The Demonization of the Em Dash

red stop word coming out of a typewriter

Can we talk about the em dash for a minute?

Because apparently it’s canceled.

Not because it’s incorrect.

Not because English teachers have spent the last fifty years lying to us.

Nope.

Because AI uses it.

As someone who has made a living writing for the last sixteen years, I have thoughts.

Lots of them.

I’ve written books, blogs, magazine articles, websites, marketing campaigns, speeches…if it involves words, I’ve probably been paid to write it at some point.

And years ago, somewhere in the middle of reading way too many essays by really smart writers, I discovered the em dash.

If you’re not familiar with it, it’s this little beauty:

It’s longer than a hyphen. It isn’t an en dash. It isn’t a minus sign. It’s the punctuation equivalent of taking a breath before adding one more thought.

I loved it immediately.

Journalism school teaches you to write tight. Short. Efficient. Every sentence buttoned up like you’re reporting from the White House press room.

The em dash let me loosen the top button. Okay, maybe two.

It let me add another thought. Another description. A little rabbit trail before coming back to the point.

It felt like writing sounded when people actually think.

Writers love that sort of thing.

We’re wordy by nature.

Give us permission to add one more sentence and we’ll add three.

Then AI showed up.

And somehow…the em dash became an AI tell.

I’m sorry…

What?

The funny part is AI didn’t invent the em dash.

Writers did.

Editors did.

English teachers did.

Grammar nerds did.

AI simply learned from people who had been using it for decades.

That’s like accusing your kid of inventing one of your momisms because they’ve repeated it enough times.

The student became the teacher.

Or maybe the plagiarism machine became the grammar police.

A few weeks ago I was getting feedback on the back cover copy for my new book coming out this fall.

One comment said:

“I would kill all them em dashes in the description copy that read as Ai to lots of people now even if they were not :)”

I stared at that sentence for a solid minute.

Read it again.

Someone was criticizing my punctuation…while using the phrase “all them em dashes.”

The irony nearly sprained my neck.

We’re officially living in a world where incorrect grammar is lecturing correct punctuation.

You can’t make this stuff up.

Well…AI probably could.

Here’s what’s fascinating to me.

For years, polished writing was a sign that someone knew what they were doing.

Good punctuation.

Strong sentence structure.

A varied rhythm.

Thoughtful transitions.

Those were signs of experience.

Now?

Apparently, they’re signs you’re a robot.

Meanwhile, what screams “authentic human”?

Typos.

Run-on sentences.

Misspelled words.

Random capitalization.

A complete disregard for commas.

Congratulations.

We’ve reached the point where proofreading makes you suspicious.

The whole thing says more about us than it does about AI.

We’ve become so conditioned to look for “AI tells” that we’re accidentally labeling decades of good writing as fake.

That’s a weird place to land.

Will I still use em dashes?

Absolutely.

Maybe not quite as many.

Not because they’re wrong.

Not because they’ve suddenly become bad writing.

But because perception matters, and readers bring baggage to every sentence now.

Still, I refuse to let artificial intelligence steal perfectly good punctuation.

The em dash belonged to writers long before Claude showed up.

AI didn’t ruin the em dash.

It just made everyone notice it.

Although…

Maybe I’ll leave a typo in here.

Apparently, that’s how we prove we’re human these days 🙂

Pre-order my new book, The Family Secret now on Amazon!

The Exhaustion of Almost

unrecognizable female traveler strolling on path towards ocean

There’s a strange kind of exhaustion that happens in the last mile.

Not the dramatic beginning where everything falls apart. Not the messy middle where adrenaline and caffeine carry you through while you pretend you’re “fine” and accidentally use dry shampoo as a personality trait.

No, I’m talking about the last stretch.

The part where the rainbow is finally visible, but your legs suddenly feel heavier than ever.

That’s where I’ve been lately.

Back in January, I started writing another book. It pulls from real-life emotions and situations that hit close enough to home that sometimes the lines between fiction and reality blur a little more than I expected.

And somewhere along the way… I got stuck.

Not because life is bad. Ironically, life is actually good.

Work is good.
My kids are good.
My friends are incredible.
I’m healthy.
I laugh a lot.
There’s love in my life.
Peace, even.

Which honestly feels suspicious sometimes because I spent years functioning like a woman emotionally trained by plot twists.

This summer, another book I co-authored with Paul Aubin called The Family Secret comes out in August, and I’m genuinely excited about it. It’s currently in final proofing and typesetting with the publisher which sounds very glamorous until you realize it mostly involves staring at commas and wondering why chapter headers suddenly feel deeply personal.

I think this new project was my attempt to keep the momentum going. Keep producing. Keep building. Keep creating.

Because when you’re a writer, there’s this weird pressure to always have “the next thing” cooking.

Like sourdough moms.
But emotionally unstable.

But maybe what I actually needed wasn’t more momentum.

Maybe I needed a breath.

An emotional tune-up.
A rebuilding season.
A quieter pace without guilt attached to it.

After sixteen years of writing books, blogs, articles, and stories, I’ve learned something important:

Sometimes creative burnout isn’t about failure.
Sometimes it’s about emotional saturation.

Sometimes you’ve simply lived too much of the story while trying to write it.

And maybe that’s where I’ve been.

I think for years I created from adrenaline:
heartbreak,
reinvention,
survival mode,
stress,
hope,
grit,
coffee.

Definitely coffee.

But peace is quieter.

Peace doesn’t bang pots and pans demanding to become art immediately. Peace just sits softly in the room waiting for your nervous system to stop pacing long enough to notice it.

And maybe that changes creativity too.

Maybe the spark doesn’t disappear forever.
Maybe it just gets tired.
Maybe it needs rest instead of pressure.
Maybe it comes back slower, steadier, healthier.

I’m beginning to think maybe peace plus a tiny spark is actually enough fuel for the next chapter.

Not frantic striving.
Not proving.
Not forcing.

Just a little hope.
A little rest.
A little curiosity returning.

Maybe creativity comes back the same way healing does:
quietly…
gradually…
without announcing itself first.

And maybe the last mile feels the hardest because deep down, somewhere underneath the weariness, you already know you’re going to make it.

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