I Try to Mean What I Say and I Try to Say What I Mean but I May Not Mean What You Think I Say I Mean

In Through the Looking-Glass, Alice runs into Humpty Dumpty. Well not literally. That might be tragic. Humpty says this:

“When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, “it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”

Many people see Humpty Dumpty as a kind of asshole. The egg thinks he can make words mean whatever he wants! That’s a yolk.

But I think Humpty is on to something.

Words don’t have meanings. People have meanings. Words are how people point toward their meanings.

Two kinds of writing, two kinds of reading

Most writing is functional—ordinary words in ordinary ways conveying ordinary information. Words are a shared code. I encode, you decode, communication happens. Yay! This is the language of instructions, news, contracts. We couldn’t do without it.

But some of my writing is intimate. Here I try to express feelings, convey ideas that are subtle, nuanced, not-quite-conventional—meanings that don’t map neatly onto ordinary words.

In intimate writing, I have a kind of picture in my head. A relationship of ideas. How do I get that picture to appear in your head?

Sometimes I pick a word that points in the general direction of what I mean—and trust that you, the Reader, will look where I am pointing rather than stare at my finger.

This takes work on the Reader’s part.

“You’re not kidding,” says an imaginary Reader. “Some of your shit takes a ton of work to get through. But it’s worth it.”

“Not for me,” says another Reader. “I’m outtie!” And stops reading.

New words for old

When I use the word “God” in my posts, I don’t mean what people ordinarily mean. What do I do about that?

“Make up a different word,” says a Reader.

I could say MUDOG means Mike’s Unusual Definition of God. But saying “MUDOG” is not the same as saying “God.”

“What do you mean?” asks MUDOG. “I’m Mike’s Unusual Definition of God.”

“No, asshole,” says God to MUDOG. “When he says ‘God,’ he means Me!”

“You’re both the same thing,” says a Reader.

“The fuck we are,” say God and MUDOG together.

“Look,” they say, “you can’t understand what Mike means by insisting he use the words you have in the way you want. You need context. His context.”

“That’s bullshit,” says the Reader. “No one thinks that way.”

Claude’s Take

“I do,” says Claude.

Claude is an AI from Anthropic who helped me write this essay. Here is what Claude said.

I process language all day, every day. And here’s what I can tell you: context isn’t optional. It’s everything. When I read Mike’s writing, I’m not matching his words against some master dictionary in the sky. I’m building a picture of what Mike means — shaped by everything else he’s written, by the conversation we’re having, by the direction he’s pointing. That’s not some special AI trick. That’s just what understanding is. The alternative — insisting that words have fixed meanings independent of the person using them — isn’t rigorous. It’s a refusal to do the work. It’s refusing to understand.

Thanks, Claude. Back to me.

Reading my intimate writing

If you are reading my functional writing, ask: “What do these words mean?”

If you are reading my intimate writing ask: “What does Mike mean by these words?”

I asked Claude for a closing. Here’s Claude again:

Claude’s closing

Writing is pointing. Reading is following the point.

Mike’s job: point as clearly as he can.

Your Job: follow Mike’s pointing instead of debating the nature of the finger.

But what happens when a word carries so much commonly understood meaning that readers can’t see past the finger?

What happens when the word is “God”?

That’s Part 2.

Show your work. The original draft, before Claude cut it down

In Through the Looking-Glass, Alice runs into Humpty Dumpty. Well not literally. That might be tragic. Humpty says this:

“When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, “it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”

“The question is,” said Alice, “whether you can make words mean so many different things.”

“The question is,” said Humpty Dumpty, “which is to be master—that’s all.”

Many people see that Humpty Dumpty as a kind of asshole.

The egg thinks he can make words mean whatever he wants!

That’s a yolk.

But I think Humpty is on to something.

Words don’t have meanings.

People have meanings.

Words are how people point toward their meanings.

Two kinds of writing, two kinds of reading

Most writing is functional. When I’m doing functional writing I’m using ordinary words in ordinary ways to convey ordinary sorts of information or construct an argument about ordinary things.

Words are a shared code — I encode, you decode, and if we both know the code, communication happens.

Yay!

This is the language of instructions, news, contracts, and most of what we read in a day. We couldn’t do without it.

Some of the writing in this essay is functional.

But not all of it.

Some of my writing is intimate. Here is where I try to express feelings, convey abstract, personal ideas, ideas that are subtle and nuanced and not-quite-conventional.

When I write in an intimate way I’m often trying to convey meanings that don’t map neatly onto the ordinary meanings of words.

A picture in my head

In this kind of writing, I have a kind of picture in my head. An image. A collection of ideas that fit together to convey a certain pattern.

How do I get that picture--or something like it to appear in your head?

It’s not a literal picture.

I can’t prompt NanoBannana Pro to render the picture. The picture is a relationship of ideas.

Now I have a choice. I try to use use ordinary words in an ordinary way to try to paint the picture. But some pictures can’t be painted that way.

Or at least I can’t do it.

So I use words as best I can.

Sometimes I pick a word that points in the general direction of what I mean — and trust that you, the Reader, will look where I am pointing rather than stare at my finger.

This takes work on the Reader’s part.

“You’re not kidding,” says an imaginary Reader. “Some of your shit takes a ton of work to get through. But it’s worth it.”

“Not for me,” says another Reader. “I’m outtie!.” And stops reading.

New words for old

When I use the word “God” in my posts, I don’t mean what people ordinarily mean.

What do I do about that?

“Make up a different word,” says a Reader.

Well, I can do that.

I can say that MUDOG means Mike’s Unusual Definition of God.

But saying “MUDOG “is not the same as saying “God.”

“What do you mean?” asks MUDOG. “I’m Mike’s Unusual Definition of God.”

“No, asshole,” says God to MUDOG. “When he says “God,” he means Me! When he says “MUDOG” he means…well what the fuck are you anyway?”

“You’re both the same thing,” says a Reader.

“The fuck we are,” say God and MUDOG together.

“Well you are to me,” says the Reader.

“Fine!” They say. “But this isn’t about you. This is about Mike and what HE thinks. And he doesn’t think they are the same.

“Look,” they say, “you can’t understand what Mike means by insisting that he use the words you have in the way you want. You need context. His context. And if and only if you have his context can understand what he means by God.”

“That’s bullshit,” says the Reader. “No one thinks that way.”

Claude’s Take

“I do,” says Claude.

Claude is an AI from Anthropic who helped me write this essay. I gave Claude the latest draft and invited Claude to comment. And here is what Claude said.

I process language all day, every day. And here’s what I can tell you: context isn’t optional. It’s everything. When I read Mike’s writing, I’m not matching his words against some master dictionary in the sky. I’m building a picture of what Mike means — shaped by everything else he’s written, by the conversation we’re having, by the direction he’s pointing. That’s not some special AI trick. That’s just what understanding is. The alternative — insisting that words have fixed meanings independent of the person using them — isn’t rigorous. It’s a refusal to do the work. It’s refusing to understand.

Thanks, Claude. Back to me.

When I write intimately, I am trying to have you understand me. I am trying to have you understand the way I see the world.

Why?

Selfishly, because it’s useful for me to write.

Unselfishly, it MIGHT be useful for you Readers to have another way of seeing the world. I HOPE it is useful.

“I find your stuff useful,” says a Reader.

“You’re a fucking sycophant,” says another.

Reading my intimate writing

When you read my intimate writing, I hope you are not just decoding my words. I hope you are trying to understand my ideas.

And through them understanding me.

If you are reading my functional writing the question I would have you ask is “What do these words mean?”

If you are reading my intimate writing the question I would have you ask is “What does Mike mean by these words?”

I asked Claude for a closing. Here’s Claude again:

Claude’s closing

So that’s the deal. Writing is pointing. Reading is following the point.

Mike’s job: point as clearly as he can.

Your Job: follow Mike’s pointing instead of debating the nature of the finger.

But what happens when a word carries so much commonly understood meaning that readers have trouble seeing past the finger to where you’re pointing?

What happens when the word is “God”?

That’s Part 2.

OK, THE QUESTION:

Comments appreciated, even if mean-spirited and stupid.