Odd words. ‘If’, instead of ‘of’. Syntax issues. Sentences that are tangled up by themselves, like a wild and unattended clump of brambles that grows any which way, over and under and around and beside itself.
When I come across such a clump, either in my writing or on our land, I sigh and inspect it, looking for the promise of fruit, wondering if I can give it the space, whether it’s worthwhile. More often than not, I decide to leave it, unless it’s in the way of something else, more important.