Here is how to project an image of academic idiocy: use the wrong
version of a fancy label. For example, people will laugh if you propose the
“tenants” of a program, rather than the “tenets.” Another way to appear foolish is
by mispronouncing words. Once upon a time a doc student was explaining to me
her lack of experience and confided about her NAY-uh-VET (rhyming with
Corvette) when she was thinking about her naiveté (audio clip). Sure, we all make mistakes in our rush to send
messages and automatic spellcheckers are not always helpful. For example, here
is my mother’s email (not from a famous writer) sent
to all her children the day after Thanksgiving: “Today
I cooked a turkey breast, had cranberries, graveyard, and dressing.”
There are many examples I could give but I wanted to share interesting
contrasts instead.
Reviewing manuscripts for research journals is a responsibility of
professors. A challenge with this type of activity is not simply to decide
whether a given manuscript is good or not. Instead, the decision pivots on the
potential of the manuscript to perhaps be improved to be acceptable. Every
manuscript can be improved but not all authors exhibit the capacity to make
their manuscript salvageable. The type of feedback that I give depends on my
perception of the author’s talents. If their research has promise, then I will
suggest ways of restructuring the material, offer ideas about how to present
the ideas, or encourage the inclusion of more front and/or back matter to build
coherence. Oftentimes, the type of input I supply hinges on whether I think my
efforts to explain will translate into genuine refinements in a subsequent
version of the manuscript. I am typically optimistic about every new manuscript
I am asked to review. Beyond the quality of the writing, the qualities of the
writer often end up tipping the scales.
So here I am, reviewing a manuscript that is just okay. The
research question is interesting but not compelling, the methodology is
adequate but not skillfully deployed, and the interpretations are accurate but
not ambitious. I’m frustrated because I can envision what could be done – but I
am unsure whether the time I would spend pointing out the flaws, suggesting
alternatives, and indicating good role models is worthwhile. And then I notice
the author attempted a flourish that breaks my confidence in his or her
sincerity. Just as when somebody name drops or flashes arrogance in
conversation, I realize the person is less concerned about clarity and more
invested in showing off. The offense: using “cf.” is a clumsy and inaccurate
manner. Why does this little abbreviation induce aggravation? Because it
discloses an underlying lack of thoughtfulness and suggests that the sparkle
will distract from the lack of substance. The parallel is putting glitter on a
science fair project board to compensates for the absence of care with the
process. I’d rather check Facebook for the twentieth time today rather than
waste energy offering edits that the recipient is unlikely to navigate. Because
this misuse of “cf.” is increasingly common, I am attempting to dissuade its
perpetuation. For those who might actually take the time to wonder about
whether their use of “cf.” is correct, maybe they will stumble across this
post. I realize just how unlikely this is. At best, the subsequent paragraph ¶
is archived here so I can drop it into all future reviews.
The “cf.” is from the Latin conferre and indicates that the subsequent citation
contrasts with the claim just made. In other words, to signal to the reader
that opinions vary and a contrary view appears elsewhere, the “cf.” is apropos
as in “We endorse the belief that learning does not necessarily derive from
experience (cf. Dewey, 1910).” There is only one period in “cf.” because it is
an abbreviation of one word. Only use “cf.” if there is a desire to indicate
that another author offers an alternative view. If you are instead trying to
point the reader to other sources that are examples, then “e.g.,” is the proper
abbreviation. A stupid way to remember this is: “eg”-sample. Why two periods?
Because the original Latin phrase was two words: exempli gratia (literally “for the sake of an example”). Why the
comma? Because that’s how it uttered: “for example [pause].” And what of the
“i.e.” abbreviation? First of all, it comes from two Latin words; that’s why
there are two periods. Second, those two words are “id est” which translate to
“that is.” Third, a comma follows the abbreviation. A simpleton’s mnemonic (not “pneumonic”) for “i.e.” could be “in essence.” In summary,
if you were reading your text aloud and would say “for example” then use “e.g.”
If instead you wanted to restate using an alternate, synonymous phrase as in
“that is” then insert “i.e.” in the sentence. But, if you are asserting a claim
that others view differently, then precede that citation with “cf.” as if you
want to say “compare this with” followed by the citation revealing you have a
substantive knowledge of your field.
In all likelihood there are things about my writing that irritate
those who review my work. Maybe I use flourishes that make readers fidget. I
don’t even know exactly what it is I do that others find so wrong. Perhaps this
unknowing is liberating because I don’t fear my use of unacceptable
phrasing, punctuation or descriptions
in threesomes. Given my inevitable flaws, I apologize about my clumsy
writing and would welcome your efforts to correct my flubs. It was in this
spirit that I composed this request for others to discontinue using “cf.” until they know
what they are doing.
