Grammar

I got a flier the other day from one of those places that offer leisure learning courses. You know the type. You get them all the time from the county’s parks and recreation department – knitting, chess, computers, aerobics, etc. The course that caught my eye was Introduction to Writing Creative Nonfiction. The titled sounded exactly like what I’ve been doing in the last 100-something blog posts. I read the synopsis carefully and noticed they included the name of the course text: “Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer”.

Actually enrolling for the class would have taken effort. I haven’t got much effort left in me by the end of the day. Also, a class like that would have jeopardized my long-term commitment to sloth. I would have to go there and participate, and then come back. There might even be homework involved, which is both horror and inhumanity at the same time. It would also have taken money. It was less than $100, but I reminded myself that ten bucks is ten bucks, and a hundred is ten times that. It was much too much for me.

So, given that I am both cheap and lazy, I did make my way to the county library where I might be able to check out the book for free. The library had the book “Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer”, by Roy Peter Clark and another book titled “Keep it real: everything you need to know about researching and writing creative nonfiction” by Lee Gutkind. I was overcome with enthusiasm.

I checked the books out and proudly brought them home. I thought I was going to learn a few things about writing. The delusional moment lasted exactly that long; a mere moment. When I showed the books to Jean she said, “Why would you want to read that? I thought you were writing the blog for fun”. I blinked hard several times as I realized she was right/write/rite. (Grammatical humor intended, especially given the subject of this post) I didn’t have the will to subject myself to the kind of abuse these books contained.

I tested that concept by cracking one of the books open and reading a page. By the time I reached the bottom of the page I realized I had no idea what they were talking about. If they had covered thermodynamics I might have had a clue. Instead there were rules about participles that were dangling, and if you did such a thing you would be convicted as an idiot. I stand before you guilty as charged.

It took me back to my school days in English class where I studiously avoided studying English. They forced us to learn the parts of speech and how to diagram sentences. I did the bare minimum; less if I could get away with it. Begrudgingly, I’d learn what I had to, just enough to pass their tests, and hoped that I would never have to take another English class. For me it was torture. I got passed to the next grade, and then they tortured me with the same English grammar all over again the next year.

When my own kids reached the first grade I remember the teacher explaining that our kids knew hundreds of words, but could only spell a few. She said that when the kids were writing stories the teachers didn’t focus on spelling, and neither should we, because the kids could only spell a small fraction of their vocabulary, and that would limit their writing. And therein lies/lays (oh hell) my excuse.

I am invoking the first grade right/write/rite of bad spelling and I am extending that right as a privilege of old age and ignorance to include grammar, sentence structure, punctuation, and the proper construction of a paragraph or theme. If I only wrote what I knew how to write, it would be too limiting. I refuse to be constrained or held back by my own ignorance.

And so I am not going to worry about never starting a sentence with the word “And” or “But” or whatever the rule really is. Half of the grammar rules seem to have exceptions anyway. Writers are supposed to write about their pains and shames. Well, I am not in pain, and I am not going to let the grammar give me pain, and I am not going to be a-shamed if I screw it up regularly.

So the books I was so enthused about have been sitting on the kitchen counter now for two weeks gathering dust. They are headed back to the library tomorrow. Their/there/they’re secrets will remain secrets, and I’ve been pretty successful so far at pretending not to care. Instead I am pretending that I am an undiscovered writer, pretending I have an audience sometime in the distant future, but not pretending at all when I write for my own amusement, albeit badly at times.