We’ve entered a strange phase in digital life—where writing that’s clear, structured or rhythmically satisfying is instantly suspect. “Looks like ChatGPT”, someone may say, as if that’s the ultimate takedown. As if polish is artificial. As if the presence of an em dash is some kind of algorithmic fingerprint. It’s not. It’s just good writing.
Recently, The Boston Globe made the same case—reminding readers that the em dash isn’t a telltale sign of AI, but a literary mainstay. From Kierkegaard to Woolf, it’s been the punctuation of choice for writers who wanted to interrupt, emphasise or let a thought unfurl. AI didn’t invent the em dash. It inherited it—from us.
The problem isn’t the punctuation. The problem is the assumption. Somewhere along the way, we started equating fluency with artificiality. We got so used to broken grammar, clunky phrasing and filler-laden fluff that when something flows—when it actually lands—we don’t trust it.
But here’s the truth: the em dash is one of the most human punctuation marks we’ve got. It reflects how we think. How we change course mid-sentence. How we trail off, interrupt ourselves, make space for a sharper idea. It’s emotional. It’s intuitive. It carries tone. Machines may replicate it—but they can’t feel it.
That’s what you’re reading here. Not just a well-punctuated paragraph, but a set of choices: to pause instead of plod, to slice instead of stack, to make a sentence breathe instead of letting it break. The em dash isn’t a shortcut—it’s a decision.
The em dash belongs to the human voice. To the essays, letters, novels and conversations that shaped the way we read. AI may echo it—but it doesn’t own it.
I’m publishing this because, if it wasn’t obvious, you’ll always find em dashes in my work. I adore them. They’ve been my favourite punctuation mark since my very first university assignments. A pause, a pivot, a point of view—all wrapped up in one little line.