I need to get better at writing, particularly when it comes to punctuation and emphasis.

Just yesterday, I sent an email to a fiction writer that said, “I’m so excited to get started!” There was absolutely no reason for that pushy exclamation point. No one was skydiving. No one had won anything. We were discussing a Word document. But there it was. (I read somewhere that an email should never contain more than four exclamation points—a rather exciting email, no?)

Then I followed it with, “Looking forward to working with you on this endeavor.” Endeavor? Really? (Bougie word. “Project” would have been just fine.) I could practically hear myself trying to sound more polished than necessary.

And … I am the queen of flailing about bold or italicized words when I want to make sure they land, as if the words themselves can’t be trusted to carry their own weight without visual assistance. I see my cursor moving to that bolded B, and I still do it anyway.

Okay, it’s not because I don’t know better. But … I want the person reading my words to understand exactly how I mean them. (ugh, did it again) When all someone sees is text on a screen, there’s no tone of voice, no facial expression, no reassuring nod on the other side.

Just a sentence, sitting there, hoping it makes sense.

So I help it along. I add emphasis. I reach for a slightly fancier word. I give the sentence a nudge in the direction I want it to go. The more I’ve noticed this in myself, the more I can see it in the manuscripts I edit. Not as failure, but as care. Especially in the manuscripts I work on that are nearly finished.

The emphasis shows up in small ways—an extra word, a line that leans a little harder than it needs to, a sentence that’s trying to make absolutely sure it’s understood. Not because the writing is weak. Because the writer cares how it lands.

You want their readers to feel the moment the way you felt it while writing. You don’t want something important to slip past unnoticed. So you add emphasis where you feel it’s needed. Reinforce the meaning. Guide the reader forward.

It’s human instinct.

But editing and, honestly, paying closer attention to my own habits, has shown me something: the sentences that carry the most weight are usually the ones that aren’t trying so hard. They’re clear. They’re steady. They don’t rely on extra emphasis to make themselves understood. They simply say what they mean.

I still catch myself adding that unnecessary exclamation point … then choosing to backspace.
Still choosing the more impressive word when a simpler one would do. (putting thesaurus down)
Still hovering over the bold and italic buttons like they’re offering emotional support. (Maybe just a small one?)

Old habits have a way of lingering. So as I draft a quiet farewell in my head to my pushy punctuation, garbled grammar, and flailing formatting—not because my words were failing, but because I was trying to make absolutely sure they wouldn’t—I’m learning to trust them a little more.

So here’s to all of us writers who are trying to let them stand there without backup.
Without reinforcements.
Without us fussing over them like nervous stage mothers.

They’ll still be ours. And we can start trusting that when a sentence is clear, it doesn’t need all the extra pushing we’re tempted to give it. That’s part of the work, too—knowing when to step back and let our writing stand.