Bloody Well Write

So I’m now a tried-and-true 40-something (which, btw, reminds me of “Thirtysomething,” which was one of the best TV shows ever) and, in my entire life and career as a student, teacher, proofreader, editor, copywriter and marketer, I’ve never had to use a particular key on the keyboard — until now.

Why now, you ask? Because, dear readers, I have recently accepted a new position at a way-cool advertising agency in Haysville, Kan. That agency is Armstrong|Shank. And Armstrong|Shank has this quirky little stroke in its name: |.

I’d seen that stroke before at some point in my life. Surely (don’t call me Shirley) I had. At some point, right? But I’d never needed to use it. Again, until recently. So here’s the story.

I was corresponding with the higher-ups at the agency and wanted to use the agency name in an e-mail back to them. But where the heck was that mark? I searched throughout the Symbols field in Microsoft Word. Nope, not there. Perhaps next to the ampersand or plus sign along the top of the keyboard? Not there, either. Sheesh. So I copied and pasted the agency’s name — funny little line and all — from one of their e-mails to me back into an e-mail to send to them. Sneaky, huh?

Then I happened to see that same little sign on some new business cards being produced for work and asked a co-worker how the heck he made that little vertical line. Imagine my surprise/dismay/embarrassment when he showed me where it was — smack-dab on the right side of the keyboard. All I had to do was hold the Shift key and tap the Backward Slash key (granted, that’s another key I don’t use but once in a very blue moon).

So I recounted this story to my husband, and he said,” Well, sure. That’s the pipe.”

And then I mentioned it to a another writer who immediately said, “Yeah, that’s the pipe.”

What? I am the only adult around who’s never heard of this name? Good grief.

I’m guessing that I’m not alone in not knowing. But as with every situation in life, there’s always more to learn, so I’m passing along this little bit of keyboard wisdom to you — just in case you’re in my boat and not in the I-already-knew-that boat.

So — the vertical bar. It’s also widely known as “the pipe” (from Unix origins). It has a variety of applications, most of which are mathematical, computing and related to physics (thus three powerful reasons why I’m not familiar, if you get my drift). Since this is a grammar site rather than a mathematical one, I’m going to leave it at this: The vertical bar is a great tool to divide space or thought in a graphic, visual way. It can also be used as the symbol in the International Phonetic Alphabet to represent the place of articulation of dental clicks.

The more I learn ….

Happy trails!

SAK

Several years ago, I was searching for a particular word for a writing project. I was wracking my brain and exhausting my online thesaurus trying to figure out just what that elusive word was. A co-worker offhandedly suggested I check out More Words, a website designed for word games, such as Scrabble® and Upwords®.

What a little gem of information that site is! Especially good for rhyming, the site lets you search for words in a variety of ways:

• Use a hyphen (dash) to give the location of a missing letter: w-rd or -are.
• Use an asterisk (star) for any number of unknown letters: lett* or *gry or ar*ct.
• Exclude words containing the letters that follow a caret (hat): ma-e ^kt.
• Enter a few letters (without hyphens or asterisks) to see if they make any words.

It’s come in handy in many a writing — and editing — project for me, so I thought I’d pass it along to Bloody Well Write readers. Who can’t use a new tool, right? Right. If you’re a writer or editor and have a website trick up your sleeve, throw it my way; I’m always on the lookout for better, easier, smarter ways to work.

Happy trails!

SAK

As a somewhat-nostalgic mom who reads books to her kids at night, I tend to shy away from the newfangled books that are churned out by the boatload these days. Granted, We have some of the “Fancy Nancy” and “Pinkalicious” stories, but we also have a lot of the books I grew up with.

I can hardly wait until the kiddos are ready for the “Pippi Longtocking” series. In fact, I already tried reading the original to my oldest, but the story’s details (and lack of pictures) are still a bit above her head. Nonetheless, I bought three of the books and am ready and waiting to explore the pigtails, monkeys, crazy socks and lively adventures with my two little monkeys.

They are, though, ready for “Old Hasdrubal and the Pirates,” one of my old books that explores Louisiana’s bayou Barataria and the (albeit glorified) history of Jean Lafitte. My youngest — a girl — loves the story almost as much as I do, and we read it several times a week.

Fluently written by Berthe Amoss, the narrative talks of  “galleons full of silver and gold, precious gems and diadems, diamond tiaras and lace madeiras, festooned dragoons and doubloons from tycoons!” Who writes like that these days for kids? That’s some crazy-good, super-fun writing, if you ask me. And the next line: “Then, in their pirogues, Lafitte and his men slipped back to hideouts in the labyrinth swamp where no man could seek them out.”

Ah lak dat. Except — what the heck is a pirogue? As the lucky momma holding the book and looking at the pictures, it’s easy to see that a pirogue is a long, skinny, flat-bottomed boat, much like a canoe, that the pirates navigated through the swamplands. But how am I, a flat-plains Midwesterner, supposed to pronounce that word without giving my daughter the impression that I don’t know how to read? Aack!

Peh-ROGUE?

Peh-ROG-ee?

PEE-rogue?

PIE-rog?

Pie-ROG-ee?

Coooh. So, to the Internet I went. I looked it up on Merriam-Webster’s trusty website that includes audible pronunciation guides and figured it all out. It should sound thus: PEE-rogue.

Voilà tout! That being said, if you’re from the bayou and know of an alternate or more authentic local pronunciation, by all means — let me know!

Happy trails!

SAK

What’s in a name? Depending on whom you’re talking to, everything or not so much.

When we were trying to pick out baby names, you’d think we were naming the Taj Mahal or Grand Canyon — something that would be around for eons and would have movies made about it. The meaning of the name, the number of syllables, the words it could possibly rhyme with, the ways it could be abbreviated — every little nuance was considered.

Many companies do the same thing when forming their names. And many add the tag Inc. to the name for legal reasons. But, concerning commas, how should those names be referenced in writing if it’s not for legal purposes?

My assumption would be to do as the company does. If ABC, Inc. wants a comma there legally, why not put it there all the time?

Crazy little assumption, but according to the AP Stylebook, that’s an assumption that can drive an editor nuts. The AP Stylebook folks have this to say:

Abbreviate and capitalize as Inc. when used as a part of a corporate name. It usually is not needed, but when it is used, do not set off with commas: “Time Warner Inc. announced ….”

And you know me. I’m not one to ruffle the feathers of the AP Stylebook gods — at least not on a regular basis.

In legal writing, I would absolutely follow the style of the legal company name. But in journalistic, advertising, marketing or PR writing, I’d eliminate the comma. It’s a space-taker-upper, and it separates the Inc. from the main body of the name, which in my mind goes against the purpose of having it there at all. If you’re going to separate the Inc. with a comma, that implies it’s not a mandatory phrase. And if it’s not mandatory, I can think of a graphic designer or two who would think that it’s fluff and that the space could be better used, so take that sucker out.

Happy trails!

SAK

Behold the power of the Internet.

A good friend Facebooked me about my post on how many spaces should really come directly after ending punctuation. And then I did an online search for this new-found information and found even more — albeit related — ammunition against anything more than one space after a period. Here goes.

My wise friend, a co-worker twice over, had this to add to the one-space-rules argument:

“Two spaces were for back in the day of printer block type and manual typesetting; it was considered the appropriate amount of block. Now in the modern desktop publishing days, our software programs adjust the “kerning” and tracking for us, so only one space is necessary between sentences.”

Aha! That makes sense. And all the research I subsequently did supports that statement:

• Most browsers today (2010) only render one space after a period, no matter how many spaces are entered in HTML code.
• Most fonts today are proportional — meaning that the characters are different sizes (primarily concerning width). Courier is the most widely used exception.
• Old-school typewriters used monospaced fonts, necessitating the use of double spaces for ease of readability.
• Designers, typographers and writers alike eschew double spaces because of the so-called “rivers” of white space created by this double-space convention.
• Designers, typographers and writers alike are aggravated by onscreen displays because they often automatically destroy any efforts at a good-looking piece of writing.

So there it is, folks — one space after ending punctuation, pretty please.

As a bonus in the readability department, studies have proven that applying the bold feature to small amounts of text helps with readability. Back in the day of typewriters, writers had to type over the words they wanted bold (or darker). Do you remember that? And in this age of scanning what is read and multitasking, bolding words to help the reader get the gist of what you want to convey makes even more sense. Just don’t go overboard with it.

Happy trails!

SAK

Below, the entry that spurred this updated entry:

Indeed, that is apparently the question that never gets answered.

As an editor, time and again I delete extra spaces after periods, much to the chagrin of the writer.

“Two!” they moan. “I was taught that two spaces follow a period.”

I feel for them. I really do. I was taught that same rule in school. The education system follows the Modern Language Association (MLA) guidelines, which stipulate two spaces after every period. Frankly, I’m not sure why two spaces are required. My guess is that those who made the rules back in the day thought that it helped the readability of the piece.

Once I graduated, though, the real world insisted that two spaces after any ending punctuation (period, question mark, exclamation point) was too much real estate. Space is, after all, at a premium across such mediums as newspapers and magazines, so that second space was a luxury that bit the proverbial dust.

And it was a hard habit to break — at least for me. But break it I did. So, while I understand the frustration of those who haven’t yet been influenced by the almighty AP Stylebook — the grammar bible of journalists, advertising agencies and professional writers — I also know that they can kick the second space to the curb as well as I did.

So when my writer friends hand me an article or ad or whatnot and ask me to edit it, I write “universal change” at the top of the page with “only one space after each ending punctuation mark.”

Aren’t ex-two-spaces-after-periods people the worst?

Happy trails!

Indeed, that is apparently the question that never gets answered.

As an editor, time and again I delete extra spaces after periods, much to the chagrin of the writer.

“Two!” they moan. “I was taught that two spaces follow a period.”

I feel for them. I really do. I was taught that same rule in school. The education system follows the Modern Language Association (MLA) guidelines, which stipulate two spaces after every period. Frankly, I’m not sure why two spaces are required. My guess is that those who made the rules back in the day thought that it helped the readability of the piece.

Once I graduated, though, the real world insisted that two spaces after any ending punctuation (period, question mark, exclamation point) was too much real estate. Space is, after all, at a premium across such mediums as newspapers and magazines, so that second space was a luxury that bit the proverbial dust.

And it was a hard habit to break — at least for me. But break it I did. So, while I understand the frustration of those who haven’t yet been influenced by the almighty AP Stylebook — the grammar bible of journalists, advertising agencies and professional writers — I also know that they can kick the second space to the curb as well as I did.

So when my writer friends hand me an article or ad or whatnot and ask me to edit it, I write “universal change” at the top of the page with “only one space after each ending punctuation mark.”

Aren’t ex-two-spaces-after-periods people the worst?

Happy trails!

SAK

OK, so my kids went as Dorothy and a witch (not The Witch) for Halloween, so I still have “Wizard of Oz” on the brain. But I think the title of the post works, so I’m going with it.

Widows and orphans — what are they in the world of writing? They are pesky little devils that rear their ugly little heads at the tail end of a writing project involving any amount of design thought. So what exactly do they mean?

A widow is a single word on the last line of a paragraph. It’s been hanging in there with all the other words, but it outlasted the rest. That’s how I remember it. It lived longer that all those other words that went before it. Clear as mud? Here’s a little graphic to explain:

__________________
__________________
__________________
_.

To some folks, that little word on its own line doesn’t mean anything more than whatever that word means. But to others (especially designer types), that lone word makes the overall impression of the paragraph a little lackluster. A little unkempt. A little sloppy. A little ewww.

An orphan is a single word on the first line of a second (or third or fourth or…) column. Some folks would consider an entire line of text shoved up to that second (or third or fourth or …) column an orphan. The point is that the lone word — or line — is hanging up there all by its lonesome. Again, a nonissue to some folks but a travesty to designer-types. Here’s another clarifying graphic:

_________________    _.
_________________
_________________   ______________
_________________   ______________.

In the second column, that little line with an ending period represents the orphan. And, like the widow, the orphan is the one left out in the cold, waiting for someone to keep it company.

How do I keep them straight? I think of the widow as the one outlasting all the other words that came before it in that column (or paragraph) of text; the orphan is alone but has its whole life in front of it (the following paragraph is full of words to keep it company).

And then there’s the rag: the ends of lines that constitute a paragraph. A rag is the ragged edge on the right side of the paragraph. If the paragraph formatting is right-justified or fully aligned, no rag is evident; but if the copy is left- or center-justified, that right edge will look as rough and ragged as can be (blurring your eyes can bring out the raggedness if you’re not used to looking for it). You want a graphic? You got it:

________________
____________
______________
_________________
__________
_____________

Those with an eye for design or readability (i.e., how easy it is to read the copy) will adjust the ragged edge by including either hard or soft returns, thereby bumping a word or words down to the next line. A lot of variables come into play, but the main goal is to keep the right edge looking relatively straight vertically, without big gaps between lines. To enhance the flow — the readability — of the copy, short words, such as I, a, it, is and to, numbers and symbols (e.g., @ and &) tend to be bumped down to the next line.

Adjusting the rag is often left up to designers, as most copywriters aren’t as interested in the function of the page as they are in the form of the words. What the words mean means more to them than how the words are read. However, copywriters worth their salt know that the easier it is for the reader to read the words, the more likely those words will get read. And more people reading those words makes copywriters happy campers, indeed.

Happy trails!

I’ve been doing a fair amount of freelance copywriting lately and, while doing some much-needed research, ran across this little gem of grammatical confusion: What’s the difference between rigorous and vigorous?

Rigorous — According to Merriam-Webster, rigorous has to do with something very strict (e.g., The auto industry needs more-rigorous testing). Rigorous often refers to strictly following rules and procedures. It can also mean that something’s “scrupulously accurate” or “marked by extremes of temperature or climate.”

Vigorous — Merriam-Webster’s definition of vigor implies physical or mental strength or active force (e.g., the benefit of vigorous activity over moderate activity) or the act of carrying something out with force or energy.

Just goes to show: You learn something new every day. I do, anyway.

Happy trails!

SAK