Cover Letter
Dear
audience,
This
article I’ve created aims to shed light on the delicate nature of grammar and
its ability to distract the reader when used “improperly.” I chose this topic
for my research because it is one that plagues me every time I sit down in
front of my monitor and create a new document. I’m always questioning my
grammar. Is this the right place for a semi-colon? Would an exclamation mark
add more emphasis? Does anyone really care that this comma is in the wrong
place? Even when I make a conscious effort to disregard everything else and
simply pour out my thoughts onto the page, involuntarily I wind up
second-guessing my punctuation. I think that this acknowledgement of
distraction caused by grammar is one all writers can identify with. It’s
relatable and interesting. However, as I’ve conducted my research, I’ve begun
to question this topic’s ability to hold as much water as it’s intended to. I
guess I’d like you guys to determine whether I do or don’t drone on and on
about the placement of the comma and the crucial importance it plays when
relaying researched thought onto paper. As I’ve researched this idea, I’ve
learned that good grammar is much more important in some circles than others.
In the creative community, it’s not as greatly emphasized. In the academic
community, it can be the difference between respect and ridicule. To me,
grammar isn’t really that important. My basic understanding of it will suffice.
However, that is for me personally. I realize I will have to bend to the whim
of some of my more, perhaps fastidious, professors when writing for their
classes. All with a grain of salt I suppose.
Regards,
Jack Cranfield
Article
Grammar, as
defined by Webster, is the characteristic system of inflections and syntax of a
language. It signifies many things: the end of a complete thought; a pause for
the necessary regaining of one’s grounding; the difference between wonder and
certainty. With complete and total regulation of the written language, many, if
not all, writers may operate under the belief that improper use of grammar
means two things: a serious lack of intelligence and skill. And when writers
hold this particular belief in high regard, the content of a writer’s argument
usually falls to the wayside, and incessant grammatical nitpicking ensues. Negligence
of content and well-founded thought promotes a different style of both research
and writing.
The heart
of this article is to gain an understanding, to secure an answer to two
questions: is improper grammar detrimentally distractive? So distractive that
it renders the article incomprehensible, nonsensical or incredible? Have I
employed a comma when I should’ve used a semi-colon? Would a dash have worked
better than the period I used in the first paragraph? Are you able to
understand what I’m saying? Is the larger message I’m trying to convey getting
through to you? Or should these questions be separated by a series of commas or
semi-colons so you can understand my point more clearly? The intricacies of
grammar are vast and strangely subjective. I aim to get a better understanding
of them by the end of this article.
Joseph M.
Williams dissects the concept of error and why some mistakes spark instant ire
while others are able to generate only modest irritation. His article “The
Phenomenology of Error” attempts to understand the scale in which grammatical
errors are measured. He admits he’s “puzzled why some of us can regard any
particular item as a more or less serious error, while others, equally
perceptive, and acknowledging that the same item may in some sense be an
“error,” seem to invest in their observation with no emotion at all.” Williams,
and myself, are equally perplexed by these diverse subjectivities and opinions
of error.
To garner a
better understanding of error, or more specifically, its perception, Williams
compares grammatical error to social error. Williams details various social
errors that one can make, errors he finds much more reprehensible than any
grammatical wrong-doing, from “break[ing] wind at a dinner party and then
vomit[ing] on the person next to us” to “mention[ing] our painful hemorrhoids”
and “tell[ing] a racist joke.” Because these actions invade the personal space
of others, “we are justified in calling them oafish.”” These offenses require
an apology or an acceptable excuse, and by that logic they transcend from
irrelevant happenings to tarnished transactions. Williams reasons that this way
of viewing social error transforms it into something society deems important
and attention-worthy: “this way of thinking about social error turns our
attention from error as a discrete entity, frozen at the moment of its
commission, to error as part of a flawed transaction, originating in ignorance
or incompetence or accident, manifesting itself as an invasion of another’s
personal space, eliciting a judgment ranging from silent disapproval to
“atrocious” and “horrible,” and requiring either an explicit “I’m sorry” and
correction, or a simple acknowledgment and a tacit agreement not to do it
again.”
This
heightened sense of importance when encountering error is still an occurrence
unique to each reader. The error is subjected to an audience that is, in ways, similar
to other audiences, but also wildly different. It is subjective. It is
circumstantial. While one reader may give no second thought about an improper
dash in the middle of a sentence in the article he’s reading, another may be
involuntarily drawn in by that article’s subject matter, only to be ripped back
into the stillness of reality upon recognizing that there’s a dash in a place a
dash shouldn’t be. Maybe, in the previous sentence, I should’ve the word
“might” instead of “may.” The point I’m trying to make still comes across, but
it isn’t as well-crafted simply do to my word choice–word choice you might (or
may!) label incorrect. It’s ALL subjective. Error is in the eye of the
beholder, Williams suggests, deducing that “to address errors of grammar and
usage in this way, it is also necessary to shift our attention from error
treated strictly as an isolated item on a page, to error perceived as a flawed
verbal transaction between a writer and a reader.” Different strokes for
different folks, if you will.
The
circumstantial nature of error mixed with the delicacy of its affect on the
reader leads us to ask what is likely the most important question the subject
of grammar can produce: who made these rules? Yes, rules and regulations exist.
Grammar is entirely comprised of rules and regulations. But exactly who
implemented these rules, and why were they selected? By this, I don’t mean who
birthed English grammar, but who is determining what is right and what is
wrong? John Dawkins argues that some of the best readers pay no attention to
grammar. This suggests that the “best” writers are those who focus on content
and research, not the pristine aura their flawless grammar gives off. “It takes
only a little study of the selections in our college readers to realize that
the punctuation rules in handbooks and style manuals are not sacred text for a
great many good writers.” [. . .] “these and other failures to follow the rules
are frequent enough to raise questions about the rules themselves.” This idea
of reevaluating the way written thought has always been conducted makes an
argument for the abolishment of rigid grammatical correctness. If that concept
were to be destroyed, I believe the writing process would open up to many
people who originally went out of their way to avoid it.
Still incomplete. My apologies.
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