— the em dash
I’ve always read sentences aloud in my head. Even when I’m skimming. Especially then. Rhythm gives things away long before meaning does.
Some sentences want to stop. Others want to turn.
I’ve learned to trust the turn.
That’s probably why I like writing with em dashes. They don’t trail off. They don’t soften a thought or let it fade. They let a sentence lean—just for a beat—before continuing in a slightly different direction.
I dictate a lot of my first drafts now. It keeps the language honest. When you’re speaking, you hear immediately where a sentence wants to breathe—and where it wants to keep moving. I’ll say “em dash” out loud when I feel that turn, then clean the draft afterward, sometimes running it through ChatGPT the way I would any other editing pass. The rhythm comes first. The tools come later.
Take “’Twas the Night Before Christmas.” Read straight through, it works. Read it the way people actually read it—out loud, late at night, to a child who’s already half asleep—and you hear something else entirely.
More like this:
’Twas the night before Christmas—when all through the house—not a creature was stirring—not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney—with care—in hopes that St. Nicholas—soon—would be there.
The children were nestled—all snug—in their beds—while visions of sugar-plums—danced—in their heads.
Nothing changes in the words.
Only the way the sentence breathes.
The pauses aren’t where the commas are. They’re where the voice hesitates, then presses on. That small suspension—that turn before the thought lands—is where rhythm lives.
That’s what I listen for when I write. Not rules. Not punctuation charts. Just the moment when a sentence wants to pivot instead of end.
A period closes a door.
An ellipsis lets the thought drift away.
An em dash keeps moving—without pretending the thought is finished.
I don’t use them everywhere. They lose their force if you do. But when a sentence wants to surprise itself—when it wants to change direction without stopping—they’re hard to beat.
’Twas the Night I Met the Em Dash
’Twas the night before deadline, and all through the draft,
Not a sentence was settling—not even the last.
The commas were tired, the periods stern,
Each thought felt confined—each pause too abrupt to return.
I tried ellipses… hoping they’d save me some grace…
But they drifted and faded and softened the pace.
They sighed. They hesitated. They wouldn’t commit.
My prose wanted motion—they just wouldn’t fit.
Then there it appeared—quiet, longer than most,
Not a minus, not quite a hyphen, but close.
It stepped in mid-sentence—unannounced, unafraid—
And the thought didn’t stop; it simply turned as it played.
The sentence leaned forward—it breathed, then it ran—
Not ending, not breaking, but changing its plan.
The rhythm picked up; there was tension, then lift—
A pause with intention, a deliberate shift.
No need for a semicolon’s academic stare,
No comma pretending it carried more air.
The em dash arrived—clean, confident, sure—
Letting language feel spoken, alive, and mature.
I used it once lightly—then stopped, then once more—
Not too many, not often, just where meaning asked for it—
A pressure point here, an interruption there,
A thought catching fire before landing somewhere.
And there in that draft—by the glow of the screen—
I knew what good rhythm had always meant to be seen:
Not the stopping of thought, not the trailing away,
But a turn in the sentence—the dancer’s half-way.
So now when I write, and a pause needs a spine,
When a sentence must pivot—but not yet resign—
I don’t fade or drift or soften the say:
I turn—clean and sharp—with an em dash, and stay.
