Grammar, etc.

If you have ever wondered about when it’s right to say “may” and when to use “might”, you may find this article interesting. Then again, you might not. Either way, let’s investigate.

Both “may” and “might” are modal auxiliary verbs. This means they accompany other verbs and indicate inclination, intention, potential, necessity, actuality, ability, and so on. For example:

I might have already confused you suggests the potential that I have caused confusion.
You may disagree with this implies that this outcome is not absolute or certain.

In these examples, the words “might” and “may” could be switched without causing a significant shift in meaning:

I may have confused you.
You might disagree.

Indeed, when referring to possibility or permission, these two verbs are often used interchangeably, but there is a subtle difference between them. In most cases, “may” infers a higher likelihood of something, whereas “might” implies that it is less probable.

There are, however, other instances when either “may” or “might” is more correct, so here is a hopefully helpful though by no means definitive guide to choosing between them.

Use “may”

• when granting or refusing permission (You may speak, but you may not leave)
• when expressing a hope or wish (May you be well)
• to concede a point (Be that as it may, I couldn’t possibly agree)
• to acknowledge something before putting forward an opposing opinion (You may find this boring, but it is useful to know).

Use “might”

• as the past tense form of may (Perhaps I might have explained that better)
• when referring to hypothetical situations (If I wrote a musical about apostrophes, it might delight audiences)
• when talking about things that did not happen, to avoid confusion with “may have” when it means to give permission (compare I might not have thought that musical idea through properly with I may not do that, noting that the former expresses the possibility of my not doing something, while the latter implies that I am not allowed to do it)
• to indicate irritation over something someone could have or should have done (You might have warned me).

Use either

• when referring to possibility or expressing uncertainty about events in the present or future (keeping in mind that “may” generally suggests something is more likely, and “might” implies it is less so)
• when politely making a request or seeking permission (noting that “might” is more formal, as in Might I trouble you for a cup of tea?)
• to indicate an intention (I explain this so you may understand it better or so you might understand it better).

It is important to note that while “might” is the past tense of “may”, many grammarians argue that either word is acceptable when referring to past actions and events, but only if the truth about those actions and event is unknown. I could therefore say:

I may have inspired you to learn more about language after reading this article, or
I might have inspired you to learn more about language after reading this article.

Much as I hope that I have inspired you, I do not know if this is true, so both sentences may be considered correct. When talking about events that definitely did not happen, however, “might” is the better choice:

I might have been a famous writer of musicals, but I became an editor instead.

Now that I’ve (maybe) explained the nuances of “may” and “might”, I’m off to find a word that rhymes with “apostrophe”.

You never know; I might find one.

Has this article helped you to understand which word to use when? In your view, should “might” always be used when referring to past events? And if you happen to know a rhyme for “apostrophe”, would you be so kind as to share it with me?

Despite their demure demeanour, commas can be perplexing. They pop up where they’re not needed, and their absence can cause confusion and misreading. One source of uncertainty about commas is their use around names. Sometimes they are required and sometimes not, but once you understand the principles at play, you will find it easier to determine when to include them.

Commas are used around names in two main ways. The first is a comma of address, and it appears when a name or a noun or phrase that stands in for a name is used in a sentence. Here are a few examples.

It’s a pleasure to see you, Emily.
Dear lady, can you help me?
It is clear, Irene, that our adventures are just beginning.

As the first two examples show, only one comma is needed when the name or phrase appears at the start or end of the sentence. If it occurs elsewhere, however, it is separated from the rest of the sentence by a pair of commas.

While the comma of address might seem like a petty point of punctuation, it can be necessary to establish clarity. Compare the following two statements.

I don’t know, Dorothy.
I don’t know Dorothy.

In the first instance, the comma before ‘Dorothy’ shows that she is the person being addressed. I am telling Dorothy that I don’t know something. In the second case, where no comma appears, Dorothy is the object of the sentence. She is the thing I don’t know. The presence or absence of the comma of address alters the meaning of the sentence. That is why it is vital to understand when and how to use it. Fortunately, it is easy to learn this.

If someone or something is being addressed in a sentence, then a comma or pair of commas is necessary. But if someone or something is the object of the sentence—the thing to which an action is done—then no commas are required.

The second way that commas can appear around names is in an appositive sense. Grammatically, an appositive is a noun or phrase that gives additional information about another noun or phrase in the same sentence and serves the same function as it. The information can be essential or extra, and this is what determines whether or not commas are needed.

Think of it like this: essential information must be part of the sentence in order for the meaning to be conveyed. Extra information can be removed from the sentence, and the meaning would remain the same. The bit that is extra, but not essential, gets framed by commas.

Let’s see how this rule relates to names.

Author Bella Li won the prize for poetry with her book Argosy.
A published poet, Bella Li, will be in attendance.
My sister Leanne loves lemurs.
My brother, Bertie, bites bananas.

The name ‘Bella Li’ is essential information in the first example. Without it, the sentence reads as ‘Author won the prize for poetry’. Not very meaningful. In the second sentence, the subject is ‘A published poet’, and the name of the poet is an extra detail. As such, it is enclosed by commas. If the name were removed, the sentence would still make sense: ‘A published poet will be in attendance.’

In the final two examples, the use of commas may seem inconsistent. Why should Bertie get them around his name when Leanne does not for hers? The answer, as before, is that ‘Leanne’ is essential information and ‘Bertie’ is extra.

The absence of commas from the phrase ‘my sister Leanne’ means that I have more than one sister, so it is essential that I use her name in the sentence to identify which of my sisters loves lemurs. In contrast, the commas around ‘Bertie’ indicate that the information being given is the same as in the noun phrase ‘My brother’ that is appositive to it. By saying ‘My brother’ and ‘Bertie’, I am repeating the same thing, and I am also signalling that I have only one brother.

Just in case this is all sounding too straightforward, let me point out that distinguishing the essential from the extra is not always simple. Returning to the first of our examples above, we may ponder whether a comma is required before the title ‘Argosy’. On the one hand, the sentence ‘Author Bella Li won the prize for poetry with her book’ is arguably meaningful. The title could be considered as extra information, thus requiring a comma to be added before it. But don’t we need to know what book won? Wouldn’t that make the title essential information?

Furthermore, using the same logic as we applied in the last two examples, the omission of the comma suggests that Argosy is not Bella Li’s only book. (It’s not, as it happens.) If it were, the terms ‘book’ and ‘Argosy’ would mean the same thing, and a comma would be required to separate them.

So is the comma before the title necessary or not?

I leave that for you to decide, my friends, with a gentle reminder that although punctuation is often prescriptive and sometimes perplexing, it is also more subjective than you might think.

Do you get confused about when to use commas around names? Has this article helped to clarify your understanding? Would you put the comma before ‘Argosy’ or not?

Among the words that befuddle writers are “that”, “which” and “who”. Although they may seem like simple enough terms, each serves a variety of grammatical functions, depending on its role and position in any given sentence. As some of the functions these three words fulfill are similar, confusion over their usage can arise.

I have written before about the subtle but important difference between “that” or “who”. Now let’s explore the relative merits of “that” and “which”.

And yes, I did commit a mild pun there, for “that” and “which” are both relative pronouns. This means they stand in place of a noun and relate to a specific antecedent that has appeared earlier in the sentence. For example:

I chose the flowers that I like.
The flowers are blue, which is my favourite colour.

In the first sentence, “that” refers to the flowers. In the second, “which” relates back to blue.

While it may seem that these words can be used interchangeably, many grammarians agree that the choice of “that” or “which” is determined by whether or not the clause it introduces is defining or non-defining. In other words, your selection of one or the other is based on how crucial the information in the clause is to the overall meaning of the sentence.

To help clarify this, Mark Tredinnick offers a handy distinction in The Little Green Grammar Book between definition and description. A restrictive clause defines the antecedent by providing essential information about it, whereas a non-restrictive clause describes it through offering additional details that are no doubt fascinating but not necessary in order for the sentence to be meaningful.

Referring back to our examples, the clause “that I like” is restrictive because it defines the flowers I chose. In contrast, the clause “which is my favourite colour” is incidental to the statement that the flowers are blue. It describes my attitude towards the colour blue but does not define anything in the sentence.

Incidentally, non-restrictive clauses, including those beginning with “which”, are typically preceded by a comma. This is because these clauses tend to be parenthetical, which is a fancy way of saying that what they contain is not vital.

I did mention that we would discuss the ‘relative’ merits of these words, and it is important to note that there are regional and stylistic variations to the usages I have outlined here. In documents I edit, I ensure each “that”, “which” and “who” is employed correctly, according to my understanding. However, not all writers in all places adopt the same practices. Some are guided by preferences that differ from my own, which is fine. (See what I did there?)

I guess in a sense, you could say that it’s all relative, except for when it is definitive, which is relatively easy to decide, provided you keep in mind what is essential and what is additional.

That makes all the difference.

Do you get muddled betwixt “that” and “which”? Do you have any techniques for remembering which to use when? Are you clear about the difference between restrictive and non-restrictive clauses?

I use them often, as you may have noticed. Adverbs. They’re those nifty little words that, depending on your perspective, either give precision to your prose or needlessly clutter up the page. Some writers rail against them. (Hello, Stephen King.) Others dispense them with delicious effect. (Oh, hi, Stephen Fry.) In my view, adverbs are elements of language that can, like all others, add style to your writing. The key is knowing how and when to employ them.

You can generally recognise adverbs by the suffix ‘-ly’ that is appended to them, although it is important to note that not all words ending in –ly are adverbs and not all adverbs end in –ly. Their name indicates that their role is to ‘add’ something to a verb, although they can be used to modify other parts of speech too. This includes:

• adjectives (such as utterly fascinating, quite delightful)
• other adverbs (very cleverly, unreasonably often)
• clauses or sentences (Potentially, this is getting a bit technical).

Adverbs modify or specify such things as:

• Time (soon, later, afterwards)
• Place (nearby, overhead, beneath)
• Manner (exquisitely, unwillingly, predictably)
• Degree (mildly, intensely, extremely)
• Frequency (often, regularly, infrequently)
• Probability (likely, possibly, maybe)
• Emphasis (very, quite, positively)
• Duration (briefly, interminably, always).

There are also a cluster of interrogative adverbs whose purpose is to form questions relating to time (when), place (where), reason (why) and manner (how). Fortunately, you don’t need to remember all of this in order to use adverbs effectively. (See what I did there?)

Arguments against the use of adverbs invoke an apparent ineptness on the part of the writer, who may be depending on them to carry a weight of meaning and emotion that might otherwise be conveyed through sturdier words like verbs and nouns. It is true that excessive use of them can be a lazy way to “tell” readers what is happening and how they should feel about it, rather than “showing” or guiding them to this knowledge. Yet equally, one of the qualities of good writing is that it persuades us.

Through engaging with well chosen words, we become willing to believe in imagined worlds, innovative ideas, dramatic events and exhilarating theories. Words do have power, and writers are entitled to use all the linguistic gifts available to them in order to express their message in the best way they can. I believe this includes adverbs, despite what other experts might say.

Sometimes the touch of specificity given by an adverb is necessary to deliver an exact meaning or image. At other times, the vehemence of a writer’s feelings can be concentrated through a few rigorous adverbs. Then there is the outright glee of scattering them joyfully, exuberantly, willingly and wantonly, for the simple reason that words are fun.

Not every verb requires modification, and nor does every sentence need an adverbial adornment. To develop your discernment, learn to identify adverbs both in your own writing and in the material you read. Consider the effect they have and try rephrasing various sentences that contain adverbs while still retaining the meaning. You can then decide which version better expresses the idea, image or emotion in question and choose whether to use them or not.

It really comes down to a matter of taste. Adverbs suit the style of some writers but they hang inelegantly in the text of others. There is no need to shun them, and none to include them if you’d rather not. Either way, it’s up to you. Entirely and completely.

Whatever your preference, just remember as with all your words to use them artfully.

Do you have an affection for or an aversion to adverbs? Would you say they add or detract from the writing you read? Are there any you find particularly appealing? Feel free to share in the comments below.

Sources consulted for this article include The Little Green Grammar Book by Mark Tredinnick (University of New South Wales Press, 2008), A Short Guide to Traditional Grammar (2nd edition) by J.R. Bernard (Oxford University Press, 1993) and Dictionary of Grammar (Redwood Editions, 1998).

Once upon a time there was a word and the word was “your”. Or maybe it was “you’re”. And each of these words had the same sound but neither carried the same meaning, and thus were the people confused. And the writers of English did wail and gnash their teeth, and their teachers did sigh and some rolled their eyes, and the proofreaders hastened to fix every glitch, and the editor took a deep breath and said, “It’s ok. I can explain.”

So here goes…

The words “your” and “you’re” are homophones. This has nothing to do with their sexual preferences or mode of communication and everything to do with the fact they sound alike when spoken. The “homo” part of “homophone” means “same”, while the “phone” bit refers to sound.

Homophones such as “your/you’re”, “whose/who’s”, “to/too/two” and the infamous “their/there/they’re” are often confused or misused when written, which can be annoying. Fortunately, it is also avoidable. We do want our story to have a happy ending, after all.

The simplest way to choose the appropriate version of such words is to learn the distinctions between each and then pause before using them to consider which spelling is correct for the meaning you intend. Likewise, when looking over your own or someone else’s work, take particular note of these terms and check make sure they are right. If necessary, consult a dictionary, grammar checker or cheat sheet until you feel confident about which (but not “witch”) word to use.

For our currently unfolding fable, the difference is easy to pick.

It marks the place where something has been left out, which in this case is the letter “a” from the word “are”. If you can substitute “you are” for “you’re” without unraveling the sense of your sentence, then you’ve chosen accurately. If not… Well, you’ll probably want to address that.

The word “your” is the possessive adjective that relates to the pronoun “you”. It signifies ownership, as in “your thoughts”, “your words”, “your magnificent wishes”, and so on. You’ll usually find it hanging around in front of a noun (a person, object or concept).

To test if this is the homophone you really want, try switching “your” for another possessive adjective, such as “my”, “her” or “his”, just to see if your phrase is still meaningful. At this point your syntax is likely to wrinkle, but you will have a sense of whether (not “weather” or “wether”) you’re on the right track.

All clear?

But wait! There is a twist in this tale. It comes in the form of two additional homophones for “your” and “you’re”, although these characters appear more rarely. The word “yore” refers to a time long past, while “yaw” (as a verb) means to waver or deviate from a set course, or (as a noun) describes the action of such deviation.

Perhaps the lesson in the story is this: provided you know your “your” from your “you’re”, you’re less likely to yaw. If you know what I mean.

Maybe it’s just better to say that homophones can be confusing if used without care. Give them a little consideration, however, and we can all live grammatically ever after.

The end.

Do you get confounded by homophones? Is there a technique you use to choose wisely? Are there other areas of grammar that would you like to understand better? Feel free to continue the narrative…