Their some words ewe simply have two no. Know amount of help from you're favorite word processor or spell checker is going to help you. You can right a sentence that the spell checker says is just fine, but witch will get you thrown out of an agents office in too seconds flat.
And then, there's awl that nasty; punctuation stuff. How do you know whose write, and watt's wrong? Some people seam to bee allergic to comas. Me, on the other hand, adores them, and sprinkles them, like jimmies on an ice crème cone, liberally, threw every thing I write.
Sum, mostly younger, writers, seam to think that grammar and punctuation and spieling are fro fools and conformists. Sew, who do ewe consult when you knead help? You're reliant Stunk and White? Your more intelligentsia fiends? Dew you pick through you work with a find tooth come? Do you trust yourself to fined all the errors? And what trips you up every time?
Too some things up, who dew your depend on to be you're knit picky grammar Nazi? And what words or phrases trip you up most often?
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Comments: 306
As for punctuation, I tend to do my own checking. I've read so much over the years that if the punctuation isn't correct, it just doesn't look right. However, if I'm really in a rush, there will be the tendency to substitute homonyms for each other, or sometimes my fingers will just type that extra letter.
I tell word to screw itself when it points out sentence fragments in my dialogue.
Still get hung up on effect/affect, but am improving.
Comma? I'll leave those to the comma queen.
I find I put things out of time order in my first drafts like so.
Bob slammed the door when he entered the room. (bad)
When Bob entered the room, he slammed the door. (better)
See what I'm getting at though. The entering the room happened before the slammed door, so should be mentioned first.
Um, yeah, I need to go write now.
Keep posting the same quality contents!
Found a swallow-full of Nyquil in my medicine cabinet. Just took it (the Nyquil, not the medicine cabinet) and am heading to bed. 'Night all.
Simon, from the last thread, what contests is (are?) your book entered into? And Sia, wonderful photo of the bird! I hand a grapevine wreath by the front door each spring, and invariably have a robin who nest there. Then for weeks, I daren't open the front door, else she comes flying and squawking at me. Have I mentioned that birds terrify me far more than snakes and spiders ever will? Stupid, I know, but try having a parakeet caught in you hair at the age or two or three and see how you feel about the stupid, noisy things with claws digging into your scalp and beating their wings frantically on your head.
Jamie: your comment on previous thread "bricks with eyes"--lol--I call them BBDs, for "big bag of dirt"--a walkin' talkin' sack of potting soil.
That was marvelous. I loved it. My biggest problem is writing you instead of your. I dont know why that happens. I think that my fingers just keeping missing that r key. I wish they made keyboards for larger fingers.
Like many folks here, I write a lot for professional reasons. Spell check is dangerous, as you article (see I did it again, but this time on purpose) points out. So I proint the last virgin (hey, this is catchy!) and reed it very carefully.
OMG, wee cud dew a hole homonym tread this weigh.
And I think the wind is going to blow my house down. Sheesh!!
I find birds somewhat creepy. It's the feathers. Did a bird dissection in zoology and cutting through the feathers was horrible.
What trips me up? letter vs latter. Silly things like that - when I'm typing too slowly to keep up with the ole brain.
Hope everyone has a good weekend. I'm off to bed.
I mess up most, like Simon, on "you"/"your". And fro/for. And I swear, that Stunk/Strunk was a complete accident, the kind I'm most likely to make!
I'm waiting for inspiration to strike. I think I'm going to have to "just write" here in a minute. Hate that.
Simon, love that you take it on faith that I was sensational at 18. And who said we are not sadistic? Speak for yourself, sir!
Sia, that's the book. I see you have Pat checking into it too. I don't think I've ever read her, but it seemed fun. They are kooky characters.
Jamie, you so inspired with your yard stuff that instead of enjoying dinner tonight, I went out on the back hillside and pulled out some gargantuan weeds masquerading as trees. Wiped me out. But at least there's a path down the hillside.
John, if I ask you to read my screenplay, are you gonna ask me to stand by with pens, red ones? Awesome to get that kind of advice.
Pat, you do often end up with the Friday night hosting duties. I think it's the well-stocked bar and the hot tub.
Sy, I'm not sure what would happen if you entered one of my dreams and then began directing it yourself with that lucid dreaming. I dream in color. I know because I've seen bright red blood several times.
And it's never my own. Just saying.
Oh, and Simon? I've never really regretted anything. That would be useless. And James? Love that you understand me so well. Mon cher!
Well, next time lets try it. I can direct in color, I think.
Actually Pat, at 21 I did something really stupid. Got married.
Beth, two in a row and no coats? Definitely not a Dana.
Yes, I want to see "Iron Man."
A USA Today snapshot from Thursday--The number of books U.S. adults say they typically read in a year:
None, 9%; 1-3, 23%; 4-6, 19%; 7-10, 13%; more than 10, 37%.
That is sad, sad, sad.
I once read--in a letter to the editor, I believe--that someone couldn't believe the number of books Pres. Bush read in a year. No, the writer wasn't dissing the President's intelligence. But rather revealing his own limitations. The writer concluded that Bush would have to read nearly 35 books a year at the schedule he said he read them. A whopping 35 a year and the letter writer couldn't conceive that someone could read so many.
Beth, I've met a lot of people very much like Blue, Aprile, and Dean. I love Blue's sense of humor and wait until you meet Mrs. Nita Garrison. She's a hoot.
Well, the energy is running waaaay low. I have tons to get done tomorrow. I'm heading off to bed. Have fun.
I'm in only one contest so far this year — the Robert Benchley one. Top ten get picked May 15th. Have no idea about that one as I saw it so late I had only a few days to remember what Benchley wrote like and type something out.
May 15th is the same day "Memoire ...(and) magazine hits the newstands with my article.
Is there an Ides of May?
John, I won't hurry it to you. I've got quite a bit of editing to do on it. But I would like an outside eye eventually.
I do have regrets from my younger days--stuff I did, other stuff I didn't did. But given what I knew then, who I was then, I wouldn't have done anything else. But knowing what I know now, I won't pass these years with regrets. Not if I can help it.
PAt, you asked about my contests. One is the Society of Science Journalists (who will hate the book, since they are all doom and gloomers) and the other is the National Academy of Sciences, which I can prolly win, right after I get the Nobel Prize.
It's past midnight and I'm definitely getting that pumpkin feeling. Nite all.
I see from Amazon that I actually own Natural Born Charmer in hard back (some authors I buy sight unseen in hardback, and SEP is one of them), so I've probably read it, but sometimes I consume books like potato chips, unthinkingly. It came out more than a year ago, which means I've read dozens and dozens of books since then.
John, no Ides of May, so you'll be fine. What magazine when?
James, feeling somewhat better. At least pretending to, which is the same thing in my world as actually being. Mind over matter. OK, off to see Beaker's picture.
Speaking of, I think I'll go read. 'Night, wombats.
Sy, I have no doubt you'll do well in your contests. And Wendy, be sure to add those to your lists. And Simon, when you do win the NObel, will you still speak to all us commoners?
Do Men Ever Visit Boston (Duke, Marquis, Earl, Viscount, Baron), but I need to know the lady's titles.
To answer Pat's question, anyone but me.
Au revoir mes amis.
Hey, Viv. Have fun with your finals. We'll see you on the other side.
That's what's such a bummer about submitting by mail, especially to forein markets . . . Not only do you have to spend about fifty bucks a copy, there's also the added cost for postage . . .ect (IT all adds up . . .)
I think I'm just going to write the stupid book and let someone else figure out where I've screwed up the titles. I believe a female who inherits a title (i.e. from her father) is called "Lady Jane", whereas a female who only marries a title is called "Lady Smith", but who knows. And why don't I write a nice, simple fantasy, where I can MSU (Make Sh*t UP?)
True, Paul. But my patience just snapped and I need to act. Like yesterday.
And the synopsis is lovely. (as lovely as I can make it), but I don't have a query letter yet. So I guess I'll do that tomorrow.
Bed time.
Good night, Pat. And any lurkers who might still be awake.
Ahem. If it weren't for Beth I'd be lost on commas. The little blighters are my down fall. I also spell by ear so often I type one word, but meant another.. ain't it fun?
Okay now to catch up while the rest of you are sleeping. hehehehe
Pat a knight is always refered to as 'Sir' Elton John, Paul McCartney.. ect.
On the lady front it depends on the lady's marital status and who is addressing her.
The lady of the house/manor would be refered to as Lady Stonebridge by unknowns and lessers, or Lady Jillian to those more familar.
An unmarried lady of status would be refered to at functions by her christian name. Lady Ella, daughter of Lord Stonebridge.
I'm pretty sure.. and being married to a knight I don't think would afford his wife the title of lady, unless they were in court.. where all women are refered to as Lady this and that. confused yet.. Much of it still befuddles me.
Go Jamie, Go Jamie...send The Wolfhuntress into the world, it is a marvelous bit of fiction I'd be standing at the door to buy.. even though I've read it. grin
Pat, I think this is what Burke's Peerage is for.
Re: the post...oddly enough, I'm pretty good with grammar and punctuation (though you wouldn't necessarily be able to tell this from my comments).
And I thought I was the only one who thought the new Battlestar Galactica was, um...pretentious. With too much shaky-cam.
Night, all!
I like it very much! Keep posting the same quality content! Bye for now!
That is all. As you were.
Weirdest book /short story "AT the time . . .1993" was a Omni mag Short Story . . . and it was delicious.
Eger Rice Burroughs . . . I loved to read during (Mundane) highschool English . . . Class of 85
Sy, happy weekend.
Ken, I'm sure Pat is capable of balancing good, evil and many shades of gray in between, while scribbling updates to her MS on the side.
Oh, yeah, and I need to go into work for about a half hour.
Where's my tea? Need caffiene....
And James, mon cher, I adore your faith in my abilities. I'll definately be doing battle with shades of gray toda while working on the WIP. Moving towards what is known as the 'black moment'. It's probably for the best that the weather is so revolting.
Good morning as well to Jamie and Paul. Jamie, apparently you write actual stuff on Friday nights, while I tell silly stories. Which is why you will be published and famous, and I will simply be infamous!
OK, off to find coffee, and to try to kill these little imps who are intent on playing the Anvil Chorus in my brain pan.
Pat: "DB (so shoot me Ken, he sticks in the brain)."
I hate to say no to a lady.
Pat, the appreciation is mutual. Alas, mojitas and lingering colds don't mix well. But perhaps it will feed the black moment.
Quiet Saturday here. I suspect we all need to tend to the other things for a while.
"Well, it appears that fate has taken a hand"
Bogie says this when his lover's husband is arrested, and the plot is about to get really complicated. Fate often takes a hand, doesnt it. So yes, James, sometimes some of do disappear for a while, as fate ordains we deal with other things, non-Wombat.
I hate when that happens, dont you?
Country song..hehe
He could find a private-club bar, become a temporary member, and down a few drinks to help him forget how low he was on the cosmic totem pole. He wasn't himself. Generally, the Glen Wilson way was illuminated as if by spotlight. Even molesting bible-thumpers didn't raise his spirits. He puffed on his cigar and got a little lift from the way passersby glared at him.
A mother, pushing twins in a carriage, spoke to him in a scolding tone.
"Secondhand smoke kills six-thousand children each year."
"If you believe that, you're stupider than you look. And that would take doing."
Better. Sparring with a defenseless young mother. The smoke warmed him and cleared cobwebs from his mind. He waved the pamphlet at her. "Perhaps you'd like to read the word as passed down by the Seventh Day Adventists."
The look on her face showed she despised Adventists more than tobacco.
"Bugger off."
Wow, a 'bugger off' from a young Mormon mother...
"That was unchristian," he shouted at her expansive retreating backside.
His soul was back from purgatory. He could reinvent psychotherapy. Give the depressed a cigar and a soccer mom to insult and all would be well.
- Ken Coffman, Toxic Shock Syndrome
Off to read High Sierra, as promised (never disobey the yellow sticky notes!), then to see what kind of hash I last left my WIP in.
Jamie, practice makes it easier.
I'm running into the frustration of not having word on my new computer. I have Open Office, instead. It doesn't transfer changes as well. arrrgh. I guess it's a nice enough program but not for writing. Monday, I'll be installing Word again. I have it on my laptop, so I've had to email myself my edits. Pain in the arse.
Wendy, just what have you been doing this morning, hmmm? I noticed the that impish little chuckle...
And yes Simon, fate is a bugger sometimes. As is real life.
She's even kinda crazy about my farmer's tan. She thinks my tracker's sexy...
muhawwwhahahah
Ken love the quote and the character.
Ken, I gather being "PC" isn't Glen Wilson's specialty. Course the whole politically correct movement bores me to tears.
Wendy, good time of year to do yard work, but the weather's not cooperating here. It's raining, but my young guy is still out playing baseball in his league. I'll be off to see the game soon.
The guard was onto something that troubled Glen's subconscious. These kids, for the most part, were well-behaved. Sure, there were skateboard punks smoking weed and running their boards on stairway rails. Otherwise, they were quiet and civilized for their demographic. Rich kids. Smart kids. The cream of the crop, such as it was.
"Thanks, man," Glen said.
As he strolled, lost in thought, the lights of the city came on around him. The Wasatch peaks, stained with pink from the waning sun, decorated the horizon like jagged teeth as the air's heat vanished. His mood was inexplicable.
"Hey mister?"
Glen turned.
How old was this girl?
Studying her face, he realized she was older than he first thought. Late teens, maybe early twenties, thin as a whisker with a cold and pinched face peering out of a fleece hood.
"Buy me a cup of soup?"
All bone and gristle, she had no figure to speak of, but Glen wasn't a man to reject a woman based on how she looked. He'd been surprised many time before, sex appeal is in the attitude, not the equipment. Although, he enjoyed a good pair of equipments and this waif had none so far as he could tell from trying to peer through her clothing. He knew of a coffee shop restaurant at the Econo Lodge. It struck him, he was hungry too.
"Okay," Glen said. "What's your name, kid?"
"Uh, Mary."
Yes, that was as good a name as any. Mary. In her hesitation, he couldn't tell if she'd decided to reveal her real name or not. She seemed alert, smart and undamaged. He held out his hand for a shake.
"I'm pleased to meet you, Mary, I'm Glen Wilson."
Shaking her hand was like grasping frozen twigs.
"Big fan of Toxic Shock?"
"Is that a band? I never heard of them."
"Perfect," Glen said. He guided her while stuffing the useless backstage passes in his jacket pocket.
The waitress was an older woman pressed like a summer sausage into a gravy-stained dress. She'd seen everything and liked little of it; she made an accusation with her eyes. They had an all-day breakfast, so Glen ordered a Denver omelet. Mary could not decide.
"Order whatever looks good, I'll help you eat it."
Stabbing a finger at the menu, she selected chicken fried steak, a cheeseburger, waffle fries and a Marionberry milkshake.
"How old are you, Mary?" Again, various answers flitted through her mind and Glen read the options on her face. "I'm like a human lie detector. Be straight with me or you'll buy your own dinner. Your name is not really Mary, is it?"
Her cheeks grew pink.
"Is so." Her eyes searched mine. "Well, okay, my name is Mary Ellen after my mother. Everyone calls me Ellen."
"That's better. How old are you, Ellen?"
"Nineteen."
"I almost believe you, but we'll get back to that later. Take off your jacket so I can get a better look at you."
She hesitated, shrinking into the fleece hood like a turtle. Glen reached over to help with the zipper and, like a robot, she shrugged off the jacket. She was layered up with a wool shirt under the fleece and under the wool shirt a green t-shirt. There wasn't much under the t-shirt. After a shy moment, she squared up her s