During her Senate hearing this week, Judge Sonia Sotomayor seemed to make no major gaffe that would threaten her confirmation as the next justice of the U.S. Supreme Court. In fact, one of the few errors ascribed to her was her use of the word eminent rather than imminent. When asked about the right of self-defense, she replied that the law permits self-defense in situations presenting an eminent danger.

While listening to the exchange, I felt a brief twinge of confusion, but I didn’t consciously notice the error. My brain adjusted, replacing the offending word with the correct, similar-sounding one. The human mind is remarkably agile that way.

While this is true of word usage, it’s less true when it comes to grammar—such as when an adjective is used instead of an adverb. Think of usage as a curtain and grammar as the rod: A curtain remains functional even if it doesn’t quite match the decor. But when the rod’s integrity is compromised, it will tumble down, taking the most beautiful curtains with it.

When someone of Judge Sotomayor’s education and intellect misspeaks, it reminds us that we’re all fallible. Little errors like this are nothing to fret about. They don’t generally impede communication. In writing, however, such errors are more obvious and less excusable. One advantage of writing over speaking is the opportunity to edit. Make the most of it.

I  hate to pick on CNN, but it happened again. I heard another grammatical error from a broadcaster who should know better: Wolf Blitzer used the word anxious today when he meant eager. In standard usage, to be anxious is to be filled with anxiety. A person who is looking forward to an event with pleasure, rather than gnawing uncertainty, is eager.

Does it matter? In casual conversation, probably not. Most people don’t know the difference, which suggests that the distinction will be lost before long. But eager is the more precise word. It doesn’t lend overtones of worry or distress. So if you’re trying to convey unwavering happiness, use eager.

In some circumstances, though, the ambiguity of anxious can work in your favor. It can add an undercurrent of tension to an otherwise benign or celebratory mood. In an essay, it can be ironic. In dialogue, it can betray a character’s nervousness about what ought to be a happy event: “I’m anxious to pick out my wedding dress!”

In most discourse, however, eager is the better choice. To grammarphiles like me, anxious sounds wrong; to sticklers, it is wrong, and they may  fault you for it. If you break the rules, at least do it knowingly so you won’t be caught off guard.

You can understand why the average English speaker might not know that “all right” is supposed to be two words.  After all, the spelling “alright” is ubiquitous. It follows the same pattern as “already” and “altogether.” But usage experts still claim that it’s substandard.

I use “all right” exclusively, because I know what the experts say. Yet I question their wisdom. There’s more going on here than just spelling. “Alright” is an idiomatic expression. It doesn’t mean that all is right. Consider the following sentences:

This Wikipedia article is all wrong.

This Wikipedia article is all right.

This Wikipedia article is alright.

The first and second sentences seem to function as opposites of one another, while the third lies in between. If you wanted to rigorously follow usage rules, yet still avoid any chance of misunderstanding, you’d have to rewrite the last two sentences:

This Wikipedia article is correct.

This Wikipedia article is OK.

What’s the point of even having a word if you can’t use it?

The acceptance of a different spelling to accompany the different meaning strikes me as logical and useful, and the prohibition against it as pedantic and ultimately indefensible. The old spelling has nothing but history in its favor. Furthermore, the original spelling hasn’t got that much of a historical advantage. According to Fowler’s Modern English Usage, the idiom is first recorded in 1837, and the variant spelling in 1893. That’s a mere 56 years to evolve from two words to one—a long time by today’s standards, but back then, they mailed letters and read newspapers. Written language flowed at a slower pace.

So if you’re counting votes, put me down for “alright.” Even if I’m too much of a coward to use it.

“And now, a story we feel passionately about…” Kyra Phillips said today on CNN as she introduced a story on veterans’ benefits. I’m glad CNN is passionate about protecting the rights of our war heroes, but that use of “feel passionately” made me cringe. I don’t expect the average American to know that feel is usually a linking verb, and therefore takes a complement. But I do expect journalists to know it.

I learned that lesson back in fourth grade (yes, I was a grammar geek even then). In addition to the verb be, my teacher explained, ten other verbs are commonly used as linking verbs: appear, become, continue, feel, grow, look, seem, smell, sound, and taste. These verbs join the subject to another word in the sentence—a predicate noun, a predicate pronoun, or a predicate adjective. Never an adverb.

“We feel passionately” should have been “we feel passionate.” Why? Because “passionate” describes “we,” not “feel.” If it described “feel,” it would refer to the quality of the sense of touch. And I don’t think it’s appropriate for the people at CNN to comment during a news broadcast on the passionate nature of their feels.

This error is probably seen most frequently in the sentence, “I feel badly.” Unless the speaker’s tactile sense is impaired due to injury, degenerative condition, or genetic defect, that sentence should read, “I feel bad.” People seem to have less trouble with the other linking verbs, happily crying, “That sounds good!” or “That cheese smells bad!” But feel seems a troublemaker. So if you’re ever confused about whether to use an adjective or an adverb after the verb feel, remember Maria in West Side Story. She got it right.

Yesterday’s STC Carolina Chapter event got me wondering: Is it open mike or open mic? I’ve seen it spelled both ways. So I checked my dictionary, which lists mike as the preferred spelling, and mic as a variant. Other dictionaries I consulted didn’t include mic at all. Still unsatisfied, I checked Bryan A. Garner’s Dictionary of Modern American Usage (1998 edition).  Garner argues, “Whereas mike more immediately suggests the pronunciation, mic more immediately suggests the longer form. All in all, mic might be considered preferable.”

When faced with a situation where dictionaries and style guides disagree, I’m inclined to follow the style guide. After all, dictionaries are tasked with documenting what usage is, and style guides with what usage ought to be. So the next question I ask is, which spelling is more readable? Unfortunately, in this case, I find both spellings jarring, especially when divorced from the word open:

Turn up the mike’s volume.
Step back from the mic to avoid feedback.

Given that both spellings are informal anyway, perhaps the best approach generally is to spell out microphone except in dialogue and quotations, and reserve the short form for spoken language. But open microphone just won’t do. Spelling out the full word in a common colloquialism sounds pedantic.

So the next question is, who’s the audience? Most audiences won’t care, and if they question your spelling, they’ll consult a dictionary. So use mike. But an audience of writers may care, and like Bryan Garner, they may be unimpressed by the dictionary’s capitulation to sound over sense. It comes down to personal preference. You’re probably safe either way, as long as you’re consistent. Keep in mind, though, that the masses will win out eventually. When it comes to spelling, they always do.