Writing is a wonderful thing. It allows us to get things off of our minds, to remind ourselves of something, or even to communicate across long distances without the benefit of voice. The beauty of an established writing system is that, if you write something down and leave it out in the open, any literate person that walks by will be able to understand it.

However, there are times when you’d rather your writings not necessarily be understandable to others. Sometimes, like if you’re keeping a journal and detailing the various angsts and dramas of your life, you’d rather that the relevant parties not be able to read the entries. Similarly, if you’re keeping a grimoire (book of recipes and incantations), a book of shadows (for spells or other magical writings), or even just the list of top secret spices in your world famous marinara sauce, you’ll have a strong motivation to make sure that nobody else gets to to the information. In this sort of a situation, there’s a variety of different ways of going about hiding or obscuring your writing, even though you’re using the same language that everybody around you speaks.

Writing without being read

Now, assuming that you’re writing a physical document, the first, and most simple, is by hiding it. You could write your marinara sauce recipe out in perfectly understandable english, but if it’s locked in a safe at the bottom of the Atlantic, nobody will be able to read it. Similarly, if you keep your diary in a locked box, or even just have a lock on the cover, it’ll be safe from prying eyes.

However, hiding the document can fail. It’s really easy to go and answer the door, leaving your journal in plain sight for any offendable parties to find. Not to mention the fact that all locks are breakable, and if the only thing between your neighbor and your marinara sauce recipe is a cloth and cardboard locking journal, your recipe is practically already stolen.

So, the next step is to somehow hide the writing itself. Things like disappearing invisible ink or ink that’s only exposed with certain light sources are wonderful at this sort of thing. Similarly, you could use some sort of steganography (hiding information within other information), maybe putting a microdot on the page, or making the first letter of every word spell out your real meaning.

These methods have their downfalls too, though. Invisible ink and microdots require specialized methods or technologies, and aren’t really practical to everyday use. Besides, sooner or later, people will notice the UV lamp on your desk and start to wonder why you keep so many blank journals. If you do a “the first letter of every word” sort of thing, then you’ll end up having to write whole paragraphs of gibberish to communicate even the smallest of concepts, and even then, it’ll betray that there’s something else going on.

You could certainly go all out and start using some sort of cipher. Switch z for a, y for b, and so on, until eventually you’ve replaced the whole alphabet with an alternative one. Perhaps you could even go deeper, using some of the more innovative sorts of cryptography out there. (For a great, understandable book on cryptography, check out Simon Singh’s The Code Book). But, encrypting your writing takes forever to encode and decode, and it’s very unlikely that you’ll ever be able to read and write in a cipher fluidly. Besides, those, too, are crackable.

Perhaps the most complex sort of cipher would be to just use the writing system (and even some vocabulary) from another language. If you’re, for instance, writing English using the Cyrillic alphabet from Russian, it’ll be pretty incomprehensible to your neighbor. However, if you come across somebody who speaks English and reads Russian, your system falls apart.

So, what option does this leave you?

Enter Cryptorthography

‘Cryptorthography’ is a word I’ve made up to describe the creation of secret writing systems. It’s a combination of cryptos (Greek for ‘hidden’), and then the linguistics term ‘orthography’, referring to the writing system and writing rules of a language. ‘orthography’ also comes from Greek, being a combination of orthos (’correct’) and graphein (’to write’)

So, how does one practice cryptorthography? It’s actually fairly simple. You just take a given language (or languages), and create a new writing system for it which only you (or a few select people) can understand. This way, you could leave even your most secret writings out on the kitchen table, but nobody would be able to understand them without a fair amount of contemplation or analysis.

By creating your own system, you’ll be able to write and read it without too much trouble, but it’ll be completely opaque to everybody else, no matter which language they speak. It’ll be far faster than coding or ciphers, and doesn’t need to be hidden or obscured to be secret, and since it’s all hand-written, it’ll be far less vulnerable to computer-based assaults because of the trouble of transcribing it into a computer.

Before you start writing all your personal secrets on your front door, it’s important to remember that, just like with the above systems of hiding your meaning, there are weaknesses and places where people could easily figure out what you mean. I’d like to discuss a few of these weaknesses that I’ve come up with, and offer some advice for how to harden your writing system against analysis.

Obscuring the obscure

The most simple way to do this would be just creating new letter forms for your language. If you just use a new symbol in the place of ‘a’, a new one in place of ‘b’, and so on, you’ll quickly have a text that’s unable to be read at first glance. The system would be easy to create, but I’d recommend against it. As soon as somebody started looking, they might well start noticing patterns. If they know (or suspect) that it’s English, they’ll start looking for certain patterns. If they see a single symbol alone, they’ll know, for instance, that it’s either ‘a’ or ‘I’. Similarly, two symbol words are far less common, and give them an inroads to further analysis.

If, on the other hand, you mix it up a bit, you’ll make their lives infinitely more difficult. For instance, if you were to use only the sounds of words and disregard how they’re written, it would instantly complicate analysis. So, instead of “rough”, you’d have ‘ruf’. “You” would become a two symbol sound (’yu’), and ‘I’ would become two symbols (’ay’). If you’d like to play it even safer, start marking all the different English vowels. With that step, you’ll confuse anybody who thinks that English only has a, e, i, o and u, and likely stop most casual inquiries.

Another good strategy is to include a few filler characters. If you include in your writing system a symbol or two that you know has no meaning, you can use it with single sound words (’a') to throw off analysis. Similarly, just dropping a few of those into random words will force people to try and find a correspondence for something that, well, just doesn’t exist.

While we’re being evil to any potential analysis, one of the advantages to creating a phonetic symbol set is that you can use it to write in other languages as well. If you start including random words in other languages, or substituting say, some Hindi word for their English equivalents, it’ll throw off any attempts to figure out what is what based on the phonology (sound rules) of a language.

For instance, somebody analyzing your system might know that if there are three consonants together in English at the start of a word, the first consonant is always an /s/ sound. Always. So, if they’ve decided what constitute vowels, and then find three consonants before one, they’ll know what your /s/ symbol is. That is, unless you use the Russian word “vsyo” (all) someplace in your text. Then, they’ll have at least two three-consonant clusters, and can’t use the phonology to work their way through it.

Using similar symbols to the existing system can be a double-edged sword: it can both help and hurt you. If your symbols are too similar, your system is far too easy to crack. However, I highly recommend using one or two symbols that are at least close to an existing symbol, however, I’d recommend assigning them a different sound. For instance, one might use a ‘v’ to represent the /k/ sound.

This has the wonderful effect of creating a cognitive mismatch between the system they’re trying to analyze and the system they’re using. As any English-literate learner of Russian will tell you, at first, it’s very tough to see a ‘p’ and hear an ‘r’ sound, even though that’s what Cyrillic does. It won’t stop them, but it’ll certainly make analysis that much more of a pain.

There are other ways to make life difficult for anybody analyzing your writing. If you write from right to left, you’ll create a great many problems for them, just as if you were to write vertically. Along those lines, if you remove spaces and familiar punctuation, it’s even more difficult, both for you and for them.

Also, remember that you don’t need to create an alphabet per se. You might create a syllabary like in Japanese, where the symbols each represent a different syllable (’ra’ might have one symbol, whereas ‘re’ would have a completely different one). Also, if you’re feeling ambitious, you could make a character set, where each word has a symbol. It’d be a great many symbols, but it’d be very difficult to crack.

Finally, as common sense dictates, throw away the key. Once you’ve created your system and learned it well, hide or destroy your handy reference guide, or else understanding your writing is as easy as looking up the symbols.

It has to make sense to somebody

However, if you spend all your time trying to make reading your system tough on other people, it’s easy to make it tough on you too. There are a few easy ways to avoid this.

Perhaps one of the toughest parts of the process is actually designing the symbols. For that, I highly recommend that you make a trip over to Omniglot, a wonderful website which discusses writing systems around the world and has lots of examples. It’s a great place to blow a few hours, and will show you all the variety of systems out there.

Once you’ve got symbols, make sure you’re combining them in a way that makes sense to you. For instance, I might use a system based on phonetics, where high vowels (like in beet and boot) are marked above the baseline, and low vowels (bat and bot) are the same symbol, but marked below the baseline. However, you can go much more personalized. If a symbol reminds you of the shape of Cape Cod, you might use it for a ‘kay’ sound. Basically, if it makes sense to you, go for it.

Finally, keep in mind the difficulty of writing the symbols you pick. Don’t use anything more complex than necessary, because it’ll only slow you down. Similarly, if you often write with a fountain pen, try to avoid symbols with right to left strokes (assuming you’re writing left-to-right). If you’re going to use this a lot, any corners you can cut now (without making it more difficult to read) will save you a massive amount of time in the future.

Your thirteen spices are safe

If you take the time to create your own writing system and take a few easy steps to harden it, you can sure that nobody will be able to casually peruse your secret recipes and writings.

However, as with all security measures, your secrets are never completely safe. All that locks, encryption, ciphers and even cryptorthography can buy you is time. If somebody has a sample of your writing system, it’s very likely that, given enough time, they’d be able to figure it out.

So, if the CIA wants to find out the secret thirteen spices, chances are, they’ll be able to. However, a little bit of cryptorthography will go a long way towards keeping your recipes mysteriously delicious.

(PS: If this sounds interesting, stay tuned. I might well be holding some sort of a contest where people create secret writing systems and then have other people try and crack them. I’ll announce more details later, but if you’re interested, leave a comment and we’ll be in touch!)

Alright, as usual, I’ve been neglecting the mystic side of this site. So, I’m going to talk a little bit about a particular morpheme (unit of meaning) which seems to come up frequently when one trolls the more mystical side of the internet: the suffix -mancy.

-mancy is what’s called a ‘derivational’ suffix, meaning that it is used to create new words by attaching to an existing word. Usually, these suffixes add a set meaning to a word. For instance, another derivational suffix, ‘-ness’, turns an adjective into a noun which describes a characteristic. So, we take “red” and add “-ness” to get “redness”, the quality of being red.

The function of the suffix -mancy is to indicate “using something as a means of divination (the telling of the future)”. So, we take a word like carte (an Old French word for ‘card’), and then tack on -mancy. Suddenly, we have “cartomancy”, defined as “using cards as a means of divination”, for example, reading the Tarot.

Etymology

Where does -mancy come from? One source, The Skeptic Report article “Divination: A Mancy for every Fancy” (great title), gives the etymology as:

…Many of these are described by words that end with the suffix –mancy, which comes to us from the old French word mancie, which in turn comes from the Greek mantis, meaning ‘prophet’.

However, the Oxford American Dictionary traces the word back to a different Greek word:

ORIGIN from Old French -mancie, via late Latin -mantia from Greek manteia ‘divination.’

I wouldn’t be shocked to find out that mantis and manteia are somehow related, if not different forms of the same root. Also, it’s worth noting that this Greek word mantis ‘prophet’ in the first etymology is still present in Modern English, in the form of the “Praying Mantis”, a type of insect.

Although the trail begins to blur several languages back, it’s fairly obvious that this origins of this suffix came up through Greek, then Latin, then went into Old French, when it was finally borrowed into English. It’s traveled a long way to get here.

Usage

This ‘mancy’ suffix occurs in many places to mark different divination methods. Necromancy is the occult practice of summoning the dead to gain knowledge about the future (necro is a Greek word borrowed into Latin which means ‘death’). Astromancy is an old term for Astrology, charting the stars for information about the future. You’ll recognize “astro” from “astronomy” and “astronaut”, it’s a Greek root which generally refers to stars or space.

Apparently, it can be used with nearly any Latin root to describe whatever sort of divination somebody’s bothered to perform. This site lists many other uses of the term, and discusses such obscure forms of divination as ‘nephromancy’ (the act of analyzing the kidneys of a sacrifice for divinatory purposes) and even ‘chalcomancy’, which is apparently a manner of divination performed by striking brass and copper bowls. Regardless of the specific root, though, you can be fairly sure that any time you stumble across this ‘mancy’ suffix, there’s divination afoot.

It’s also interesting to note that this suffix is still being used to create new words today (in Linguistic terms, it’s still ‘productive’). I got 32 hits on google for “blogomancy”, and more than 200 for “webomancy”. Considering the term “blog” has only arisen in the past few years, it’s safe to say that “-mancy” has stuck around as an independent suffix, and will likely be around for us to use for years to come. Perhaps -mancy’s continued popularity could even be used to predict the future of other Latinate suffixes in English. Anybody up for a little bit of Mancimancy?

It’s been a while since I’ve strayed into the Mystic side of Linguistic Mystic. This evening, while Wikipedia-Surfing, I stumbled upon an interesting reported phenomenon: Electronic Voice Phenomena (or EVP). Since I spend a great deal of my free time looking at voices and how speech works, I was interested to see what a bit of phonetic analysis would do to some of the examples that its proponents have given.

Disclaimer

EVP is not a well-studied phenomenon and there is little (if any) scientific evidence in favor of its existence. This post should not be construed as an endorsement of this phenomenon or an assertion of its reality. I try to keep an open mind on such things, but I’m doing this analysis for my own interest (if nothing else, “paraphonetics” is a cool sounding field name), not for any legitimate, scholarly purpose. Take this post (and, if you’d like, the phenomenon itself) with a grain of scientific salt.

What is EVP?

In the words of the American Association of Electronic Voice Phenomena’s FAQ page on EVP:

Electronic Voice Phenomena (EVP) is the term traditionally used to describe unexpected sounds or voices sometimes found on recording media. EVP initially involved audio tape recorders, but in later years, virtually any recording medium became a vehicle for phenomena. The term Instrumental TransCommunication (ITC) came into being to describe these expanded modes of audio- and video-format communication. Other acronyms used in the literature include Electronic Disturbance Phenomena (EDP) and Trans-Dimensional Communication (TDC).

For a more two-sided (and skeptical) discussion and other resources, I encourage you to visit the Wikipedia page on EVP.

Long story short, EVP are anomalous voices that show up in recordings, often claimed to come from the dead. These voices are reported to be phrases, words, or even dialogues with a living speaker.

Praat and the Paranormal

When I first read about this, I decided to try and find some samples of this phenomenon and run them through Praat, a Phonetic Analysis program. Luckily, the AAEVP provides a number of examples on their site. The one I’ll be analyzing today comes from Vicki Talbott’s Examples, and purports to feature a discussion between her and her son who had recently died, discussing the proper pronunciation of the word “evidentiary”. I encourage you to read her explanation (the last example on her page) and listen to the file a few times before I proceed.

As you can hear, her voice is quite clear (albeit recorded), but the other voice is nearly incomprehensible if you’re not sure what you’re looking for. However, I was curious just how much of the data I’d expect to find in speech would be there, and how much is my brain filling in the blanks. Let’s look a little more closely at the acoustics of the voices.

What’s in a voice?

We hear patterns of sound based on the emphasis and damping of certain parts of the sound spectrum. The vibration of our vocal folds is fairly constant (excepting the occaisional pitch or voicing change), but we’re almost constantly moving our mouths and tongue. Just as your voice changes when you put your mouth to a flexible tube and talk while bending the tube, the sound of your vocal folds vibrating is changed by the position of your tongue, lips, and velum in your mouth and throat. Different vowel sounds are created by modifying the shape of the mouth, which in turn modifies the sound escaping your mouth to be heard by others. This is called the Source-Filter Model of Speech Production.

So, when we hear another person make a sound, say, the vowel ‘i’ (as in feet), we’re analyzing which parts of the sound from their vocal folds are being damped (supressed) and which parts resonate (are stronger). For example, in the vowel /i/, there are strong bands of resonating sound (called ‘formants’) around (roughly) 250hz, 2500hz, and 3000hz. We hear these particular parts of the spectrum being emphasized, and interpret them as somebody making an /i/.

These formants (along with the gaps between them and some other sounds) are what we’re listening for in speech. In clear speech, the formants are well defined and strong, but in distorted or mumbled speech, they’re very tough to pick out, both by computer and with our ears.

Evidentiary evidence

So, for comparison, I’ve recorded a file of myself saying “evidentiary”. Give it a listen, if you’d like.

When I open this file in Praat, it shows me a part of the spectrum (0-5000hz). On that Spectrogram, there are darker parts and lighter parts. The darker parts show the formants (the resonating parts of the spectrum), and the lighter parts show the damped portions. I’ve also had Praat draw red dots on the formants, to make them a bit more distinct. Here’s a screenshot of the spectrogram for my “evidentiary”, labeled with English on top, and IPA on the bottom:

As you can see, the heights and separation between the formants (black parts with red dotted lines) are distinctly different for the initial “e” and the “ia” in the middle. If they weren’t, the vowels would just sound the same. Similarly, there are other trademark signs of speech sounds. The ’sh’ sound (ti in English) shows up with a burst of noise around 3000-7000hz (as one would expect), and the ‘n’ makes everything a bit damped and quieter (as do all nasal sounds). All the formants are well defined, and Praat doesn’t have much trouble finding them and sticking to them.

Now, let’s look at a spectrogram of Talbott’s recording, annotated the same way, with red dot formants, and using her transcriptions from the diagram at the bottom of her site:

Of course, the spacing is different, and based on the white streaks around 200hz and 3500hz, it looks like she’s done some filtering to isolate these sounds. The interesting part about this is that there aren’t any well defined formants. Praat is great at finding formants in good files, but it’s also quite adept at finding them in bakcground noise if there’s not any good speech in a given file. As you can see, there are three pretty constant bands of red dots going across the entire spectrogram, with the same amount of variation in the silence as in the “spoken” portions. Although Praat thinks they’re formants, when compared to the relatively sharp black lines in my version, it looks like it’s just finding whatever pattern it can in the noise.

It doesn’t seem like there’s much of anything in the way of clear formants or expected voice patterns. The noise for the ’sh’ is missing from ‘ti’, the ‘n’ doesn’t seem to affect much, and the formant patterns over the two different /i/’s don’t really match (as they did in mine). Over all, there’s not a lot here to latch on to, and, as you likely noticed when listening to it, it’s by no means obvious what’s being said. Most of the auditory cues we use to pick out meaningful speech are absent acoustically, yet, with a few repetitions, we can usually convince ourselves that we’re hearing speech here.

What does it all mean?

Based on what I see here (in this one example), it seems like many of the fundamental characteristics of human speech are missing in the second, purportedly paranormal voice. I suspect that this is what makes it nearly incomprehensible without coaching.

What does that mean for EVP? Well, nothing, really, because my study here isn’t particularly scientific. Just because a phledgling phonetician doesn’t see speech through one method of analysis doesn’t mean it’s not there. Also, I can’t be sure what sorts of filters were used that might have changed the sound quality. I’m not sure what results a different file would yield.

However, even if this were a perfect analysis, all that I’m proving here is that it’s actually similar to normal human speech. The EVP people will still defend their assertions, and the skeptics will still have their objections to their claims (and methodology, and other such things).

The difficulty with Paraphonetics

The other relevant question is whether such study really matters at all. To the people who believe in EVP, the clarity (or closeness to normal human speech) may not be particularly relevant.

Phonetics is a very exact sort of science, but anything to do with the paranormal is extremely subjective. We can scientifically measure things all day long, but in the end, these sorts of phenomena depend on the interpretation of the listener. Perhaps Mrs. Talbott heard “evidentiality” in that noise because of her previous question (using context to make sense of inaudible portions of a “conversation”). Perhaps the noise just coincidentally sounds enough like “evidentiality” to trip the human brain’s speech analysis functions. However, as is the case with all paranormal claims, one can never prove the negative (we can’t prove completely that nothing paranormal occurred in this tape). You’re welcome to believe whatever you’d like on the subject.

Regardless, next time you go out ghost-hunting, you might want to grab a copy of Praat. It can never hurt, and at the very least, Praat can help you find some phantom formants in the background noise. It might not sound scary to you, but in the middle of a research project, they can be downright terrifying.