Remember that corny cliché about every book ever written being found within the pages of a dictionary? I’ve always gotten such a kick out of that because I love dictionaries. I love the tiny print, the sometimes incomprehensible pronunciation guide for each word, the prefatory material that tells you how to use the book, the illustrations that accompany some of the entries (why is Sally Ride pictured but not Richelieu?), the fact that you go in to look something up for an editorial memo you’re crafting only to get distracted by a bunch of beguiling words (xylem, yurt) that you will be desperate to use in your next heated match of Words With Friends.
As with other books, I love old print dictionaries—at last count I had about a dozen at home, elegantly bound ones and dog-eared paperbacks; Spanish, Russian, French and German as well as English—but I also adore the convenience of my Dictionary.com app. How excellent to have the ability to look up a word whenever and wherever you hear it, thereby appearing to be more sesquipedalian than you really are (see what I did there?).
This ease of access, unfortunately, has made me more intolerant of authors who routinely use the wrong word in their work and other communications. I mean, how hard is it to look it up if you’re not 100% sure whether you loath something or loathe it? (BTW, I always have to look those two up myself.)
The democratization of the dictionary in this age of supreme access is a great thing, in my opinion. But, that means that there’s no excuse for lazy usage, at least not in your writing. Just look it up, people!