I recently read an article that took me back many moons ago to when I was about eight. I was riding with my mom in my dad’s white Ford Galaxy, which was a stick shift. Mom ground the gears as she tried coordinating shifting with her right hand and steering with her left while using both feet simultaneously with one on the accelerator and the other on the clutch. As I clutched the door handle and braced myself hard against the seat to avoid whiplash, Mom growled under her breath, “Damned car galloping down the street!”

Mind you, the article I was reading had nothing to do with cars, mothers and daughters, or even horses. Yet I experienced the distinct sensation of galloping across hard terrain—ta-DUMP, ta-DUMP, ta-DUMP—which felt no more pleasing than it did in Dad’s car with Mom at the helm. And the reason for this sensation and thus the memory trigger? The article was peppered with commas, very few of which were necessary or appropriately placed.

Now I fully admit to being a full-fledged commakaze myself. However, loving commas does not give one license to abuse their use and thus do damage to the message and cause angst to readers. In the article I was reading, the galloping prose not only obscured the article’s message, it also made me angry with its author for the jolting, jarring read. From now on, I will approach any articles written by that author with caution.

But in that author’s defense, some writers are not innate editors. Still, it is the writer’s responsibility to deliver a clear message that flows more like a canter, and failing to do so reflects poorly upon the writer. Readers don’t care if the author is not a natural editor, but they do care about painful, frustrating reading and often will not give the author a second chance. This is why having a good copyeditor is an absolute must-have, even for writers who are natural editors, as all of us have blind spots when reading our own writing.

So remember: beware of galloping prose. And then hire a copyeditor who is skilled at creating a smooth, steady canter.

Writers are always hearing about voice. “We’re looking for a fresh, distinct voice,” or “You need to find your voice.” I think all of us instinctively recognize a distinct voice when we hear or read it, but how do we find our own? Where do we even begin to look?

In my early writing years, I wanted to write like Anne Lamott, much like in seventh grade I wanted to look like a girl named Kathy. I imagined myself crafting succinct, witty prose colored with biting humor and penetrating insight that delivered a bare-bones, heartfelt, sometimes kick-in-the-gut universal truth. Similarly, in seventh grade, I envisioned myself with long, golden hair flowing to my waist, a sun-kissed complexion with nary a blemish, and pearly teeth as straight as piano keys.

Alas, neither fantasy panned out. Rather, my choppy, canned prose left even me wondering what message I was trying to convey, and the only time I’ve had long, golden hair with a sun-kissed complexion was in drama class after donning a wig and mountains of makeup. And piano-key teeth? Nope. Never. Eventually, I accepted that I am not Anne or Kathy. I’m Diana. And that is when my own voice started to emerge on the page. I had to first find out who I really am by discovering and, most importantly, accepting who I am not.

And I do mean started to emerge on the page. L. Ron Hubbard is noted for saying that you must write 500,000 words in order to find your true writing voice. I break out in hives over all things mathematical, so I don’t know if 500,000 is an accurate number or not. But I do know that finding your voice requires writing a lot of words. And for me that began with trying to emulate an author I respect and admire.

So for those of you who haven’t yet found your voice, just start writing, even if you’re trying to sound like someone else, and trust that your own voice will come. And for those of you who have found your voice, keep writing and honing that voice that only you possess.

We have all heard “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” Now maybe not all of us have had bones broken from sticks and stones, but I’d be willing to bet that we have all been hurt by words. I certainly have been. I’ve also inflicted my fair share of pain upon others through words, both verbal and written.

Words carry tremendous power. Words build up, tear down, inspire, and deflate. Words cause joy and sorrow, bring hope and despair, trigger laughter and tears. Every time a writer picks up a pen or sits down at the computer, the awareness of the power he or she wields with one stroke or keystroke should remain at the forefront of his or her mind. Remember the first commandment of the Copyeditors’ Typographic Oath, which also applies to writers: Do No Harm.

However, that does not mean that we be dishonest or disingenuous. The tagline for my business is “It’s All How You Say It.” And that’s exactly my point here. It’s not what we say but rather how we say it. This is particularly important in writing because our reader cannot see our facial expressions or body language or hear our tones of voice that help convey our intended message. All our reader has is our words on the page or computer screen. So, again, we must be mindful of our power and diligent in our responsibility to do no harm.

How can we ensure that we do no harm through our words? We can’t control others’ reactions, right? No, we can’t. We can only do our part. For me, that’s paying attention to my gut instinct when it’s telling me that something is not quite right. It’s putting a piece of writing aside until I’ve had a good night’s sleep and come back to it fresh the next morning. It’s asking a trusted, brutally honest friend to read my piece for feedback. As all writers have their own creative processes, they each have their own filtering systems as they develop their crafts. In the end, the filtering system isn’t what’s important but rather that you have one.

Remember, do no harm. You will rest easier, and your readers will respect you for it.

I started texting five years ago so I could communicate with my then sixteen-year-old son. But with this new way of communicating came another language for me to learn. Texts like “LOL. IDK” baffled me, especially since I translated LOL to mean “lots of luck,” which made no sense whatsoever in our conversation, and I was clueless about IDK. Nowadays, I’m much more with it, but my texts are still grammatically correct and perfectly punctuated. No compound sentences without a comma for me.

But texting, no matter how well written, is not writing. Texting is the 21st century’s version of the Morse code, albeit with letters, intended to convey information as quickly and sometimes as secretly as possible. We have only 160 characters with which to communicate with our tech-savvy, faster-than-fast-paced younger generation, so some standard shorthand is necessary. And if we fail to learn it, failure to communicate with the younger generation follows. But texting is still not writing.

Writing is the longhand form of communication, where we must actually stop and think about what we’re thinking about, figure out what message we want to convey to others, and then undergo the arduous task of getting our point across in a coherent, concise way. This requires time and thought–and many more characters than 160.

The line between texting and writing has become blurred, with one being confused for the other especially among young people. Still, I think—at least I certainly hope—that we are light-years away from opening a book and reading, “‘TMI! PIR!’ my BFF said, LOL. ‘J/K.’” But given the warp speed with which technology advances—and with it our communication regresses—maybe that is not so far-fetched. OMG.

But until then, Merriam-Webster’s is the standard that all of us, young and old, abide by, and formulating well-thought-out sentences is still necessary for clear and effective communication with one another, especially in writing. And in that my old-school heart rests easy.

“I enjoy reading about Little Diana, but can you write something past puberty?” commented a critique partner after reading yet another missive about my early years from age six to fourteen.

I was taken aback, as I was not yet used to his frank personality. However, once I recovered, I realized that he had voiced what I had failed (refused?) to consciously acknowledge: I was stuck.

Around the same time, another critique group member wrote on one of my submissions, “You need to write about your mother,” to which I immediately bristled to myself, Why? Haven’t years and years of therapy been enough?? Convinced that I was “finished” with my past issues, I put my critique members’ comments out of my mind.

And my writing remained stuck.

Five months later, this same critique member says to me again, “You need to write about your mother.” Do I? This time, rather than raise my hackles, I was willing to consider the possibility that she was right. Is this why I can’t write past my puberty years?

Even so, I don’t want to go back to that chapter in my life. Yet I know that my writing will remain in a holding pattern until I do. I need to unearth what I’m clinging to, resisting, or trying to figure out and, most importantly, why.

I have read many articles on how to overcome writer’s block, or how to get “unstuck.” Although they have offered helpful advice and techniques, my experience is that none of these work until I ask myself  two questions: “What can’t I get past? And why?”

I’ve found that when my writing is stuck, my life is stuck. I trust that my answers will come and that I will be able to handle them when they do. And so can you. Ask the questions, be patient for your answers to come–for they will–and allow yourself to hear and accept them when they do.

Staring at the blank screen or sheet of paper, willing the words to come, will not work if something is holding our spirit hostage. Once we determine our “what,” our “why” will eventually present itself.

Will the words then start flowing freely? Maybe. Maybe not. But now they will sooner rather than later.

The day after GalleyCat editor Jason Boog’s blog post went viral announcing that Oxford dropped the Oxford (or serial) comma from its writing and style guide, his clarification, “The Oxford Comma Is Not Dead,” headlined GalleyCat. Apparently, we comma crazies are vast in number, and our passionate cries of outrage flooded cyberspace. According to Linda Holmes, “Twitter went bazoo over the entire Oxford business yesterday before the clarification was made…” (Bazoo! Don’t you just love that word?)

Mr. Boog never suspected that his innocent report would unleash such mayhem. Although an admitted non-serial-comma proponent, he set things aright, bless his heart. It turns out that the University of Oxford Public Affairs Directorate started this uproar, not the University of Oxford Press that sets literary precedent and advocates the “thoughtful use of the Oxford comma.” (Hmmm . . . define “thoughtful.”)

Although still suspicious and jumpy, this comma crazy is sleeping easier, knowing that her beloved serial comma is not (yet) in peril and literary order (for the moment) remains.

P.S. In my Inbox along with my daily GalleyCat missive was a recommendation from Amazon.com for Oxford Modern English Grammar. Coincidence?   

Say it ain’t so! Sorry. In my outrage, I’ve lapsed into grammatical incorrectness. But I’m beside myself. Yesterday, Jason Boog reported that the Oxford comma, better known as the serial comma, has been dropped—DROPPED, I tell you—by a University of Oxford Writing and Style Guide. To serial comma crazies like me, this is bleak news indeed.

Let me demonstrate. Take this sentence sans serial comma: “I went to the fair with my sisters, Ralph and David.” Hmmm, really? Not unless your sisters names are Ralph and David! Okay, now write this sentence with the serial comma: “I went to the fair with my sisters, Ralph, and David.” Ah, so you hung out with your sisters and Ralph and David. That’s more like it.

Don’t the Oxford gods realize what havoc they are encouraging in this already havoc-filled world? Writing should be sacrosanct; the one area where order, stability, (note serial comma) and clear communication remains!

To be fair, the Oxford gods do make this caveat in their style guide: “But when a comma would assist in the meaning of the sentence or helps to resolve ambiguity, it can be used. . .” Harrumph. Now that conditions have been placed upon the use of the serial comma, we are only one less keystroke away from literary anarchy!

I love the serial comma! I won’t give it up today, tomorrow, (note serial comma!), or EVER!