I sat with my cousin on the floor in the corner of the
bookstore, poring over Elvish grammar and the rich world of Tolkien’s
languages. A seed was planted. Over the next few years, I tended to my
little metaphorical garden, writing in Tolkien’s alphabets and languages,
learning Spanish, practicing my broken Portuguese, and adding broken German to
the mix.
Unfortunately, some of the plants in my garden grew thorns. My love of words and grammar turned me into
the grammar police, trying to “correct” everyone’s sentences, even in my own
family. “Don’t end sentences in
prepositions,” I would say, or, “Mark all your adjectives with an LY.” I wanted everyone to speak Academic English,
and I was frustrated by deviations from the rules of Strunk and White.
Then I encountered Steven Pinker. My friend Sofija lent me The Language Instinct. Pinker's work exposed my metaphorical garden for what it really was: full of toxic weeds.
