This and That
Word Nerd Wednesday for people who write for work
Welcome back to Word Nerd Wednesday, where we talk about small, common words that quietly weaken otherwise strong writing.
Today’s topic is a duo that shows up everywhere in professional writing and quietly causes trouble:
this
and
that
They are not bad words.
They are words that need supervision.
Let’s start with the one I notice most often.
The Floating “This”
The floating this is when the word this appears in a sentence without a clear reference point—just… gesturing.
Whenever I read it, I immediately picture Moira Rose from Schitt’s Creek—dramatically sweeping one arm across a room, eyes blazing, voice fully committed—declaring:
This.
No noun.
No explanation.
Just confidence.
Examples:
This is important.
This creates confusion.
This needs to change.
Reader response:
This WHAT.
I see this constantly in client work—smart people writing sentences that sound finished but aren’t.
The floating this assumes your reader has followed your entire train of thought, hasn’t blinked, hasn’t checked their phone, and is emotionally aligned with you.
That’s a lot to ask of someone reading an email between meetings.
A floating this is the written equivalent of a grand theatrical gesture with no follow-up. It’s pure Moira Rose energy—dramatic, sweeping, and completely unspecific.
Why Writers Love “This”
Because this feels decisive. It shortens sentences, and lets us move on without restating the thing we’re already tired of thinking about.
But clarity doesn’t come from drama.
It comes from naming the thing.
Most fixes are boring and extremely effective:
This → This decision
This → This sentence
This → This approach
Yes, it adds a word or two.
No, it doesn’t weaken your writing.
You’ve saved your reader from having to guess what you waved your arm at.
And Then There’s “That”
Let me say this about “that.” (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.)
If this floats, that clings.
“That” attaches itself to sentences like it’s afraid to be left behind. A word barnacle.
The fact that she realized that this was the moment that everything changed…
That sentence needs a break.
We use that because it sounds official. Serious. Like something that belongs in a memo, a report, or an email written entirely in Times New Roman.
Here’s the truth:
Most thats are optional.
They’re hoping you won’t notice.
The “That” Test
Delete that.
If the sentence still works—and it almost always does—you didn’t need it.
You’re not dumbing anything down.
You’re tightening the writing.
When “This” and “That” Team Up
This is where meaning quietly exits the building.
This is something that creates confusion.
Now we have:
a floating this
a clinging that
and a sentence that sounds productive while saying almost nothing
Compare it to:
This sentence structure creates confusion.
Same idea.
Actual meaning.
Why This Matters (Yes, I Did That on Purpose)
If you write for work, your reader is busy. They’re skimming. Deciding whether to trust you.
If your sentence makes them stop to figure out what you meant, you’ve already lost ground.
Floating this and unnecessary that slow them down—not because your idea is complex, but because your sentence didn’t finish the job.
And no one wants to reread a sentence just to figure out what you meant.
The Lesson
You don’t need to eliminate this and that from your writing.
You need to make them earn their place.
Every this should clearly point to something specific
Every that should justify its continued employment
If it can’t, it’s out.
No dramatic gestures. No vague declarations.
Next time you edit your own writing, do a quick pass just to look for this and that. You’ll be surprised how much clearer—and more confident—your writing feels when nothing is floating, and nothing is clinging.
Your reader doesn’t live in your head. They only have the words on the page.
Choose wisely.


"Why This Matters (Yes, I Did That on Purpose)" =brilliant!
Oh, if only more people would consider grammar (and punctuation) when composing their emails. I try to be as concise and direct as I can in my emails, always use Grammarly to fix my mistakes because my hands cannot type as fast as my brain thinks, and I hope others appreciate that. Emails, in my opinion, should not contain short, cryptic lines of text that may aspire to be sentences, but fall short. We are not "talking" to each other in an email; we are corresponding. And, conversely, emails should not take minutes to read. Direct and to the point, with a little humanity thrown in, is perfect. Sorry, rant over.