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

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 never thought about it before I became a proofreader more than a decade ago. I’d venture to guess that most people don’t think about it, either, or ever will. And yet now that I know the difference, it bugs me enough to write an entry on it.

On what?

On the copyright symbol — © — and the redundant use of the word copyright alongside the symbol.

If you look at the copyright information on just about anything, you may very well see something like this:

Copyright © 1989, 1996 by  …. (This particular instance is from the parenting book “What to Expect the First Year.”)

The problem with the above information is that it is repeating the idea of copyright: the word, then the symbol. It’s akin to  “I’d like $40 dollars, please.” The dollar sign ($) and the word dollars mean exactly the same thing, so if you said it out loud, you’d say, “I’d like dollars 40 dollars, please.” You see the ick factor, grammatically speaking, yes?

So, regarding the copyright issue, two correct ways to write it would be, in the “What to Expect the First Year” example:

Copyright 1989, 1996 by …

or

© 1989, 1996 by …

This singular copyright construction also aligns with AP Stylebook conventions. And that, as you faithful Bloody Well Write readers know, makes the world right as far as I’m concerned.

My preference is the second option, mainly because symbols are, well, cute. Symbols make phrases look somehow more professional, more acceptable. They also take up less space than the word or words they symbolize, and that often comes in handy when you’re limited with space issues.

Happy trails!

SAK