Word by Word

Word by Word Plot Summary

Introduction

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Kory Stamper stared at the mountain of citation slips piled on her desk. Each small rectangle of paper contained a word in context, carefully clipped from magazines, newspapers, and books. Today's challenge: defining the seemingly simple word "take." Five hours into sorting just the first box of citations, her cubicle looked like it had hosted the world's neatest ticker-tape parade, with slips arranged on every available surface. By hour six, she wondered if she still understood English at all. The word had become a meaningless collection of letters, its countless meanings swimming before her eyes. This scene captures the hidden world of lexicography—the art and science of dictionary making. Behind every dictionary definition lies a human story of curiosity, frustration, and occasional triumph. Far from the dusty, rule-bound image many of us hold, modern lexicography is a dynamic field where editors wrestle with language as it evolves in real time. They debate whether "irregardless" deserves entry, trace the origins of "posh," and navigate the political minefield of defining words like "marriage." Through their meticulous work, these word detectives reveal something profound about how we communicate, how language changes, and how the words we choose shape our understanding of the world around us.

Chapter 1: The Quiet Battlefield of Dictionary Making

The Merriam-Webster offices in Springfield, Massachusetts, hardly looked like a cultural battleground. Housed in a modest brick building with bullet holes in the safety glass at the back entrance, the editorial floor was eerily quiet. Lexicographers rarely spoke to one another, preferring written notes called "pinks" for communication. The silence was occasionally broken by someone pronouncing a word aloud—"pedophile," "nuclear," "harassment"—as the pronunciation editor made his rounds collecting data on how staff members naturally said certain terms. For new lexicographer Kory Stamper, the learning curve was steep. Her first defining assignment was a batch of words starting with B. She drafted definitions on yellow cards called "buffs," trying to capture each word's essence without imposing limitations future usage might invalidate. One early attempt was for "jugate," which she defined as "appearing on a collectible, especially a campaign button showing the heads of a presidential candidate and his running mate." Her supervisor, Gil, struck out "his" from her definition, explaining: "It is conceivable that a woman will run for president at some point, and if she does, this definition will need to be revised. So why not write it in a way that the gender of the candidate doesn't matter." The breakthrough came months later when Gil reviewed her definition of "birdstrike." After feeling like she knew little about English, he said, "That's a pretty good definition." Kory went back to her desk, pulled out her planner, and wrote in the square for September 1, 1998: "Gil/birdstrike: PRETTY GOOD DEFINITION." It was a small victory, but it showed her that with practice, she could master this craft. The production timeline for dictionary revisions was relentless. Three years to revise the Collegiate Dictionary seemed generous to outsiders, but with 170,000 entries containing roughly 230,000 definitions to review, the schedule was brutal. Each entry underwent multiple editing passes through a carefully orchestrated workflow. By the time a word made it to print, at least ten editors had scrutinized it. With twenty editors working on the Eleventh Edition, each person was responsible for reviewing thousands of definitions and making over 100,000 editorial changes within eighteen months. This pressure explained why even careful lexicographers occasionally made mistakes. The infamous definition of "fishstick" as "a stick of fish" wasn't laziness—it was desperation. You could almost see the oily sheen of exhaustion on the page: there, this batch is done, I'm done, get me out of here. Behind every dictionary entry lies not just linguistic expertise but human struggle—the quiet battlefield where lexicographers fight to capture the essence of our ever-changing language, one word at a time.

Chapter 2: Small Words, Big Problems: The 'Take' Challenge

When Kory was assigned the word "take" for the Eleventh Collegiate Dictionary, she initially thought nothing of it. Flipping through the galley pages, she realized her batch—the entire thing—was just one word. Curious, but not alarming. She began sorting citations by part of speech, expecting a simple verb and noun to contend with. Five hours later, she had finished sorting just the first box. The verb "take" alone had 107 distinct senses, subsenses, and defined phrases. Her cubicle soon looked like it had hosted the world's neatest ticker-tape parade, with piles of citations on her monitor, in her pencil drawer, between rows on her keyboard, on the cubicle wall, and carefully arranged on the floor. Each citation needed to be sorted into a pile representing current definitions or potential new ones. The process became increasingly maddening. A citation reading "She was taken aback" seemed simple enough—sense 3b, "to catch or come upon in a particular situation or action." But the next citation, "Reason has taken a back seat to sentiment," didn't fit that definition at all. After weeks of work, Kory hit what runners call "the Wall"—that point of complete mental exhaustion. Looking at a citation for "took first things first," she felt herself unspooling into idiocy. The glyphs before her no longer registered as words. That night over dinner, her husband asked if she was okay. "I don't think I speak English anymore," she whined. "But what does that even mean? Just thinking about what it means makes my brain itch!" It took her a month of nonstop editorial work to complete "take." Later, at a conference, she met Peter Gilliver from the Oxford English Dictionary, who mentioned he had revised "run," which has over six hundred separate senses. It took him nine months. She lifted her glass: "Here's to 'run.' May it never come up for revision again in our lifetimes." When she finally finished, she discovered the overnight cleaning crew had dumped her carefully arranged citation piles into a cascade of paper on her chair. Standing before the mess, she nearly cried before resolutely starting over. Most people assume long or rare words are hardest to define, but lexicographers know the opposite is true. The smaller and more commonly used the word, the more difficult it is to define. Words like "take" reveal a profound truth about language: what seems simplest on the surface often contains the greatest complexity, requiring both technical precision and creative intuition to untangle the web of meanings we create through everyday use.

Chapter 3: When Words Become Controversial: The Politics of Definitions

In 2009, Kory arrived at her desk to find her email inbox overflowing with hundreds of angry messages, all with subject lines like "Definition of marriage" and "OUTRAGED!" A conservative news site had published an article titled "Webster's Dictionary Redefines 'Marriage,'" claiming Merriam-Webster had changed the definition to include same-sex couples, supposedly taking sides in the culture wars. What the article failed to mention was that this change had happened six years earlier, in 2003, when Merriam-Webster added a second subsense to "marriage" defined as "the state of being united to a person of the same sex in a relationship like that of a traditional marriage." This addition wasn't politically motivated but based on extensive citational evidence. By 2000, Merriam-Webster had hundreds of citations showing "marriage" being used to refer to same-sex unions, and by 2003, "gay" and "same-sex" were the top two modifiers used with "marriage" in written English. The angry correspondents believed that by changing the dictionary definition, Merriam-Webster was changing the thing itself—that adding a definition of same-sex marriage would somehow make it more legal or acceptable. Some writers claimed the dictionary was "shaping culture" by acknowledging this use of the word. Others were more explicit in their hatred, with one forum post introducing the topic with a string of homophobic slurs. Kory received emails accusing her of partisanship, abandoning Christian tradition, and personally bringing judgment upon America. When reviewing the Collegiate Dictionary entry for "bitch," Kory discovered another politically charged definition. The word wasn't marked as taboo, despite defining it as "a lewd or immoral woman" and "a malicious, spiteful, or overbearing woman—sometimes used as a generalized term of abuse." The evolution of this definition revealed much about societal attitudes. In 1755, Samuel Johnson defined the woman-centric use as "a name of reproach for a woman"—a usage warning and definition rolled into one. By 1961, for Webster's Third New International, Mairé Weir Kay drafted definitions including usage notes that the word was "usually used disparagingly," but another editor removed these warnings. These controversies highlight how dictionaries, despite their reputation for objectivity, inevitably reflect the cultural tensions of their time. Lexicographers aim to document language as it is used, not as some believe it should be used. Yet this descriptive approach often clashes with the prescriptive expectations of the public, who look to dictionaries as authorities not just on language but on cultural values. The lexicographer's challenge is to navigate these waters with both scientific detachment and cultural sensitivity, recognizing that words are not just abstract symbols but powerful tools that shape how we understand our world and each other.

Chapter 4: Etymology Myths and Language Evolution

Jim Rader's cubicle was unlike any other in the Merriam-Webster offices. It wasn't an altar to language but a terrarium where language slowly grew and breathed. One wall featured a high bookshelf overflowing with titles like "Alt-mittledeutsch Etymologisches Wörterbuch" and "Old Frisian Etymological Dictionary." His desk disappeared beneath loose papers covered in Proto-Indo-European roots, while stacks of books created micro-feats of engineering around him. As the company's chief etymologist, Jim was a word detective tracing the origins and history of words. Perhaps no word better illustrates etymology myths than "posh." The adjective first appeared in English around 1900 meaning "elegant" or "fashionable." A popular story claims it originated from steamship tickets marked "P.O.S.H." for "Port Out, Starboard Home"—supposedly the most desirable cabins for wealthy passengers traveling between England and India. The story is compelling but completely unsupported by evidence. Despite decades of correspondence insisting on this origin, lexicographers have found no tickets stamped "P.O.S.H.," no travel journals mentioning this practice, nothing to substantiate the claim. The "port out, starboard home" theory exhibits classic warning signs of a false etymology: an acronymic explanation (rare before WWII), excessive detail, and constantly changing specifics. Sometimes the story involves journeys between England and Europe, sometimes England and America, sometimes America and India. The cabins are variously described as getting morning sun, afternoon shade, scenic views, or warmth from the South Pacific sun. As one etymologist wrote on a citation proposing this theory: "Attractive but undocumented. We should live to see a ticket so marked." Another persistent etymology myth surrounds the word "tip" as in gratuity. Folk etymology claims it stands for "To Insure Promptness," supposedly originating from boxes in English coffeehouses where patrons would drop coins before service. Again, no evidence supports this acronymic origin. The word "tip" meaning "gratuity" appears in English before acronyms were common, and the verb "to tip" predates the noun. The earliest citation in the Oxford English Dictionary dates from 1755, and it uses "tip" in a way that suggests the word was already well-established. These myths persist because they offer satisfying narratives about language. People want to believe words have logical, intentional origins—that language follows an orderly pattern if traced back far enough. The reality is messier. Language evolves organically through human use, not through clever design or coincidence. Words emerge from our collective need to communicate, shaped by countless speakers over generations. Etymology reveals not just word origins but how humans make meaning together, constantly adapting language to fit new circumstances and needs. The true wonder of language lies not in neat origin stories but in its wild, unpredictable growth—a living system that reflects our messy, creative humanity.

Chapter 5: The Human Element: Personal Bias in Lexicography

Emily sat at her desk, surrounded by stacks of citations for the word "love." After months of work, she still hadn't finished defining this seemingly simple four-letter word. The challenge wasn't just its emotional complexity but the sheer variety of ways people used it. Modern lexicographers are trained to leave their linguistic baggage at the door, but language is deeply personal. When a white lexicographer edits the entry for a racial slur, they are aware of centuries of attack the word represents, aware of attempts to reclaim it, and aware that they are, by their position in society, implicated in part of the problem the word represents. This tension became clear when Kory was reviewing the Collegiate Dictionary entry for "bitch." The history of this definition revealed much about the human side of lexicography. In 1755, Samuel Johnson defined the woman-centric use as "a name of reproach for a woman"—a usage warning and definition rolled into one. By 1961, for Webster's Third New International, the revision fell to Mairé Weir Kay, a formidable editor known as "Miss Kay." She drafted definitions including usage notes that the word was "usually used disparagingly" and was "a generalized term of abuse." But another editor, Daniel Cook, edited out these warnings. The modern reclamation of "bitch" presents further complications for lexicographers. Jo Freeman's 1968 "BITCH Manifesto" declared, "A woman should be proud to declare she is a Bitch, because Bitch is Beautiful." This linguistic reclamation—taking a slur and repurposing it as an identity marker of pride—has been uneven. Some women embraced it, while others rejected the attempt. The question for lexicographers becomes: how can one concisely communicate, with a single label, a word's full range of use when its force depends on the interplay between intention and reception? Lexicography has historically been dominated by well-off, educated white men whose biases might prevent them from seeing why certain words needed cautionary labels. When the pronunciation of "nuclear" as "nucular" became a political issue during George W. Bush's presidency, many critics suggested it reflected his intelligence or education, despite evidence that highly educated weapons specialists and government officials used the same pronunciation. The variant wasn't new either, with evidence dating back to at least the 1940s, and had been used by at least four U.S. presidents—Eisenhower, Ford, Carter, and Bush. Words are not just personal but corporeal—we write them with our hands, speak them with our mouths, and bear the scars they inflict in our bodies. The lexicographer's challenge is to acknowledge this embodied reality while striving for objectivity. As Kory noted, "Lexicographers can grow inured to slurs while defining them, but we all have our own lived experiences that prove words have substance." This human element reminds us that dictionaries, for all their authority, are created by people with their own perspectives and blind spots. The best lexicography acknowledges this limitation while still striving to document language with compassion, precision, and an awareness of how words shape our shared reality.

Chapter 6: Beyond Grammar: How Dictionaries Actually Work

In one of her early Style and Defining classes, Kory heard Gil bellow the word "good" at the new lexicographers. "Adjective or adverb?" he asked. She confidently answered, "It's an adjective," remembering how a language arts teacher had corrected her whenever she said "I don't feel good" instead of "I feel well." Gil then asked, "What about 'I'm doing good'? Isn't that adverbial?" She felt not so good—that was adverbial. "But," she reasoned, "you're not supposed to say that. You should say 'I'm doing well.'" He smacked his lips and pointed out that she had just minutes earlier answered his question about her progress with "I'm doing good." Then he explained that "good" has been used as an adverb for almost a thousand years, despite usage commentators condemning this use. Dictionaries, he explained, record language as it is used, not as some believe it should be used. Her tower of grammatical certainty began crumbling, bricks falling all over the place. This was her introduction to the philosophical battle between prescriptivism and descriptivism. Prescriptivists champion what they consider "best practices" of English, while descriptivists observe and record how language is actually used. Many people believe dictionaries should be guardians of proper English, setting boundaries around this profligate language like a linguistic housemother setting curfew. But that's not how dictionaries work. They don't just enter the good stuff; they enter the bad and ugly too. All a word needs to merit entry is widespread and sustained use in written English prose. This descriptive approach explains why Merriam-Webster included "irregardless" in their dictionary, despite widespread hatred of the word. When Kory discovered this entry, she was shocked—until she began researching its history. "Irregardless" wasn't just a static irritation but an active force of language growth. It had developed a second, emphatic meaning sometime in the nineteenth century that had spread through various speaking communities. In short order, she became America's foremost "irregardless" apologist. One incredulous email response continued to claim "irregardless" wasn't a real word: "It's a made-up word that made it into the dictionary through constant use!" She cackled before responding. Of course it is—that's how all words enter the dictionary. The dictionary isn't a rulebook but a record of our ongoing conversation with each other. It captures a moment in our ever-changing relationship with words, documenting not just what we say but how we say it. This approach recognizes that language belongs to all its speakers—not just the educated or powerful—and celebrates its wild beauty and adaptability. Rather than lamenting change, lexicographers might encourage us to appreciate how language reflects our collective creativity and resilience. Next time you encounter a usage that makes you cringe, remember that today's error might be tomorrow's standard. The language is thus not protected but documented, in all its messy, evolving glory.

Summary

The secret life of words reveals that language is not a fortress to be defended but a living ecosystem that grows and changes with us. Through the meticulous work of lexicographers, we glimpse how words evolve, how meanings shift, and how our collective usage shapes the dictionary—not the other way around. From the crushing pressure of defining thousands of words under relentless deadlines to the surprising complexity of tiny words like "take," from the cultural minefields surrounding words like "marriage" and "bitch" to the persistent myths about word origins, the lexicographer's journey illuminates not just language but human nature itself. This exploration reminds us to approach language with humility rather than rigid certainty. The words we use aren't fixed entities but living things that evolve with us. When we recognize that language belongs to all its speakers—not just the educated or powerful—we can appreciate its wild beauty and adaptability. Rather than seeing dictionaries as arbiters of correctness, we might view them as faithful chroniclers of our ongoing conversation with each other. The next time you encounter a usage that makes you cringe or a word that seems to be changing meaning, remember that this is how language has always worked: not through committees or authorities, but through the messy, creative process of human communication. In embracing this perspective, we might find not just a deeper appreciation for words, but a more compassionate understanding of the diverse ways we express ourselves and make meaning together.

About Author

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Kory Stamper

Kory Stamper is a lexicographer (that is, a writer and editor of dictionaries) at Merriam-Webster (the dictionary). She has written and appeared in the "Ask the Editor" video series at Merriam-Webster, and has traveled around the world giving talks and lectures on language and lexicography. Her writing has appeared in a number of publications, including The Washington Post, The Guardian and The New York Times. A medievalist by training, she knows a number of languages, most of them dead. She drinks more coffee and owns more dictionaries than is good for anyone.

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