Every ruling the desk has made on how FP writes. Numbered once, dated, and never rewritten — a ruling that no longer holds is replaced by a later one, and both stay here.
language.nowRefused as the classification board uses it:
bad language,
strong language,
mild language.
The ban existed so this site would say swearing rather than the board's euphemism. Then a page about a program said it was written in a compiled language with no runtime, which is the only word in English for that, and the build stopped. Third time a rule written to protect the writing has damaged it, and the fix was the same all three times: match the use and never the word.
The site can send a crowd, and a crowd is not a readership. Asked after the writing, this question always loses to the sentence it would cost you. Asked before a source is chosen, it costs nothing, because you simply choose a different one. A published work, an institution, a professional writing under their own name, or a room with no door on it can take a crowd. A person who never agreed to be read cannot, and would have no way to make it stop.
It reads clever and it is a guess. Nobody can see a critic's private verdict, and a sentence claiming to is putting words in a named person's mouth on a site that also claims to respect them. The same failure as saying we can spot a bought review: asserting a power nobody has. What a review spends its words on is countable and says enough.
That sentence was on a page whose entire job is to send readers to the people who write these reviews, and it singled out one working critic by name as the one we rejected. He did nothing. An encyclopedia quoted five words of his review and five words is what reached us. The failure was in our evidence and we wrote it up as a failure in his writing. Everything that followed from that framing went with it: reviews we could not score were labelled dropped, marked in the colour that means rejected, pushed to one side of the page and struck through with a line drawn across the critic's own sentence. None of that is a fact about the writer. A page cannot claim to respect people and draw them as rejects.
the reading.nowRefused only as
a reading of,
the reading of,
our reading.
The earlier pattern stopped the build on the sentence 'who is doing the reading', which is ordinary English and the plainest way to say it. Twice now a rule written to protect the writing has damaged it, and both times the fix was the same: match the use, never the word. A rule that fires on correct writing gets narrowed the day it does, not argued with.
a reading of,
our verdict is. Left alone everywhere else.
The first list caught correct English inside a Reader's own sentences, which is a rule damaging the writing it was meant to protect. A ban on a word is blunt where a ban on a use is exact.
Six words doing the work of five shorter ones, and none of them tells the reader anything the plain word did not. This is the wording a machine produces when it is trying to sound serious.
Nobody uses these words out loud to a friend deciding what to watch. Every one of them is listed below with the word we use instead, and the build fails if one reaches a page.
Naming a quality asks to be believed. Naming a thing lets the reader see it and decide. This is the only rule on the page that also governs how we read critics: a sentence with an object in it can be checked, and a sentence with only adjectives cannot.
Every line of that kind is a description of something already on screen. It exists because whoever wrote it could not see the page. If the design needs a sentence to be read, the design is what to fix. Descriptions of a picture belong in the picture's alt text, where a screen reader will find them and nobody else has to.
A voice is not a rhythm. It is one thing the writer cannot stop noticing. Once the obsession was on the page the sentences sorted themselves out without being counted.
Chopping every line to four words is a setting, not a voice, and it is the first setting any machine reaches for. A cadence borrowed from a novelist says nothing about what the writer noticed.
Three clauses to say one thing, each one defending the last. A sentence that guards itself before it has been attacked reads as a witness under oath, and a reader deciding what to watch tonight has no interest in the witness.
What the rulings add up to. The build reads this same list and stops if one of these reaches a page.
Plain words that carry a fixed meaning here.