All right, time to demonstrate what I've been talking about! To illustrate the difference between formal and colloquial grammar, I've taken the afore-mentioned seven-paragraph ditty of mine and made two versions.
The first uses a form of grammar you were probably taught in school, while the second is more relaxed. I've toyed with both versions to aim for the best flow possible despite the grammar limits, but I still find the informal one better.
Is it still a bit awkward? Yep. It was a fun little future tense experiment. I know it's far from perfect, so please don't consider it flawless.
Either grammar style could be proper depending on what I wanted to do with this bit of fiction. But note what the difference in grammar style does to the tone. (No, this little story is not from personal experience of any kind.)
If you're of a more "tender" disposition and don't like dark stories, you probably won't like this. I've been told it puts the psychological nail on the head of BWS. Not that I knew what BWS was when I wrote it; I was merely extrapolating what I perceived to be possible in this type of relationship. I'm not sure if my ensuing accuracy is a good or bad thing…
Somewhat Formal
Her husband will kill her. It will come quickly, once he embraces his internal darkness that he once loathed. Too often, she will conceal her injuries and lie about who hurt her. She will often hide from him and sob in some dark alley where no one can recognize her as the prominent woman she is.
She will see her death coming, as his anger and suspicion grow. She will not be able smile tolerantly at another man, or he will accuse her of flirting. He will perceive infidelity in anything more than a deadpan expression while speaking with other men.
She will struggle to stay within the his rules, but he will only see her attempts to lighten her mood despite her depression. One day she will slip, laughing at a joke from a male friend, and she will die.
Colloquial
He'll kill her.
It will be only a matter of time, once he embraces the darkness within that once so sickened him. How many times will she conceal her bruises, her wounds? How many times will she lie about who has turned her into a bloody pulp? How many times will she hide from him, sobbing in some dark alley where it is too dark for anyone to recognize her—not that anyone would take the battered spouse for the prominent woman she is?
Too many.
She will see it coming—the anger growing in his gaze, the suspicion. She will not be able smile tolerantly at another man without being accused of flirting. He will not let her speak to men with anything more than an expressionless mien.
Anything more will be betrayal.
She will struggle to stay within the bounds he sets, within his controls… But he'll only see her amiable personality fighting to assert itself from behind her chronic depression. One day she will slip, her suicidal desires vanishing from a much-needed laugh a male friend gives her.
And she will die.
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