I loathe the imprecise use of words. My head literally explodes at the mere thought of it. 

I’m exaggerating, of course, to make a point. But no less so than the growing number of people who use literally when they mean figuratively.

I admit it. I’m a grammar curmudgeon whose knickers twist over matters important only to English teachers, newspaper editors and certain mystery novelists. Confusion over there, their and they’re. Subject-verb disagreement. Incorrect capitalization. Don’t even get me started on Oxford commas. I loathe them, too.

Lest my latest lament go unheeded as yet another screed from a supercilious word nerd, consider the impressions people make with words spoken and written. I’m not foolish enough to judge people by the ways in which they talk and write. I contend nonetheless there are benefits to precise communication. If nothing else, it increases the likelihood of getting what you ask for — whether that’s a raise, a bank loan or a date on a Friday night.

That brings me back to what’s literally the most misused word.

By strict definition, literally means in a literal manner or sense. But literally also has come to serve as a replacement for figuratively as well as an intensifier intended to add force to another word.

Given trends in popular culture, it’s understandable to believe the misuse of literally constitutes a recent compulsion. But literally has been used in a figurative sense for hundreds of years.

Even famous authors used literally when they meant figuratively. Take a scene from “Little Women” in which Louisa May Alcott described an outdoor supper in a land literally flowing with milk and honey. Really? Wouldn’t that make it difficult to eat, not to mention awfully sticky? Or a line from “The Great Gatsby” in which F. Scott Fitzgerald stated his eponymous protagonist was literally glowing. From what? Exposure to radiation on Long Island? Even Mark Twain had Tom Sawyer literally rolling in wealth after duping a group of boys to pay him for the privilege of whitewashing Aunt Polly’s fence. Better wealth than something else, I suppose.

In comparison to such literary luminaries, who am I to question the uses of literally in some of the best novels ever written? A persnickety wordsmith. That’s who. One who remains unconvinced. I’m more like another famous author,  Ambrose Bierce, who decried: “It is bad enough to exaggerate, but to affirm the truth of the exaggeration is intolerable.”

I confess. I’ve given in on occasion to the temptation to use literally. I’m particularly fond of what I deem a well-turned phrase describing someone who literally wrote the book on the subject. But only if it’s true in a literal sense. The person actually wrote a book and wasn’t just an authority in an idiomatic sense.

What annoys me is the more widespread misuse of literally with such disregard as to render the word meaningless and those who do so almost comic.

Here’s the thing about English. If a word is used incorrectly often enough for long enough, it gains acceptance and new meaning. By some estimates, literally has entered the third or fourth stage of a five-stage scale. In the first stage, mistakes are widely rejected. By the time a word reaches the fifth stage, its misuse has become so ubiquitous only people derided as eccentrics reject it.

Count me among the eccentrics.

It’s impossible for people to claim their heads literally exploded. Even if they swallowed the dynamite that caused the blasts.

But it’s no exaggeration to complain I loathe the imprecise use of words.

I do. Literally.

Add to death and taxes another certainty in this world. At least in my world. Writing is difficult. Damned difficult.
As if any additional consternation were required, there’s evidence writing also can be dangerous. Deadly even.
I suspect one thing has everything to do with the other.
I like to complain to anyone willing to listen I’ve long suffered for my art. Of course, that depends on the definition of suffering. And especially, I suppose, on the definition of art.
I’ve stared at a blank computer screen unable to contrive even a single coherent sentence until my eyes burned in their sockets. I’ve smacked my forehead over stupid mistakes so often I’ve risked concussion. Worst of all, I’ve read through my flawed first drafts with sufficient disgust to make nausea a nearly chronic affliction and Pepto-Bismol a staple.
Still, I didn’t worry until recently that writing could be a dangerous occupation. Not dangerous as in bomb technician, mountain climber or tightrope walker dangerous. But potentially hazardous to your health. Enough so that perhaps word processing software should come with a surgeon general’s warning.
I came to this conclusion after reading a post by Emily Temple, managing editor at Literary Hub. She recounted with no small measure of gallows humor some of the famous fates that awaited famous authors as a result of their writing.
George Orwell, the author of “Animal Farm” and “1984,” compared writing a book to “a long bout of some painful illness.” Sure enough, Orwell grew increasingly sick as he wrote, coughing up blood and losing weight. He ultimately succumbed to tuberculosis.
Ayn Rand turned to amphetamines to help her meet deadlines. But drugs also left her emotional and paranoid. By the time she completed the manuscript for “The Fountainhead,” she was close to a nervous breakdown.
Then there’s my personal favorite — French novelist Honoré de Balzac. He ate coffee grounds on an empty stomach to stimulate his writing and reportedly died of caffeine poisoning. Try not to think about that the next time you gulp down your fourth cup of the day.
Cautionary tales of this sort give rise to a question: Why write? If it’s really so difficult and so bad for you, then why write?
In my experience, it doesn’t get you girls. And it doesn’t make you rich, although I’m still grasping onto hope for that prospect.
Here’s the paradox of writing: There’s nothing else I’ve encountered that’s half as rewarding.
The moments of delight that arise from a well-turned phrase, an unexpected plot twist and ultimately a good story well told more than make up for hours of frustration, doubt and even loathing.
Yet another famous writer — Ray Bradbury — put it in other and better words: “Writing is not a serious business. It’s a joy and a celebration. You should be having fun at it.”
Is writing difficult? Unquestionably. Can it be dangerous? Apparently so.
But is writing also rewarding and even fun? I’d answer yes. With certainty.

On a clear morning 40 years ago, I wedged along with two friends into a Triumph TR7, zipped through Fort Collins to Hughes Stadium and graduated from Colorado State University. It was at once the end of one journey and the beginning of another.

Passing round number milestones tends to dredge up recollections long buried at the bottom of my brain. Perhaps it’s a welcome excuse for those of us who reach a certain age — nearly fossilized in my case — to wander down memory lane.

I believe it’s useful, nonetheless, for everyone to take stock from time to time. Circumstances are unique, of course. But generalities apply. It’s difficult to tell where you’re going without considering where you’ve been. It’s important to review what’s changed over the years, but also what’s remained the same.

The day after the 1981 commencement at CSU, I packed my belongings into my car and drove over Cameron Pass to Walden and a job as managing editor of the Jackson County Star. Along with low pay and long hours, the position came with a cramped apartment behind the newspaper office. The scenery, however, was priceless — mountains in every direction as far as the eye could see.

Weekly trips to Craig to print the paper at the Daily Press acquainted me with the staff there, one I was fortunate to join. Eventually, I became managing editor and oversaw efforts to produce what was at the time was one of the smallest circulation daily newspapers in Colorado, but one I’d contend punched well above it’s weight.

More important for me personally, I met, fell in love with and married a young woman as brilliant as she was beautiful.

I followed her to the Grand Valley when she attended what’s now Colorado Mesa University and then moved with her again to Oregon when she studied at the Willamette University College of Law. That afforded me opportunities to work for two more newspapers, covering sports for a daily and what we used to joke were cows and plows for a regional agricultural weekly.

Just months after my wife received her law degree and passed the bar exam, we were back in the Grand Valley. We had two bright young sons in tow.

Shortly afterward, I began working for the Business Times, first as a freelancer and then editor. That was nearly 23 years ago. Don’t they go by in a blink?

Like so many other industries, the newspaper business has experienced profound changes over the past 40 years. While I never wore a fedora with a press card tucked into the band, I pounded out copy on a typewriter. I assembled newspaper pages by pasting together long strips of text trimmed with X-Acto knives and waxed on the back.

Computer technology and the internet changed not only newspaper production, but also the ways in which information is gathered and disseminated. The old days spent hunched over government records and peering at microfilm to conduct research were anything but good, especially compared to the speed and ease of using Google. 

Newspapers still reach readers in print, but increasingly in digital formats through websites and smartphones. Some newspapers have transitioned entirely to digital publication.

Call me an anachronistic relic, but I still savor a printed newspaper with a cup of coffee. It’s a sensory experience I’m reluctant to give up. For that matter, I prefer printed books over their electronic counterparts. I also acknowledge that when I’m in a hurry, I turn to my computer.

The more things change, though, the more they stay the same. Even in the midst of technological revolution, core functions go on.

The core of what I do is tell stories. It’s the same as when I covered the school board in Walden and city council in Craig. It’s the same as when I wrote about high school wrestling in the Grand Valley and wine production in the Willamette Valley.

It’s the same today not only in reporting on business, but also writing mystery novels.

Wandering back down memory lane, I remember well the day I graduated from CSU — and most of the days I’ve lived since then. They’ve offered the usual mix of good, bad and occasionally downright ugly. But I’ve been blessed with mostly good.

Moreover, I remain excited about the journey and where it will lead next.