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About This Author
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Max's Musings
A math guy's random thoughts.
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Cheeky Nandos
After last week's blog on the varieties of American English, I stumbled across this blog  post about the international varieties of English. It's about cheeky Nandos.
Say what?
I suggest you first glance at the blog and peruse some of the impenetrable explanations of what this term means. Here's one, by way of example:
it’s when u and the lads are having a bit of banter in town and ur mate is like “im hungry lets go greggs” but then ur like “nah man not feeling a pasty lets go somewhere else” and then ur top mate (probs called Gaz) is like “oi lads lets go for a cheeky nandos” and ur like oh gaz ur a ledge
After that clear and concise explanation, you know exactly what a cheeky Nandos is, right?
No? Well, let me help you, based on some Googling. From context I can figure out a bit of this up front. "Pasty" is what we in in the US call "pastry," so "Gregg's" must be a place to buy, say, donuts. Sure enough, Google verifies Gregg's is a UK chain that sells "pasties." A "mate" is of course a bud, but why would your BFF be called "Gaz" (short for Gary on the other side of the Atlantic)? Got me, but it's not essential to understanding a cheeky Nando. Now we come to the term in question, "cheeky Nando." Since Nandos is an alternative to Gregg's, it must also be a food chain in the UK. Sure enough, Google tells me that Nandos is UK chain that sells fried chicken among other things. So, the buds in the above have decided to have KFC rather than donuts. "Ledge" is probably short for "legend," and the urban dictionary verifies this.
But that still doesn't answer why the Nando's chicken is cheeky. I think I get "cheeky" in general. Depending on context, we Yanks might say "impertinent," "sassy," "brassy," or even "saucy," but that doesn't quite fit here. Basically, as nearly as I can tell, a "cheeky Nandos" is an unexpected suggestion to have chicken. It's fun, a bit clever, and perhaps a touch irresponsible. It reeks of a charming insouciance.
In a US context, then, these buds know that they should do the responsible thing, say catch some reps at the gym or hang with the old ball and chain. Instead, they kick back and suck some brewskies, maybe slinging some #bantersaurusrex or even #barackobanter. Then they get the munchies, and consider snarfing down some Krispy Kremes. But when one of the dogs goes hey, let's do the Colonel, they're all over it like #sheldononflags.
Does that help? Of course, I have no idea if I got this right, even in the US version. But it was kind of fun researching it.
If anyone can tell me what a "cheeky Nandos" really is, there's the comment section below.
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Odd Things
Here's an odd thing. Just now, checking my Facebook page, I saw an entry with an enticing title that lured me into clicking on it. I'm sure you've done the same thing. You click, and your browser opens a page so clogged with ads that it takes forever (well, two or three seconds) to load. Now it's both enticing and annoying. Next, what lured you into click Hell isn't on the page. At least, not yet. You have to load a dozen or more glacial pages to find out which cast members of Star Trek hated each other (like we didn't already know), or what Amy and Sheldon were not going to do on Big Bang Theory next season (like that could possibly be a surprise).
Anyway, this morning's foray into advertising quicksand was called "Fifteen odd things about America that Americans don't realize." The odd thing was, I realized all of them, but I plowed through the list anyway. Why I would be so stupid might be an interesting blog topic, but the banality of stupidity seems, well, boring.
Anyway, the other odd thing about the list of odd things was that it spoke of America and Americans as though we are one people with one language. Anyone who has lived in more than one region knows this isn't true.
Consider, for example, the "pop-soda" debate. My first time in a Texas restaurant, the waitress asked me what kind of "Coke" I wanted to go with my meal. Thinking of the Saturday Night Live skit, and being a something of a smart a**, I said, "No Coke. Pepsi."
To my amazement, she nodded and wrote it down. I had no idea that in this part of the US, "Coke" meant what I was used to calling "pop," and what other parts of the country called "soda." See this map for where "Coke" means "pop."
There are other linguistic peculiarities. At the grocery store, do you put your purchases in a sack or a bag? Those big ruts in the street: are they potholes or chuckholes? Is a "tablet" something you write on or an aspirin? In Oklahoma, "tires" is pronounced "tars," and "relaters" sell houses. See here for 122 regional dialect variations in US English.
As authors, we need to be aware of these differences, both for authenticity and to avoid baffling our readers. We can't know what we don't know--where have I heard that before? Our prose could be indecipherable if our private eye asks for a tablet and her assistant hands her a notebook while the readers are expecting a hangover cure.
In fact, there is good reason to believe that the US really consists of eleven distinct and quite different cultural groups--eleven nations if you will. This article gives the historical reasons for this, and describes the general characteristics of each "nation."
But that's another whole blog.
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Standards Based Learning and Contests
Running a contest is a lot of work. It requires a big investment of time and resources. Why would anyone do that?
Everyone will probably have a different answer. Maybe it's payback to the community for the help we all got as newbies. Maybe it's a marketing strategy for our published fiction. Maybe it just feels good to provide a service to the others. You'll notice a theme that runs through these reasons. They all involve being helpful in some way to the people who participate in the contest.
Now, you might argue that the marketing motive is pure self-interest and "helpfulness" isn't required. That's true, but only in part. A writing contest involves judging, which in turn involves standards. Whether intentional or not, holding contestants to standards is a learning experience for them. All publishers have expectations. Readers have expectations. Part of our job as authors is to learn how to write to meet those expectations. Entering contests teaches how to do that. That's helpful to the contestant. Eventually, as our skills increase, we can even learn how to stretch expectations.
The point is that all contests involve setting standards and judging entries, and this in turn involves learning for the contestants. Well-conceived contests will connect the standards--the contest rules--to the judging in clear and unambiguous ways.
In doing this, we can benefit from the experience of professional educators. There is a comprehensive body of practice and knowledge about standards-based learning that has evolved over the last few decades. It started at the elementary school level, but today it's an accreditation standard that applies to even the most advanced doctoral programs. At the fundamental level, those responsible for academic programs establish learning objectives and then design activities through which students acquire knowledge and skills. In doing so, students accumulate evidence that they have learned. Under this scheme, grades connect to levels of learning in a direct and clear manner.
In this context, a contest can--and I would argue should--have learning objectives. These can be pretty simple: for example, "write a horror story between 1000 and 3000 words long." That establishes clear objectives. In fact, this is the editorial direction many publications provide authors. Other common directives from editors might include proper grammar and spelling. Many say they want something "new," which in a contest might translate to "creativity" or "originality."
Experience shows that editors also pay attention--at least for beginning authors--to basic elements of craft. These might include starting in media res,, avoiding passive voice, not over-using adverbs, or not starting with a disembodied voice. Point of view is another difficult thing for beginning authors to master and might be a contest element. In the case of my own contest, "Invalid Item" , third person limited point of view is the focus.
The point is that in creating the judging standards for a contest, we are establishing external objectives for the authors. When we actually assess the entries, we are evaluating how well the contestants have demonstrated mastery--learning--of the contest objectives. The contest, then, is an opportunity for contestants both to learn and to demonstrate learning.
Finally, in a well-run contest the entrants should all be treated with respect. Among other things, this means that every entrant should receive some kind of feedback. In providing feedback, especially to newbies, respect means taking the work seriously and providing an honest evaluation. Believe, me, I know how annoying it can be to have contestants disregard the rules. But an "honest evaluation" is not an invitation to be mean-spirited or petty. In fact, I'd go so far as to say feedback to contestants should be nice. Following the "standards-based" principle, what I mean by "nice" is that the feedback should do the following things: it should
Nurture talent;
Inspire excellence;
Celebrate creativity; and
Encourage improvement.
It's a scary thing to put your fiction out there in the cruel world. If you want to be helpful to your contestants, you'll be honest, but you'll also honor what they have done. Providing feedback that aligns with the above simple rules will have better effect than any harsh scolding.
So, whatever your goal for your contest, my advice is to establish what kind of standards you want to apply to the judging. Be clear about those, and connect the actual judging to the standards. Provide feedback to your contestants. Above all, be nice.
Max Griffin
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Take on me is an excellent choice.
Interesting... and thankfully, not germaine to me at this time 
