P.S. I am capitalizing Autumn from now on. You can fire me if you like. But I suspect Autumn will still arrive, with or without your permission, and she will still be magnificent.
Perhaps grammar is not about correctness. Perhaps it is about attention. And Autumn, I think, has earned ours. should autumn be capitalized
The next morning, Clara sat at her desk. She opened the style guide, then closed it. She took out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote a letter to the editor of the grammar column she secretly admired. But I suspect Autumn will still arrive, with
And that, she decided, was the only rule that mattered. And Autumn, I think, has earned ours
That night, Clara walked through town. The air was sharp and sweet with woodsmoke. Pumpkins grinned from porches. A wind kicked up a spiral of copper leaves, and for a fleeting second, Clara could almost see a figure there—a tall woman in a russet cloak, her hair made of dried ferns, her laugh the sound of acorns dropping on a tin roof.
Clara opened her mouth to explain grammar, but something stopped her. She looked at the drawing again. The capital A stood there, bold and bright, like a tiny crown on the season’s head.
“Hello, Autumn,” Clara whispered. And the word felt right with the capital A, as if she had finally addressed an old friend by her true name.
P.S. I am capitalizing Autumn from now on. You can fire me if you like. But I suspect Autumn will still arrive, with or without your permission, and she will still be magnificent.
Perhaps grammar is not about correctness. Perhaps it is about attention. And Autumn, I think, has earned ours.
The next morning, Clara sat at her desk. She opened the style guide, then closed it. She took out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote a letter to the editor of the grammar column she secretly admired.
And that, she decided, was the only rule that mattered.
That night, Clara walked through town. The air was sharp and sweet with woodsmoke. Pumpkins grinned from porches. A wind kicked up a spiral of copper leaves, and for a fleeting second, Clara could almost see a figure there—a tall woman in a russet cloak, her hair made of dried ferns, her laugh the sound of acorns dropping on a tin roof.
Clara opened her mouth to explain grammar, but something stopped her. She looked at the drawing again. The capital A stood there, bold and bright, like a tiny crown on the season’s head.
“Hello, Autumn,” Clara whispered. And the word felt right with the capital A, as if she had finally addressed an old friend by her true name.