My name is Cassandra and I am a comma addict.

I am massively fond of commas. Seriously. I read back through my work and they pop up like little weeds, strewing unnecessary pauses like it’s a comma closing down sale and everything must go, go, go!

I must think it’s dramatic. It is the only possible reason I can think of. Dramtic, pause. Without, the, “…” Barbara Cartland, employed to, such, great, effect.


Example from a short story I have been ridiculously obsessed with over the weekend:

I hit him with my embroidery, though it is a poor punishment. He laughs himself, and, grabbing it, crumples the cloth in his hand. He sobers, somewhat, and I shift under his regard, uncomfortable.

WTF is going on there? I do this constantly. Half the time, I don’t know if I’m supposed to use a comma or not. I know this is a failing, and thus I question every single one. See, even in the previous sentence I don’t know if I’m supposed to have one. I put one in instinctively, then removed it, then put it back in again.

Hmm. Do I need all those commas?? This is going to drive me nuts!

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