The Scribbly One

Text message from tactless male:
Ever wonder where the word ‘simpleton’ came about? Well, since you’re single, I propose we call you a ‘singleton’. What say you?

Irritated reply:
The word has already been coined. You obviously don’t read chick lit; Bridget Jones’s Diary popularised the term.

In fact, the word ‘singleton’ caught on quickly and has seen widespread usage ever since Bridget Jones became a surprise bestseller, selling six million copies in 33 countries. So much so that the term ‘singleton’ was included in the Oxford English Dictionary in June 2001.

One can’t, in all conscience, fault a man for steering clear of chick lit; one can, however, fault him for being oblivious to the world around him and making lame attempts at humour.

“I don’t want to waste my tears on him. I believe the one who is worth your tears won’t make you cry, and the one who makes you cry is not worth your tears.”

Nice sentiment, I wanted to tell her, but what kind of world are you living in? You seriously think there exists a man who’ll never make you cry? Au contraire… to expect a relationship without tears is to expect to cruise through life without struggles and setbacks. Ain’t gonna happen, baby.

Of course, I know what my friend meant: the one who is worth your tears won’t carelessly or deliberately hurt you. Still, I think it’s inevitable that he will hurt you, sooner or later.

A wise married friend once told me he believes every relationship has a certain quota of tears. “You have to use up all the tears before you reap the full rewards of your commitment and effort,” he said. He ought to know what he’s talking about - he’s been married nearly twenty years.

Remember when I asked, “Who can explain grammar anyway?”

It was a rhetorical question. However, apparently William Safire can. I am in love with his book, How Not To Write. Not only does Safire explain grammar, he does so with tongue firmly in cheek. I never believed a book on grammar could be so entertaining; if, prior to this, you’d told me I would chuckle over rules of grammar, I would have thought you soft in the head.

It’s not just Safire’s humour that draws me, however. It’s his - at times - almost poetic turn of phrase. His description of the semicolon as “a form of punctuation that makes a full stop but continues to dribble” caused me to tumble head over heels in love.

Unlike the period, which decisively separates complete thoughts, or the comma, which gently separates phrases, the semicolon is the Cleopatra of punctuation marks; she separates and connects at the same time, making hungry where most she satisfies.

How could I resist? It would have taken a harder heart than mine to remain impervious.

Grammar and I are strangers to each other. Verbs, adverbs, nouns, adjectives, pronouns, prepositions, conjunctions, articles — they’re all names of distant acquaintances. When I bump into any of them, I say “Hi,” then add, “you look very familiar, but I’m afraid I don’t really remember who you are…”

Luckily for me, I might not remember their names, but most of the time I know where they belong. When I write, I put them in place by instinct. I trust my inner ear, who tells me whether the sentence sounds right.

It’s funny, really — I can tell you when something is wrong, and I can tell you what is wrong, but I can’t tell you why it’s wrong. Who can explain grammar anyway?

“Do you like your job?” a friend asked.

“It’s interesting, and it’s something I know I can do,” I replied.

“Do you like your job?”

“It’s ok. I’m with an established company, we have great employee benefits, and my boss recognises my contributions…”

“Scribbler! Are you listening to yourself? Why aren’t you out there, pursuing your passion?”

“I don’t know whether I’m cut out for it. Besides, this job is not that bad.”

“You’re selling out.”

I think a bookshop would be the perfect place to meet a man. We would bump into each other in the ‘Writing’ section and instantly connect over a common love for the English language, a common fascination for words and all that words can do. We’d continue our conversation over tea, discovering everything we can about each other. And the rest, as you know, would be history.

I think I’ve watched You’ve Got Mail a tad too many times.

“Guys are wired differently and their brains work differently compared to ours,” a friend said.

“That’s not much help, you know,” I complained.

“Exactly. They think they’re simple straightforward beings but they’re actually worse than women! And we think we’re complicated!”