As you may have guessed, this blog is rather personal and I often (and by that I mean always) draw on things that happen, that I hear about, or that strike me during the week, for my inspiration. Last week, I was struck square in the face with work: deadlines and a workload I haven’t seen in a couple of years that took hold and sent my muse fleeing for the hills. Hence the tardiness of this post. Not that you were waiting with bated (yes, that’s the word, not the worm on a hook word) breath, but I have an overactive sense of obligation and a brutal need to be on time.

But, hurrah, my muse whacked me in the face at the grocery store awhile ago as I listened to NPR. And I realized I needed to write about one of my favorite things: words.

Stop yawning.

I am driven by a lot of things, but no matter what they may be, they translate in my head to words. I think in words, I talk in words, I write in words. Perhaps you do, too.

My parents were sticklers about words. Especially the ones we couldn’t say. We couldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain, and we could not ever discuss things that occur in the bathroom, body parts or noises those parts might make. Absolutely no cursing. Do not write anything you would not want the preacher to read from the pulpit (this has saved me on several occasions.) Do not call anyone a fool (that’s Biblical.) And after one of my very heartfelt and emotional prayers at Thanksgiving (in which I usually made myself cry) Daddy told me that we are not lucky (of which I apparently was grateful for in my prayer), but we are blessed (which is also Biblical.)

Words matter. Words tell a lot about who we are and what we stand for and what we value.

I tend to marry men who love language.

Mike and I played Boggle and Scrabble with our children when they were tiny. Molly got to make one and two-letter words. It was very competitive, but educational. Our grown children are very verbal. As the Learning Grandmother, I am thrilled that my grandchildren have vocabularies beyond their years. It will serve them well, like knowing which fork to use at a banquet.

Scott and I became grammar snobs, correcting reporters and commercials on TV with vehemence. It seemed to us that the rules had been thrown out the window. When did WOKEN become a word and AWAKENED is ignored? Why do ads (and packaging!) say LESS calories instead of FEWER? Why does everyone overcorrect so that ME is anathema and I is used incorrectly?

Why do I care?

Because, English, in all its confluence of disparate tongues, its ridiculously complicated spelling rules, and its whimsical irregularities, is beautiful. Fluid and evocative, maddening and transformative, literal and imaginative. And I hate to see it whipped into submission by social media laziness or journalists and advertisers who either don’t care or don’t know.

As I am aging, I’m losing my nouns and it’s a distressing turn of events. I’m fighting it by spending an overabundance of hours playing word games on my phone: Wordle, Word Hurdle, Phrazle and Quordle. I do Sunday New York Times crosswords every day. Yes, I’m addicted, but I will not become noun-less without a fight.

So, thanks for giving me an outlet to stretch my writing muscles, to talk about things that may or may not matter, and to communicate with you from my heart (that’s actually the best part.)

Write back when you can because I’d like to read your words, too!