I make grammar mistakes. I’m sure that I make them all the time on this here blog. I mean, hell, just recently, I wasn’t really paying attention and only read part of a tweet and totally made the wrong grammar call. Luckily for me, of course, it was TwitterGrammar and not, you know, part of my actual job. I have a degree in Book and Magazine Publishing. What this means, of course, is that I took many, many classes on proofreading and copy editing and copy editing and proofreading. My best friends during school were The Chicago Manual of Style and those lovely guys called Strunk & White. I have been editingâ€”by tradeâ€”since 2001, the year I graduated. That’s ten years, if you are playing at home.
I have grammar pet peeves. I mean, who doesn’t?
I care if you use I and me incorrectly, and if you are a relative of mine, you will be corrected.
I don’t understand that people do not understand that you’re means you are and that it’s means it is. They are contractions.
I do not enjoy sentences that end in AT, i.e., “Where are you at?”
I can’t stand when people write 80’s. It’s ’80s.
I want to cry when I hear people say “might could.”
I want to teach the world the difference between a hyphen, an n-dash, and an m-dash.
I am annoyed when people say that they could care less, because, well, this implies that they do care. The actual phrase is that they couldn’t care less.
I give a f$%k about an Oxford comma.
I loathe a double space after a period.
I had to stop reading a book because of a grammar pet peeve.
Now here’s the really unfortunate rub.
I was really digging the book. Sure, I was only 138 pages into a 1069 page book (we’re talking e-reader pages here, not real-life pages, obviously). but I liked where it was headed; I liked what I had read.
Myself and Conor. MYSELF AND CONOR?!?!?
I mean, this book is written by a Booker Prize winner. And this was not an isolated incident. I would be willing to let one mistake go. But this was the third time I caught a serious misuse of the word ‘myself’ and I just couldn’t go on. My eyes were bleeding. Myself and Conor.
Blasphemy, I say.