In the Slough of Comma Despair

Just a quick note as I eat breakfast in front of the computer—then I head back in there to tackle Chapter 3.
The people at North Light Books do a marvelous job. They’re just fabulous in every way. I  love working with them, and I love getting a chance to see the work they’ve done since the last time I looked at a draft. Oh, it’s going to be lovely! I don’t have the name of the designer right here, but he (I think it’s a he) did a gorgeous job. I would sing his praises if I weren’t too damn lazy to get up and go find out who he is. Plus, you know, I try not to use other people’s names in a post where I might, at some point, say “fuck.”
This is alwaysalwaysalways the scariest part of the book project for me.
Most people who do this stuff—writers, editors, proof readers, copy editors—I’m guessing they may have majored in English. Maybe not. But you know, all those English majors have to have some sort of job, and you know most of us are out there doing brain surgery. At least you hope we’re not.
But lots of English majors don’t ever really take basic English courses in college. They test out of those classes. I did. Some of y’all did, too, right?
You do well in English in high school, you pass by the basic courses in college, and then you find yourself with a degree in English and lots of gaps. The last grammar course you had might well have been in 9th grade, if my 16 years of subbing in the public school system are any indicator. Oh, sure, you gets bits here and there. But by high school—and certainly by college lit courses—the curriculum just assumes you know this stuff as well as you’re ever going to know it.
How do I know this? Because I learned most of what I know about the finer points of English usage, stuff like gerunds and the subjunctive and shit like that—in graduate school, when I took the preparatory courses for teaching freshman comp. Yeah, I had me some gaps.
And in college Spanish courses, which, for the first time, really taught me the parts of speech in a way that made sense. Because I was one of those English nerds who, because I read all the time and my mother, who grew up in the day when you learned how to diagram sentences, checked my English homework, skipped most of those courses. So I had those gaps. And if I had some gaps, I’m guessing other English majors do, too.
In other words, most English majors, those who don’t teach, learn a whole ton of stuff without ever really studying punctuation and grammar and usage.
I write stuff. And I proof it. Many times. I still make mistakes—who doesn’t? And the fabulous editors and proof readers and copy editors catch those mistakes and change them, making them all lovely.
And sometimes they change other stuff. Stuff that wasn’t a mistake. And that’s the scary part:  because I have no idea what someone might have changed, I have to go through and read every. single. word. Just as I would if I were grading an essay. Which is what it feels like.
And here let me say that I’m not talking about any Current Editor (or proof reader, etc.), so don’t think I’m talking about you. No! I’m still scarred by the book in which someone changed “lay” to “lie.” I found this in my Final Author Review, which I was doing at a coffee shop on a quiet afternoon. I read it, and read it again—not believing what I’d read—and then squealed, frightening the barista and plunging myself into a whole existential crisis of major proportions, in which I wrote a tacky note to the editor about hiring procedures and work ethics.
When I find things I think are wrong, I have to try to determine if they’re actually Wrong, or if it’s just some alternate, acceptable way, or if The Rules have recently changed while I wasn’t paying attention.
This means that, as I’m reading every. single. word. I’m using my teacher’s edition of the Little Brown Handbook (which is neither little nor brown) (I have a whole stack of teacher’s editions of handbooks but like the format of this one the best, as everything’s cross-referenced, and you know that makes me happy) and, of course, Strunk and White’s Elements of Style (for literary style), and the MLA guide, and the AP Stylebook (given to me by one of my magazines editors back in 1991, for newspaper and magazine style) and then checking on-line for any recent changes.
[And, oh, honeys! finding a shitload of mistakes on-line. Do not look on-line for answers to any of your questions about usage, OK? In looking for any recent changes in the use of the final comma in a series (put it in for books, leave it out for magazines and newspapers), I find repeated use of the example: “The flag was red, white and blue” to support the argument that you always leave out the final comma. But that example comes from the AP site, the one for newspapers and magazines. It’s not all-inclusive.]
Now, many people will argue that language is fluid, that it’s always in flux, that its rules are not carved in stone. But here’s the deal:  this is my book. While it is not carved in stone, it will be set in print. Many copies will exist, all with my name on them. While no one else will care if there’s a misplaced comma on page 13, I Will Know, and I Will Care. Knowing there’s a mistake I didn’t catch? Would drive me fucking nuts.
See? This is what my life is like. Pathetically, this is what makes my brain happy. It hasn’t worried about anything all morning. It’s just in there, being its anal-retentive little self, happy as a clam. I’d kill it if I didn’t need it for all that autonomic nervous system shit.
Sometimes I think I need to find work grading things. Not teaching again—eh.  But I once had a gig grading papers for an English teacher who didn’t want to grade her own, for whatever odd reason. It worked for me:  I got to hunt for errors and mark up papers, and she gave me money. It was fabulous! Also scary:  talk about some kids who needed a lot of remediation. Yowza.
I feel really bad about all this, as I know that, at this point, My Lovely Editor would really prefer that I not put any red marks anywhere on the pages she sent me. It would make her life so much easier if I wouldn’t do that.
But, alas, I must. It’s my Special Purpose.