I am not a fan of the term “grammar Nazi.” I refuse to use it in reference to myself or others. The term may be meant as a jest, but I’m not sure that it is. It smarts just a little too much. Even if it is a jest, it’s not a flattering one. I know I joke about wielding a red pen, but such jokes are meant in good fun. No one gets hurt when I say I wield a red pen. While I am serious about writing better and encouraging others to write better, I’m equally serious about poking fun at my own obsessive-compulsive behavior when it comes to finding the right word or punctuation mark.
writing coach
Oh, the Irony
I never wanted to be a teacher.* Not ever. Not when I was a kid. Not when I was taking a literature class from Mrs. Borsberry in the seventh grade. Not when I was taking a high-school English class with the slightly odd Miss Barrientos (All I remember is that we, the class, almost literally dissected Beowulf, and that we listened to Rod Stewart’s “Forever Young” at full blast during one class period.). Not even when I was in college or grad school and was under the tutelage of some of my favorite professors. No, teaching never attracted me. I know myself too well. I can be a harsh taskmaster with my standards and expectations. I’m evil when given a red pen. Nobody needs to witness that sort of slaughter.