So we now all know when to use “afterward” and “afterwards” thanks to last week’s -ward/-wards post, right? Good, because there’s another usage bomb about to drop. Occasionally, we confuse “afterward” and “afterword” as well. One is a noun. The other is an adverb. The meanings are not the same.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but I have little to no tolerance for modern romantic comedies (unless they feature Paul Rudd). They have so pervaded our culture that we can predict plot points with ease within the first ten minutes of the movie. The person that the protagonist picks fights with will be the love interest. There will be a snarky best friend. There will be a hilarious misunderstanding that causes the love interest to ditch the protagonist, until the protagonist makes a grand romantic gesture that will cause all to be forgiven.
These worn-out tropes are known as clichés.
Today, I’m heading to Telluride, Colorado, for the annual Telluride Bluegrass Festival. My roommates and I bought tickets way back in December, and six months later, the time has come for us to load our gear up and drive the 7-9 hours into the mountains for four days of fun and banjos. We’ve been looking forward to this festival for a long time, and it’s finally arrived. You could say that we’re anxious to get to Telluride.
You could say that, but you’d be mostly wrong.
Critique groups are banes or blessings, depending upon your experiences. I’ve endured both, but in the long run I consider a critique group an asset in a writer’s toolbox. They come with their good points and bad, their strong writers and weak, the arrogant and the fearful. And invariably you’ll find the one who deems himself the grammar police.
He (or she) will don a green, red, or other colored pen and commence to circling passive voice, noting Oxford commas, crossing through the use of HAD and THAT, underscoring your split infinitives, and chastising you for beginning a sentence with AND or BUT. Heaven help you if you end a sentence with OF, TO or AT.
And invariably a writer will stand tall and profess that he writes from the soul, the heart, or some other part of their body, and that strict adherence to grammar rules handcuffs a creative spirit.
As the English language evolves (and we start to learn grammar from text messaging), more words that aren’t actually words worm their way into our lexicon. Sometimes we embrace the change (“okay,” believe it or not, was not always an acceptable word), and sometimes we send it back to the pits of hell (ask any grammar enthusiast about “irregardless”).
I’m spotlighting two examples of not-actually-words today: alright and alot.
