English writers from earlier centuries sprinkled commas in their prose as if they shook them with elegant poise from a pepper shaker. They did not believe in short snappy sentences and prolonged them by whatever means necessary to write as desired. It’s symbolic of their time, a mark of higher learning from elite schools that divulged the lavish use of the comma, secrets of the semicolon, and elements of style for any era. They remain geniuses of their time and ours.

William Faulkner, an esteemed American from Oxford, Mississippi, didn’t mind long sentences and could hold the reader’s attention with his intricate and extensive prose. And then again, perhaps the readers weren’t limited in time or attention span back then and were willing to meet the writer halfway; this is not symbolic of our time and a troubling one at that. Distractions compete for attention in the 21^st Century and demand that the writer find and meet the reader on their turf.

As a new writer, it’s work enough to get solid footing on my turf, let alone meet or play with someone on theirs. So, what’s changed since then; readers, writers, publishers, markets, technology, or the passage of time?

Of course, everything has changed in the last couple of decades, let alone centuries, and made more so by the new publishing options and business models. The latest fashion in a crowded market is short, sharp, clear, and crisp sentences. Writers have to grab the reader and hold their attention. So, texts and tweets with an exclamation mark stand out!  And the semicolon has all but disappeared from lack of general use.

However, the literary critics are not amused; in further unintended consequences, they’ve had to find new ways to identify and differentiate sophisticated writers from amateur pretenders who lack the old sense and adapt this awful new sensibility.

What brought about the demise of the semicolon? How can modern writers brave war zones but grimace and think twice before using a semicolon–as if it were a camouflaged landmine? Fear; fear of critics and grammarians, I tell you. So much, so that new writers like me approach the semicolon with some angst and self-doubt.

Still, if everything else changed, why maintain the semicolon? It’s old, antiquated, easily misused, and looks overdressed without a matching ensemble. Who’s got that flair these days? Not I. The average new writer, not schooled in the ways of the semicolon, falters under the high expectations and succumbs to the dread of procrustean grammarian’s unattainable standards.

As I see it, writing replaces in-person communication, where personality, charisma, and the sound of a person’s voice influence the listener. With writing, we cannot see or hear the person and can’t make unwarranted judgments on stereotypes alone. Instead, we base opinions on the words selected and arranged to communicate. And yet, somehow, we can still hear or sense the voice and personality behind the words. This innate and universal sense applies equally to readers and critics who look at words through a monocle for clues to see if the ensemble fits or lacks appropriate style.

And who knew that punctuation had another purpose in the olden days before it became a symbol of highbrow literature. It was a simple guide for actors to dramatize the beats and rest in dialogue. A comma, as in this sentence, implied a slight pause before continuing. The semicolon came in handy to separate two clauses and extend the delay if a sentence needed clarification or more information; an afterthought perhaps, or until sanity prevails and we stop. In which case, the period signified the end. The sentence had reached its conclusion and come to a full stop. That’s it. Period.

Nope. Nothing is ever simple, even if it could be. Language is a social construct and changes with culture and time. It’s an agreement between people to facilitate general communication and prevent misunderstanding. Punctuation does the same for writing. However, we took a simple guide and made it a complicated religion. And if we didn’t, we attached enough commandments and disciplinary measures to warrant dogmatic compliance.

Standardization is great for cars, phones, and computers, but writing has ample room for individual expression if only to accommodate the style and not from lack of want. Writing, with its various forms, is an art form like any other and reflects the artist.

No one ever told Pollack he had one drip too many on a canvass or dared tell Turner that his setting sun could use more orange and less yellow. Instead of taking the advice, they would have flicked their paint-filled brush at the critic and carried on as if the uncouth critic weren’t there.

So, why must writers be policed for a license in structure and conformity of language? And perhaps more importantly, why do writers care to be validated more than other artists? Just how insecure are we, or is it just me?

If a large canvass with a single brushstroke can delight abstract impressionists on the selection of color alone, why can’t a word, a sentence, or a paragraph attempt to do the same in a written form? It comes back to language, structure, and the grammar rules I missed while truant from school.

The grammar police, educated and perhaps a tad over-exposed to the Chicago Police Manual of Style, is an industry unto itself and monitors or tickets improper use of grammar and punctuation. If lucky, you’ll be sent on your way with a warning for minor infractions that didn’t result in a major correction.

Unfortunately, that’s not the case with Grammar Nazis’ who demand adherence and conformity to their view of world order. However, the writer’s will is too strong to contain and breaks free of chains or semicolons that bind. The spirit cannot be confined by doctrine or grammar.

If a blob of paint can make a statement, writing can make a point with a breath or pause comma like a rest notation in music. Still, unlike other forms of expressive art, novice writers shy away from an extra clause in fear of a loose and runaway sentence, never mind living on the edge with a wayward semicolon.

I had something to say through writing but felt overwhelmed by all the rules that demand adherence to be taken seriously by our brethren. But, one day, the grammar rules bothered me enough to warrant a discussion at a local writer’s meeting.  After making my case, I asked, “After all, whose business is it where I put my comma or how I choose to use it?”

A moment of silence followed before a hand went up. “Mine,” said the young high-school English Grammar teacher.

I smiled at her impeccable timing and brevity. I’d been let off lightly. Best to move on. No need to be a rebel without a clause. If there’s one thing I’ve enjoyed on the writer’s journey (and believe me, I’ve looked and counted), it’s the company of fellow writers and a few grammarians. There aren’t many things to enjoy when writing alone in your spare time, working hard, but appearing idle to family and friends.

The writer’s group reassured me that my fear of the semicolon wasn’t unfounded but to be overcome. I am wary of critics but remain in debt of writing critique groups. They’re a rite of passage that only the brave submits themselves to and from which none emerge unscathed.

Will colleagues rear your work from infancy with a tender heart, or will they tear out your heart with words sharper than a knife and leave your work on life support? More on the heart and dagger of critique groups and critics, in general, the next time…