The other day I was talking to a friend about a recipe I saw online. I told them that instead of serving ribs at our baby shower, I think I want to make burnt ends. Growing up, my family always used hot links, but lately I keep seeing recipes that call for smoked kielbasa.
My friend looked at me and said they’d never had a burnt end that wasn’t a type of sausage.
I was confused.
I said, “You’re missing out! Burnt ends are usually made from brisket, and some people even make them with ribs.”
Then I explained that kielbasa is sausage. It’s simply the Polish word for sausage, even though in the United States we’ve come to associate it with one specific variety you buy at the grocery store.
The conversation itself wasn’t a big deal. People don’t know things. That’s normal.
What bothered me was that there was never a moment of curiosity. There wasn’t a “What’s kielbasa?” or “I didn’t know that.” It was just an assumption that their understanding was correct.
That reminded me of another conversation we had recently.
I mentioned wanting to completely retcon the novel I’ve been working on because there’s a litany of problems with both the outline and what I’ve already written.
They stopped me.
“What’s litany?”
Again, that’s completely fine. No one knows every word. I certainly don’t.
But it made me wonder: how many times do people go through life encountering words they don’t know without ever looking them up? Is it embarrassment? Is it a lack of curiosity? Or have we simply gotten comfortable filling in the blanks instead of expanding our vocabulary?
To me, this feels like a literacy problem.
Not because people can’t technically read, but because reading has become something we do to get information as quickly as possible instead of something that challenges us.
We’ve also reached a point where texting has become our primary form of communication, and I think it’s changed how many of us write. Grammar, sentence structure, punctuation, and even vocabulary often become secondary because a text message doesn’t demand much precision.
Then ask someone to write a professional email.
Suddenly they need spell check, AI, Grammarly, or another tool to make it sound polished.
There’s nothing wrong with using those tools. I use them too. But they should be helping us communicate more effectively—not replacing skills we never developed in the first place.
And if I’m already noticing this among people my own age, I can’t help but wonder what it will look like for my niece, who’s still in school, or for today’s graduating classes.
What will it be like when my own child starts school?
According to national literacy assessments, many American adults read below a high school level, and a significant percentage read around the equivalent of middle school. Reading words isn’t the same thing as deeply understanding them, making connections, or analyzing complex ideas.
Those are different skills.
I’ve also noticed this in the books I’ve been reading lately.
So many novels recommended on TikTok leave me frustrated because they’re filled with grammatical mistakes, awkward sentence structure, repetitive vocabulary, and paragraphs that feel underdeveloped. The stories themselves may be entertaining, but I often find myself wishing they had gone through another round of editing.
Maybe that’s part of why books with richer prose feel intimidating to so many readers now.
I don’t think it’s because people are incapable of appreciating beautiful writing.
I think we’ve stopped expecting it.
Imagine introducing someone to Lord Byron or Jane Austen today. Their writing requires patience, attention, and a willingness to sit with unfamiliar words instead of immediately reaching for simpler language.
I’m not arguing that every modern book needs to sound like it was written in the nineteenth century. Language evolves, and that’s a good thing.
But I do think we’ve begun confusing accessibility with oversimplification.
I want more for our society than that.
I want schools that encourage curiosity. I want people who aren’t afraid to ask what a word means. I want readers who see an unfamiliar word and think, I’m going to learn something today.
Because that’s how vocabulary grows.
That’s how critical thinking grows.
That’s how literature grows.
People often worry about books being banned or burned. Those are real concerns. But another threat is quieter: a culture where people simply stop reading—or stop reading anything that challenges them.
No one has to burn books if we stop opening them in the first place.
