The name of the game pickleball has as clear an origin story as any other sport. But a debate eventually emerged over that name, which we’ll try to clear up.
Much like the ’90s trends of racewalking and Jazzercise, pickleball is a major sporting craze. People of all ages play this popular paddle sport, which admittedly has an unusual name. It’s not like the sport is played in a giant bath of brine, nor is anyone hurling dill pickles across the court, so why is it called “pickleball”?
In the summer of 1965, the Pritchard family was vacationing at their home in Bainbridge Island, Washington. To stave off boredom, U.S. Congressman Joel Pritchard and his friends cobbled together a game using a badminton court, some table tennis paddles, and a perforated plastic ball. Thus, pickleball was created.
The name of the game came from Joel’s wife, Joan. As an avid rowing fan, Joan threw out the name “pickle ball,” a reference to “pickle boat” rowing competitions in which leftover crew members are thrown together on a team. She felt this name was appropriate since the newly created game incorporated “leftover” elements of similar sports, such as badminton and table tennis. In the context of rowing, the term “pickle boat” came from old fishing fleets, as the very last boat to return to port was responsible for pickling that day’s catch. Joan’s recommendation was adopted and eventually shortened to one word.
But confusion over the name’s origins ensued. In 1968, the Pritchards got a new dog and named it Pickles. Years later, Joel was interviewed by a reporter about where the name “pickleball” came from, and he told the true story. Joel also joked about how they named it after the family dog, and the reporter opted to run with that (false) angle instead. This muddled the origin story for pickleball fans, but it was Joan who originally came up with the name.
Bennett Kleinman is a New York City-based staff writer for Inbox Studio. He is also a freelance comedy writer, devoted New York Yankees and New Jersey Devils fan, and thinks plain seltzer is the best drink ever invented.
The word “I” is the only English pronoun that gets the VIP capitalization treatment. This typographic quirk traces back to medieval manuscripts, leading to a unique rule of capitalization in English.
I can recall scratching my head in French class, puzzled about why je — the French equivalent of the pronoun “I” — isn’t capitalized. As it turns out, English is the odd one out in this respect; most other languages do not capitalize their version of “I.” From the Spanish yo to the Vietnamese tôi, a lowercase pronoun is the norm.
The story of our capital “I” can be traced back to 12th-century northern England, where the Old English term ic was shortened to i, which remained lowercase. It’s worth noting that older forms of the pronoun, such as the Old Frisian ik and the German ich, were still used during this time, especially before words that started with vowels, which helped with clarity and pronunciation.
By the mid-13th century, i morphed into the capitalized I, a necessary change due to illegible handwritten manuscripts. The documents were difficult enough to read already, and tiny, lowercase “i’s” often got lost in the mix. The pronoun needed to stand out as a distinct word, and capitalization was the easiest answer.
Now, you might wonder: Why aren’t any other personal pronouns capitalized? The objective case of “I,” “me,” is one of them. It remains lowercase simply because it had a different upbringing. From its inception, “me” has always been at least two letters long, derived from the Old English mē and traced back to the Greek me and Sanskrit mā. Since “me” never struggled to stand out — thanks to “m” and “e” being so visually distinct — clarification through capitalization wasn’t necessary. Instead, that honor is reserved solely for “I,” the one-letter word that simply needed a little boost.
Rachel is a Washington, D.C.-based freelance writer. When she's not writing, you can find her wandering through a museum, exploring a new city, or advocating the importance of the Oxford comma.
Some of our most vivid words — including Milton’s “pandemonium” and Gibson’s “cyberspace” — were dreamed up by writers. Here are 10 everyday terms that began as literary inventions.
Language has always been a living, breathing entity, and literature has long been one of the major driving forces in its evolution. Throughout literary history, authors have not only kept certain words alive and popularized others, but they have also invented entirely new words to suit specific circumstances. In some cases, they may have been trying to capture a precise meaning, emotion, or concept but found the weighty collection of words in the dictionary lacking — and so they improvised by creating something new. Other terms were invented through the sheer joy of wordplay and whimsy, playing with sounds and syllables to make a word that sings. And some were born of technological necessity, to describe something new — or something yet to exist.
Here are 10 words invented by famous writers, from Milton’s “pandemonium” to William Gibson’s “cyberspace.”
Pandemonium
In John Milton’s epic poem Paradise Lost, Pandemonium is the name of the capital of hell — where the devil and his demons live. It was a carefully constructed word, with Milton combining the Greek pan, meaning “all” or “together,” with daimonion, relating to demons. It literally meant “place of all demons,” which sounds like a pretty chaotic place to be — hence the word’s evolution to describe any scene of wild chaos or uproar.
Chortle
Lewis Carroll invented “chortle” when writing his poem “Jabberwocky” — arguably the most famous nonsense poem of all time — which appeared in his 1871 novel Through the Looking-Glass. By blending “chuckle” and “snort,” he created a word that perfectly describes a particular type of gleeful laughter.
Freelance
The word “freelance” comes from Sir Walter Scott’s 1819 novel Ivanhoe, in which a feudal lord refers to the paid army he has assembled as his “Free Lances.” There is no written record of this usage before Ivanhoe, suggesting that its origins lie with Scott and his mercenary knights.
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Scrooge
Before Charles Dickens created the character of Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol, the world was lacking a wonderfully evocative word. Dickens may have chosen Ebenezer’s surname because it sounds like “scrouge,” meaning “to squeeze or press against,” as well as “screw,” an old-fashioned English word for a miser. “Scrooge,” of course, is now a universal shorthand for an extremely tight-fisted or miserly person.
Yahoo
Jonathan Swift created the word “Yahoo” (proper noun) in Gulliver’s Travels, as the name of an imaginary race of brutish, humanlike creatures. The word then entered English as a common noun for crude, uncouth people. As for the search engine, Yahoo!, that is a backronym for “Yet Another Hierarchically Organized Oracle” — and the founders apparently liked the association with Swift’s Yahoos, too.
Robot
Czech writer Karel Čapek invented the word “robot” in his 1920 play R.U.R. (Rossum’s Universal Robots). The word came from the Czech robota, meaning “forced labor” or “drudgery.” It was Čapek’s brother Josef who suggested the term when Karel was searching for a word to describe artificial beings created only to work for humans.
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Utopia
Utopia was an imaginary island in Sir Thomas More’s 1516 fictional work of the same name. The island is presented by the narrator as having a perfect social, legal, and political system. The word “utopia” soon entered wider usage to describe an ideal society — although scholars still debate whether More’s ambiguous work was serious or satirical in nature.
Serendipity
Horace Walpole coined the word “serendipity” in a 1754 letter he wrote to Horace Mann. He explained how he came up with the word, which was inspired by a Persian fairy tale called The Three Princes of Serendip. The princes in the story were always making fortunate discoveries by accident while searching for something else. Walpole combined “Serendip” (an old name for Sri Lanka/Ceylon) with the suffix “-ity” to create the word we now use for making a happy and unexpected discovery by chance.
The word “paparazzi” — referring to intrusive photographers who pursue celebrities to take photographs of them — has its origins in the classic 1960 film La Dolce Vita. Written and directed by Federico Fellini, the movie features a character named Paparazzo, a photographer who is fearless and relentless in his hunt for a lucrative shot. While “paparazzi” wasn’t invented directly by Fellini (it’s as if the name was in the plural form in Italian), it does have its origins in his script for La Dolce Vita.
Cyberspace
William Gibson is widely credited with inventing the word “cyberspace,” which first appeared in literature in his 1982 short story “Burning Chrome” (and was later popularized in his 1984 novel Neuromancer). In a 2020 interview, he told Time magazine, “I remember early in my career looking at a yellow legal on which I wrote down infospace and dataspace, and they just looked woefully unsexy. Then I wrote cyberspace and it just rolled off the tongue.” He also noted how a Scandinavian artist had previously used the word in relation to an abstract painting — but Gibson rightfully takes the credit in the literary world.
Tony Dunnell is an English writer living on the edge of the Amazon rainforest. When not writing articles on a range of subjects, he dedicates his time to writing speculative fiction. His short stories have appeared in Escape Pod, Daily Science Fiction, Sci Phi Journal and elsewhere. Find him at tonydunnell.com.
I’m originally from New York City, and my least favorite streets are those around Times Square, always full of people, no matter the time of day or season. It’s impossible to walk in a straight line, as you’re always weaving through large groups. I’m usually walking through midtown to get to a Broadway show, needing to arrive on time, and I would prefer not to be delayed by slow walkers. The streets are truly “chock-full” of people, and I often swear I’ll never go to Times Square again.
Complaining about something being “full to the extreme limit” is a common experience, and the description of “chock-full” dates way back to the 15th century. The first half of the phrase probably came from an early iteration of “cheek.” A cheek crammed full to bursting may bring to mind a squirrel that has stuffed nuts and acorns in its mouth for safekeeping.
“Chock-full” had a few different spelling interpretations, including “chokkefull” and “chekefull,” before the standardizations of dictionaries took over. “Chock-full” reached its current spelling in 1772 and has stayed constant since then. However, there is one other similar formation that I sometimes hear from my British friends: “chockablock.” “Chockablock,” meaning “crammed full,” may be a case of convergent evolution, as its origins are nautical.
In writing and speech, I see and hear “chock-full” used often to refer to a space being crammed full of people, or an item full of other things, as opposed to cheeks packed to bursting with food. Personally, I will always associate “chock-full” with 44th Street around 7 p.m., when theatergoers are weaving through traffic to make their curtain.
Julia Rittenberg is a culture writer and content strategist driven by a love of good stories. She writes most often about books for Book Riot. She lives in Brooklyn with a ton of vintage tchotchkes that her cat politely does not knock over.
“Take Me Out to the Ballgame” is far from a jazz standard, but there’s still a strong connection between baseball and the word “jazz” that dates back to the 1910s.
Today the word “jazz” is most often associated with the likes of Ella Fitzgerald and Miles Davis. But before the term ever described the popular music genre, it referred to another quintessentially American pastime: baseball.
In the 1910s, sportswriters coined the word with regard to changes in strategy and how the game was being played. This isn’t to say that Babe Ruth picked up a saxophone and played it to celebrate each dinger. Instead, “jazz” was used to describe lively pitches such as the curveball, which were becoming increasingly common. Let’s do a deeper dive into the origins of the word and examine how it later transitioned to the world of music.
What Came Before Jazz?
Before “jazz,” there was “jasm” — a word meaning “drive” or “energy” that was coined in the mid-19th century. One of the earliest known uses of that term came in Josiah Gilbert Holland’s 1860 novel Miss Gilbert’s Career: An American Story, which featured the line, “If you’ll take thunder and lightning, and a steamboat and a buzz-saw, and mix ’em up, and put ’em into a woman, that’s jasm.” As best as anyone can tell, “jasm” eventually inspired the word “jazz.” However, the latter wasn’t coined until over a half century later.
Throwing a Curveball
In 1912, as minor league pitcher Ben Henderson was preparing the day before his opening day start for the Portland Beavers against the Los Angeles Angels, he spoke with a reporter for the Los Angeles Times. “I got a new curve this year,” he said before the game. “I call it the Jazz ball because it wobbles and you simply can’t do anything with it.” The next day, on April 2, 1912, an article titled “Ben’s Jazz Curve” ran in the Los Angeles Times, and while that season was Henderson’s last, the word “jazz” persisted.
The word “jazz” spread throughout the game and appeared in baseball-related contexts many times thereafter, including in a series of baseball articles that ran in the San Francisco Bulletin in March 1913. It soon expanded to describe other sports-related events. A 1915 article in the Daily Californian discussed how “jazz” could liven up a crowd and propel a team to victory: “This spirit of heartiness is carried to the bleachers … It puts fight into the team, ‘jazz’ into the rooting section, and has helped win games for Stanford and Washington.”
In just three years time, the term had gone from describing a minor league baseball player’s tricks to taking the sporting world by storm. But it was in the mid-1910s that the term made its inevitable transition to music.
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From Sports to Music
Around the year 1915, the word “jazz” emerged in a new musical context. Chicago-based newspapers began referring to a popular peppy music genre as “jazz,” which drew influences from the blues and ragtime styles that preceded it.
It’s worth noting that the term wasn’t immediately adopted by musicians, according to music historian Lewis Porter. “Jazz” seemed to be a linguistic creation of white musicians “up North” (which likely meant Chicago), rather than the Black musicians who were playing and developing the genre further south in New Orleans. Porter adds that musicians such as Duke Ellington, Max Roach, and Sidney Bechet all felt similarly about the idea of “jazz music” being a white invention. In his autobiography, Treat It Gentle, Bechet wrote, “Jazz, that’s a name the white people have given to the music.” Instead, those musicians were likely to claim they were playing a version of ragtime rather than jazz.
Nevertheless, the term “jazz” stuck around the music scene, and by the 1920s, it described any type of dance music including waltzes and foxtrots, rather than the jazz we know today. It also came to refer to a way of life; in his 1922 work Tales of the Jazz Age, F. Scott Fitzgerald uses “jazz” to describe a broader cultural movement in which people cast aside the strict rules of the past in favor of a free and more wild lifestyle.
Unless you’re discussing all-star infielder Jazz Chisholm Jr., it’s been a long time since anyone used “jazz” in the context of baseball. Today it’s primarily used one of two ways. First and foremost, “jazz” refers to the genre of music filled with improvisation, scatting, and syncopated rhythms. This use dates back to the 1950s, when rock ’n’ roll was becoming increasingly popular. Around that time, “jazz” was used to differentiate the distinct musical genre more closely associated with artists such as Miles Davis.
But some Black musicians in the genre still did not embrace the word “jazz” — in 1972’s What “Jazz” Means to Me, drummer Max Roach said, “The term ‘jazz’ has come to mean the abuse and exploitation of black musicians.” Trumpeter Nicholas Payton suggested the alternative of “Black American Music,” though that’s yet to catch on. Many others, however, came to accept the term “jazz” and didn’t express strong views on the matter.
In a non-musical context,“jazz” as a verb can also refer to the idea of “jazzing” something up in an effort to make it more exciting, playing off the original meaning of something that exudes pep or vitality.
Bennett Kleinman is a New York City-based staff writer for Inbox Studio. He is also a freelance comedy writer, devoted New York Yankees and New Jersey Devils fan, and thinks plain seltzer is the best drink ever invented.
French cursive is a graceful, loop-filled handwriting style rooted in centuries-old tradition. It’s recognizable for its upright slant and ornate flourishes.
Cursive, less technically known as “joined-up writing,” is any style of penmanship in which characters are written in a flowing manner without breaks in between. In theory, this makes writing faster and, when well executed, more aesthetically pleasing, particularly in contrast to block letters. In France, children start learning to write in cursive as early as kindergarten, where they learn a specific style of handwriting known as French cursive.
French cursive has its own unique characteristics that make it instantly recognizable, at least to anyone familiar with European penmanship traditions. It comes from the French ronde (“round”) script, which was meant to lend the characters a round look when taken together. This script appeared in France at the end of the 16th century and was taught in French schools until the 20th century. French cursive, which maintains some of the loops and flourishes of the earlier ronde, was later standardized as part of France’s national education system, ensuring greater consistency in handwriting instruction across the country.
The most notable feature of French cursive is its emphasis on graceful loops and rounded strokes, which can make the script more ornate than, say, its English counterparts. And while French cursive letters can be written at a slant, they are often written at an angle of 90 degrees from the line — in other words, they’re more upright than letters in many other cursive styles, including the cursive typically taught in American schools.
Some letters in French cursive have unique shapes. For example, the lowercase “p” has an open loop that doesn’t connect the curve to the downstroke of the “p.” Capital letters, meanwhile, frequently include decorative flourishes and very prominent loops. The capital “X,” for one, has so many loops, it nearly resembles a petal or a four-leaf clover. Many letters also tend to begin with a small eyelet, a rounded embellishment that further adds to the all-around elegance of French cursive.
Featured image credit: PhotoAlto sas/ Alamy Stock Photo
Tony Dunnell is an English writer living on the edge of the Amazon rainforest. When not writing articles on a range of subjects, he dedicates his time to writing speculative fiction. His short stories have appeared in Escape Pod, Daily Science Fiction, Sci Phi Journal and elsewhere. Find him at tonydunnell.com.
The Appalachian region of the United States stretches from southern New York all the way south to Alabama and Mississippi. This area of rolling mountains and valleys is home to some 26 million people, as well as one of America’s most distinctive dialects: Appalachian English. Often stereotyped or dismissed as “incorrect” English, Appalachian English is actually a distinct dialect with its own consistent grammar rules, vocabulary, and pronunciation patterns. (While it does share many common characteristics with Southern American English, it has enough unique features to be considered apart.) Appalachian English also has a strong claim to being one of the oldest dialects in the United States. Its roots go as far back as the earliest European settlements in America.
The Historical Origins of Appalachian English
According to Margaret E. L. Renwick, Ph.D., a linguist and associate research professor at Johns Hopkins University, Appalachian English developed from a combination of Scotch Irish, German, and English communities who settled in the United States at the beginning of the 1730s. These settlers then migrated into the more isolated, higher-elevation areas of the Appalachian Mountains. They naturally brought with them the distinctive pronunciation patterns and grammatical structures of their European homelands, with each group contributing linguistic elements that eventually merged to create the distinctive dialect now known as Appalachian English.
Because of the geographical isolation of the Appalachian communities, the dialect developed over centuries with limited contact with outside linguistic influences. Because of this, Appalachian English has retained similarities with 18th-century colonial American English. It’s commonly stated that Appalachian English is a surviving relic of Elizabethan English, and that the dialect has preserved a Shakespearean way of speaking from the 16th century. This, however, is a myth. Appalachian English does contain some words that were used by Shakespeare, such as “afeared” to mean “afraid” and “holp” to mean “helped,” but the connection is tenuous at best.
As noted by linguist Michael Montgomery in Language Myths, Appalachian English may have “more archaisms than other types of American English, but that’s about it.” So, while the Appalachian dialect may have preserved, to some extent, a way of speaking heard in the early colonial days, it’s unlikely that Shakespeare sounded like someone from Chattanooga, Tennessee.
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The Distinctive Grammar and Vocabulary of Appalachian English
Appalachian English contains several grammatical features that distinguish it from standard American English. One of the most notable is the use of what is known as A-prefixing, in which “a-“ attaches to a verb form with the suffix “-ing,” as in, “He was a-hunting” or “She’s a-coming.” (A-prefixing exists in Scottish and Irish dialects, which may explain its appearance in Appalachian English.)
The dialect also employs distinctive verb forms, including “done” as a helping verb to indicate a completed action (“I done told you”) and unique past-tense forms for certain verbs. Additionally, it features double modals, such as “might could” or “used to could.” Another common phenomenon is the pronunciation of a final “uh” sound as a “y” — for example, “extra” may sound like “extry” and “opera” like “opery.” (The legendary country music show and venue “The Grand Ole Opry” owes its name to this dialect.)
In terms of vocabulary, Appalachian English includes many words that have disappeared from other American dialects. Examples include “airish” (“chilly”), “chancy” (“doubtful”), “everly” (“constantly”), “prettyful” (“beautiful”), “poke” (“paper bag”), and “whistle pig” (“groundhog”).
The Cultural Significance of Appalachian English
Speakers of Appalachian English often face linguistic discrimination and negative stereotypes that portray their speech as uneducated or inferior. These discriminatory attitudes ignore the rich history behind the dialect and typically reflect broader prejudices about rural and working-class communities. For speakers of Appalachian English, their dialect represents far more than just a way of communicating — it embodies cultural identity, belonging, and connection to place.
Increasingly, it’s not only linguists who recognize the importance of documenting and respecting Appalachian English as a legitimate, fascinating, and historically significant dialect. In 2019, Tennessee became the first state to officially recognize and honor Appalachian English, calling it a “fully legitimate dialect and most deserving of the respect afforded other dialects of American English.”
That’s not to say, however, that the future of the Appalachian dialect is assured. It continues to be stigmatized, while also facing challenges from increased mobility, education policies that discourage dialect use, and the powerful influence of media (and social media) that promotes standard American English. But the dialect remains strong in many communities, adapting to the ever-changing nature of modern life while maintaining its distinctive character — as it has done for the last few centuries.
Tony Dunnell is an English writer living on the edge of the Amazon rainforest. When not writing articles on a range of subjects, he dedicates his time to writing speculative fiction. His short stories have appeared in Escape Pod, Daily Science Fiction, Sci Phi Journal and elsewhere. Find him at tonydunnell.com.
“Twelfty” sounds like a meal that a hobbit might enjoy every day around noon. But in the Middle Ages, it was a real word referring to a specific number.
The concept of doing business back in the Middle Ages is difficult for the modern mind to comprehend. They didn’t accept Apple Pay, credit cards were still centuries away, and merchants were likely to charge you amounts such as “twelfty.” This odd-sounding term comes from the Old English “hundtwelftig,” meaning “20 past 100.” In other words, it’s how folks in the Middle Ages referred to the number 120.
While the English-speaking world primarily uses a base-10 counting system today, there was a time when early Germanic peoples used base-12. This put emphasis on multiples of 12 such as 120, 1,200, and so on. In a 1993 academic paper, historian Julian Goodare explains how “twelfty” was predominantly used from the early Middle Ages through the middle of the 17th century. It was part of the duodecimal system in which people counted by 12s rather than 10s.
Goodare adds that “twelfty” was also referred to as the “long hundred” (compared to 100, which was called the “short hundred”). Similarly, the number 1,200 was known as the “long thousand.” But in the latter half of the 17th century, base-10 superseded the duodecimal system. In turn, the word “twelfty” became less popular and fell into disuse.
Despite the terms’ fade into obscurity, the words of this archaic counting system may very well have caught the attention of author J.R.R. Tolkien centuries later. In The Fellowship of the Ring, he coined the phrase “eleventy-one” to describe Bilbo Baggins turning 111 years old. Given that Tolkien was a widely respected and well-educated linguist, this reference may have been a clever nod to the word “twelfty.”
Bennett Kleinman is a New York City-based staff writer for Inbox Studio. He is also a freelance comedy writer, devoted New York Yankees and New Jersey Devils fan, and thinks plain seltzer is the best drink ever invented.
Some porcine-related phrases make clear sense, such as “pigging out” or “happy as a pig in mud.” Pigs also have a reputation for excessive perspiration, given the popularity of the phrase “I’m sweating like a pig!” However, this seems to be just bad press. According to 4-H Agent Matthew Newman, while swine do have some sweat glands, as all mammals do, they have relatively few for their size. As such, they have to roll in the mud or do another similar activity to cool their bodies on a hot day. So, where did “sweating like a pig” come from? The idiom actually has to do not with the animal but with the process of iron smelting. More specifically, it comes from the term “pig iron.”
“Pig iron,” going back to 1665, refers to the “crude iron that is the direct product of the blast furnace.” It’s known as “pig iron” because of the way iron used to be cast. Hot iron was poured into sand molds in a way that visually resembled tiny piglets suckling at their mother’s teat. When the ingots cooled and were broken off, they were sometimes referred to as “pigs,” hence the term “pig iron.”
As for the “sweating” element of the phrase, it has to do with the cooling process. Dr. Joe Schwarcz from the McGill University Office of Science and Society explains that as iron cools, the surrounding air begins to hit its dew point. In turn, this causes moisture to form on the iron, which looks like little droplets of sweat beading down the ingots (the pigs); this is where we get “sweat like a pig.”
Advanced smelting techniques have largely rendered pig iron a thing of the past, though the phrase maintains its impressive staying power. Today it can be a reminder of older smelting techniques, but it has nothing to do with Porky or Babe.
Bennett Kleinman is a New York City-based staff writer for Inbox Studio. He is also a freelance comedy writer, devoted New York Yankees and New Jersey Devils fan, and thinks plain seltzer is the best drink ever invented.
From sea turtles to steaks and “more cowbell,” Word Smarts readers have strong opinions on the emojis still missing from our keyboards. Here’s the wish list of animals, foods, moods, and more they’d like to see added next.
We all have our favorite emojis, whether it’s a Heart ❤️, a Hand 👋, or something new every day. (The Melting Face 🫠 is easily my top emoji of the summer.) The options are plentiful — there are at least 3,790 official emojis in the Unicode Standard — but we can think of thousands more we wish we had. Who among us hasn’t searched for a specific image to punctuate a text, only to discover it doesn’t exist?
Word Smarts writers put together a list of emojis we’d like to add to our keyboards, including an acoustic guitar and a dumpster fire. But we still wanted more, so we asked our readers for suggestions on what emojis they would add to their library.
Emojis are created by a global nonprofit called the Unicode Consortium. They added eight new emojis in April 2025, including a Leafless Tree and a Fingerprint . Anyone can submit an emoji proposal, so if you’re feeling inspired, Unicode starts accepting emoji proposals again on April 2, 2026. In the meantime, let’s take a look at the emojis that Word Smarts readers are wishing for.
Animals
Perhaps the most common request is for more animals. “How about different dog breeds and not a standard boring dog?” Debbie A. asked. The Dog emoji 🐕 and Dog Face emoji 🐶 appear to be a Shiba Inu and a beagle, respectively, and the Poodle emoji 🐩 is the only other dog breed represented.
The keyboard could use more cats and birds, too. “Get rid of the bugs and add a hummingbird and a cardinal,” reader Linda wrote. Reader Don D. suggested adding a sea turtle emoji, since the existing Turtle emoji 🐢 looks more like a tortoise.
“Portmanteaujis”
When the perfect emoji doesn’t exist, we get creative with combinations. Reader Kim K. said, “I want to be able to overlay the on whatever it needs.” Reader Janine H. suggested using the word “portmanteaujis” to describe those times when one emoji just isn’t enough.
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Foods
Word Smarts readers are hungry for some new food emojis, too, including Buffalo chicken wings, Philadelphia cheesesteaks, candy canes, and a “sizzling steak.” “Those of us who indulge in white wine are still awaiting our emoji,” Judie K. said. (The Wine Glass emoji 🍷 is filled with red.)
Hobbies
Pickleball players are impatiently waiting for their emoji, while cheerleaders want to see their moves or maybe some pompons. Other reader requests include fly fishing, horse jumping, and a deck of playing cards. Several suggested more vehicle options, including different car styles, a jet ski, and a dirt bike. Sports fans would love a collection of team logos, and Matthew would like to add the “Star Trek Tribble,” for when the Vulcan Salute emoji 🖖 is not enough. And Kathryn K. said, “We need a grandma emoji that doesn’t look like she came from the 1800s. 👵”
Feeling Moody
Some readers described moods they don’t see on their keyboards, including jealousy, impatience, and “a combination of sad and angry.” Beth D. wants to see “pulling out one’s hair,” or “screaming at the top of one’s lungs.” And other readers requested some moods that aren’t so easily explained:
“I’d like one that says, ‘I got your message and I hear you,’ without agreeing or disagreeing,” Susan C. said.
“I’d like to see a ‘crying hearts’ emoji instead of crying tears to denote something that touched me so deeply, it made me cry (in a good way),” Patricia M. wrote.
“A hug emoji that is empathetic and not happy,” Angela K. suggested.
“There is a ‘like’ emoji. But I need one to say, ‘I like that you are raising money for cancer (for instance) but I don’t like cancer,’” Kathe explained.
“I wish we could convey in an emoji that what you just said is NOT what your face is saying!” Mary B. said.
Samantha Abernethy is a freelancer in Chicago. When she isn't staring at a laptop, you can find her sniffing out the best coffee with her greyhound Ruby, or chasing her kids around the nearest library.
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