Usage Misdemeanours: Flair and Flare

Discussions of taste and style often bring to light confusion over the homophone pair flair and flare. In its advertising, a restaurant might claim to have  a “flare” for French cuisine, leading word-nerd readers to joke about the possibility that there are flaming dishes on the menu. But in most cases, there’s no need for alarm since no food is on fire–flare is simply being used when flair is intended, which is the usual sort of misuse when it comes to this pair.

The definition of flair is fairly straightforward and frequently concerns matters of style. Someone who dresses with flair, for example, is stylish and fashionable by current standards, or has a style all their own. Those with flair display an aesthetic sensibility and a natural ability to be discriminating and discerning. But the idea of flair extends beyond good taste to include certain specific talents and aptitudes unique to an individual. You may have a flair for any number of things, from growing orchids to dancing the tango. Flair is invariably a noun.

Flare has a great many more definitions than flair, and can be used as both a noun and a verb. A flare is often some sort of flame, usually a dazzlingly bright one that burns unpredictably. Flares can be flames that are distress signals or those that are dropped from aircraft to illuminate a target. Any device that produces such flames is also known as a flare. In the context of fire, flare is also used as a verb, so a flare itself could be said to flare suddenly, bursting into a sudden and dramatic blaze.

A related use of flare comes from the field of astronomy. There are solar flares, which are sudden increases or decreases in the brightness of a star that result in obvious changes in the magnitude of such stars. In photography, we also have flare, generally considered a bad thing, as it refers to undesirable illumination in a photograph or negative, often visible as a foggy-looking patch, resulting from reflection within a lens.

Beyond its associations with light, flare in used as both a noun and a verb in the context of an emotional response. A sudden outburst of emotion, usually anger, is a flare or a flare-up, and your temper can be said to flare. Similarly, angry, aggressive and contagious sorts of diseases are also said to have flare-ups or to flare up. All these states are anything but subtle, and flare is also a verb that means to display something in a conspicuous way. You could, for example, flare your red scarf at someone to attract attention.

The meanings I’ve mentioned so far often involve sudden, dramatic changes or motion, but flaring can also be gentler in nature. Something that flares may widen gradually from its top or bottom. This sort of flaring is often used to describe clothing, so a dress may be said to flare slightly at the hemline. Not to be forgotten are those pants with trouser legs that widen below the knee–the ubiquitous flares or bell-bottomed pants of the ’60s and ’70s. They have been revived in less extreme forms ever since and in their current incarnation are called boot-cut pants.

I haven’t completely exhausted all the possible meanings of flare here, but I have covered the major ones. When determining whether to use flair versus flare, here are a few points to keep in mind. If it’s a verb you need in the sentence, then by default the word you must use is flare. However, if you need a noun, then deciding is a little trickier. If you’re talking about taste, style, or a particular talent or aptitude, then flair is unquestionably the word you want. If you’re talking about flames, lights, or tempers, then flare should be your choice. And no matter how much flair they may possess, trousers with wide legs are always flares.

Things I Don’t Want to Read About: The Bored Character

James sighed in exasperation as the presenter at the conference droned on and on in her flat monotone. He wasn’t even taking in anything she was saying anymore. God, how bored he was. In fact, he couldn’t remember when he’d last been so excruciatingly bored. He drummed his fingers on his desk restlessly to try to amuse himself, but it didn’t help. All he could think about was that he wished desperately he was not in the auditorium listening to the dullest presentation that anyone had ever given. He felt his mind shutting down and his eyes glazing over, and the time seemed to tick by incredibly slowly. Letting out a gaping yawn, James wondered when it would all be over so his boredom could come to a merciful end. His eyelids grew heavier and heavier, and soon he knew he would be falling asleep, his head drooping as he drifted off. He was really that bored.

* * *

Tell me the truth: at what point in the above paragraph did you decide that you really didn’t give a fig about James? Was it within the first couple of sentences?  If, after reading the first two or three, you simply skipped ahead to the second paragraph, hoping for something much more stimulating to read, I can hardly blame you for your impatience. Perhaps you are no longer even with me, as you’ve fallen asleep in front of your computer screen. If so, I offer my deepest apologies for torturing you with James’s tedious story, which I wrote myself.

Someone’s boredom has to rank among the top ten things I really don’t care to read about. But judging by how often the subject appears in writing, not everyone agrees with me. Many a writer has spilled far too much ink conveying in devastatingly mind-numbing detail the intolerable state of being bored, and many a poor protagonist has suffered the agony of being in this state.

One observation I’ve made is that authors who dwell on boredom often tend to be rather young. Perhaps, even with social media and all the other delightful distractions of the twenty-first century, many young people still experience much more boredom than older people do and are therefore much more likely to write about what it feels like. But this is not something I know for sure–I am only surmising.

Reading about boredom is, well, boring. For one thing, when an author goes on and on about the exquisite torment of his character’s boredom, the plot tends to come to a complete standstill, which is rarely a good thing in fiction. For another, bored characters  chafe at my nerves. They’re dull themselves and often unreasonably whiny. Sometimes, with the way they carry on, you’d think they’re the only people in the history of the world who have ever been so bored. And I usually want to ask (no, demand) that they try harder to be more resourceful and find creative ways of amusing themselves. After all, I’ve sat through some awfully boring presentations too, but I at least managed to come up with some impressive doodles while the presenter was droning on and on. There’s no reason why bored characters can’t choose to break out of their dreary states and become much more interesting to readers in the process.