Today one of my former students—let’s call her B—and I read through the final copy of Dust On Their Wings, a novel I intend to self-publish. My self-publishing service calls this version the “digitalized proof interior.” Any changes made at this point to manuscript cost a minimum of $79—that’s for all changes, not just one mistake of syntax or grammar—and entail another five to ten days of waiting for publication.
Today one of my former students—let’s call her B—and I read through the final copy of Dust On Their Wings, a novel I intend to self-publish. My self-publishing service calls this version the “digitalized proof interior.” Any changes made at this point to manuscript cost a minimum of $79—that’s for all changes, not just one mistake of syntax or grammar—and entail another five to ten days of waiting for publication.
B and I found three mistakes. Two I could live with. To correct one in particular might have shifted the lines of the rest of the manuscript, resulting in even more mistakes.
But then there was the comma.
That comma jumped out of the text like a cobra digging its fangs into my heart.
And so the comma debate began. What should I do? Should I pay $79 to correct a comma error? (Dust On Their Wings will undoubtedly exhibit other mistakes). What exactly was a comma worth? Was a single mark of punctuation worth $79?
Oscar Wilde once told a visitor: “I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back in again.”
Surely all writers undergo this same battle, substituting one word for another, then another, and then going back to the original word, debating whether to use a semicolon or a colon, and then deciding against either, breaking a sentence into two parts, then rejoining the parts and even adding a third or fourth clause. I struggle through these trials every time I put words on my computer screen.
But never before have circumstances forced me to debate the fiscal worth of a comma.
So I began mulling over what to do about this errant comma. B remained, I should add, mostly silent during my self-debate, displaying a reticence and tact that is one of her many virtues while at work with me. Musing aloud, I recollected an old story I had once read about the weaving of Middle-Eastern carpets, which were supposed to contain one imperfection because only Allah was perfect. Furthermore, I mentally took note of my bankbook and the proximity of Christmas and of the gifts still left to buy for children and grandchildren. When you are paid twice yearly, as I am, you learn to keep your eye on the ducats.
And to put the matter directly, money is tight right now. $79 is not a sum to be sniffed at. $79 could fill the gas tank of my car three times over. $79 could load up my freezer compartment. $79 could pay my electric bill for two months. $79 could keep me in various pleasures for ten days’ time.
And yet…how that squiggly tiny line rankled me. How I despised the triumphal arrogance of that comma dancing around in a sentence where it didn’t belong, like some ostentatious tuxedo at a casual dress party. That insouciant comma begged for a bouncer, deserved a good firm hand on the neck and a good solid kick on the rear that would send it flying out the door and into the street. And I, as parent of that preening poseur, doubtless deserved the same.
Pocketbook versus purge?
Pocketbook prevailed.
“Let’s do it,” I said to B., and with a whoosh of relief from both of us, I hit the “Approved” button and sent the “digitalized proof interior” flying toward production.
It was a moment of triumph. Still, though I am $79 richer, that comma will haunt me for years to come.
Tonight, however, has brought a dark, still, and lovely evening to Montford, with the sky glimmering red in the west, and I find myself at peace with that comma. Yes, the little serpent still sits in the sentence, a reminder of my own ineptitude, a monument to my failed perfectionism, a hook barbed with my bungled grammar.
Yet lovable for teaching me one more lesson in humility.
Vade in pace, good comma.
But then there was the comma.
That comma jumped out of the text like a cobra digging its fangs into my heart.
And so the comma debate began. What should I do? Should I pay $79 to correct a comma error? (Dust On Their Wings will undoubtedly exhibit other mistakes). What exactly was a comma worth? Was a single mark of punctuation worth $79?
Oscar Wilde once told a visitor: “I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back in again.”
Surely all writers undergo this same battle, substituting one word for another, then another, and then going back to the original word, debating whether to use a semicolon or a colon, and then deciding against either, breaking a sentence into two parts, then rejoining the parts and even adding a third or fourth clause. I struggle through these trials every time I put words on my computer screen.
But never before have circumstances forced me to debate the fiscal worth of a comma.
So I began mulling over what to do about this errant comma. B remained, I should add, mostly silent during my self-debate, displaying a reticence and tact that is one of her many virtues while at work with me. Musing aloud, I recollected an old story I had once read about the weaving of Middle-Eastern carpets, which were supposed to contain one imperfection because only Allah was perfect. Furthermore, I mentally took note of my bankbook and the proximity of Christmas and of the gifts still left to buy for children and grandchildren. When you are paid twice yearly, as I am, you learn to keep your eye on the ducats.
And to put the matter directly, money is tight right now. $79 is not a sum to be sniffed at. $79 could fill the gas tank of my car three times over. $79 could load up my freezer compartment. $79 could pay my electric bill for two months. $79 could keep me in various pleasures for ten days’ time.
And yet…how that squiggly tiny line rankled me. How I despised the triumphal arrogance of that comma dancing around in a sentence where it didn’t belong, like some ostentatious tuxedo at a casual dress party. That insouciant comma begged for a bouncer, deserved a good firm hand on the neck and a good solid kick on the rear that would send it flying out the door and into the street. And I, as parent of that preening poseur, doubtless deserved the same.
Pocketbook versus purge?
Pocketbook prevailed.
“Let’s do it,” I said to B., and with a whoosh of relief from both of us, I hit the “Approved” button and sent the “digitalized proof interior” flying toward production.
It was a moment of triumph. Still, though I am $79 richer, that comma will haunt me for years to come.
Tonight, however, has brought a dark, still, and lovely evening to Montford, with the sky glimmering red in the west, and I find myself at peace with that comma. Yes, the little serpent still sits in the sentence, a reminder of my own ineptitude, a monument to my failed perfectionism, a hook barbed with my bungled grammar.
Yet lovable for teaching me one more lesson in humility.
Vade in pace, good comma.