At a popular rooftop restaurant one recent balmy Saturday, I noticed that many of the best tables, while currently empty (it was early by urban standards), were topped by signs reading "promised."
The use of promised instead of reserved felt both strategic and comforting, though perhaps management intended neither impression.
But consider. Both words come from Latin.
Reserved, from "re" meaning back and "servare" meaning to keep = to keep back. It's exclusive and exclusionary, an entitlement withheld from others.
Promised, from "pro" meaning forward and "mittere" meaning send = to send forward. It's a pledge, an expectation, a positive indication of some future outcome.
Knowing tables were already promised to others just hits differently than does seating I can't use because it isn't for me.
I'd never advise consulting a thesaurus solely for the sake of variety. But are we as careful to choose our words for our manuscript or draft as we should be?
I've written many times before about connotation, and how the vocabulary we use conveys all sorts of things beyond the thing itself: tone, attitude, specificity, subtext. Editing our work word by word would be a painful process, and yet sometimes, a passage or character or pivotal event depends upon just one precise, excellent, well-chosen word.
Aesop's fable about the mighty lion, king of the jungle, rendered an incapacitated, sniffling, sorry mess because of a tiny thorn embedded in his paw works as a visual here.
Androcles stops to get involved because the lion, just like a troublesome passage, does not behave as expected. After locating the source and plucking out the problem, all is well.
Obviously, if it were that easy, we'd all be doing it consistently! But think about it—the task is not hard, just time-consuming. It just takes time and courage.
