, despite my best efforts. If you ever find errors in my books, feel free to use the contact page on this blog to send me an anonymous tip-off. One of the great things about e-books is that you can very easily fix mistakes. Happy reading, and have a lovely week!

Find the Highmoor series on Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CFPFNMXD