During my childhood, my grandmother taught me little lessons. I learned how to fold and crease a sheet of paper over and over until it resembled the expanding membrane of an accordion but wasn’t constrained by the edges of a musical instrument. My creation could be waved in the air to blow away summer heat. Gramma also showed me a more advanced origami technique, although she never called it that, of creating a miniature upright piano. I’ve long forgotten those more complicated steps; however, I can still make a pretty good fan.
These memories came to me while editing an article for Deadwood Writers Voices. All I needed was to know whether to italicize or put quotation marks around a TV program’s title. Hoping to confirm my suspicion on the correct usage, I looked in The Chicago Manual of Style and was distracted by something else I came across first. The reference guide said, “The name of a living person should, wherever possible, correspond to that person’s own usage.” (CMOS, section 8.3)
How silly was that statement? It reminded me of those caution labels that are printed on coffee cups: “Careful! Contents may be hot!” When buying a cup of coffee, I certainly expect it to be, and hope it will be, hot. Regarding my own name, as a living person, shouldn’t I know better than anyone else what it is and how to spell it? Of course!
So why would CMOS bother to point out the obvious? I think the book’s editors and advisory board meant to impress upon writers the importance of spelling names correctly. But it’s not as cut and dry as it appears. For example, my grandmother ended her surname in an “i.” Her brother ended his in an “o.” Gramma’s sisters threw an extra “e” in the middle somewhere. I grew up never knowing how to correctly spell my ancestors’ last name. I’m sure they each had a convincing reason for why they did things the way they did, but I can only speculate. Maybe the ending depended upon gender: an “i” for females and “o” for males?
I’ve even thought that the difference in spellings could have had something to do with a mistake in documentation. Perhaps an official incorrectly recorded my great-grandfather’s name when Grandpa immigrated to the US from Italy. That mishap could have resulted in multiple versions of the family name surviving and competing with one another. I wish I could ask one of my living relatives but none know why there was confusion in the first place.
A lesson comes to mind for us conscientious writers: we should be watching for the unique or unconventional preferences of our subjects. For instance, friends of mine are named “Lesley” and “Sheri.” Not Leslie and not Sherry. To them, anything other than the way they spell their own names is just not correct. I’d feel the same if they addressed letters to me with “Kelli” or “Kellie.” It doesn’t look right, and to me, it doesn’t feel right.
During verbal conversations, accidents happen for sure, like when my husband calls me Kathy, his sister’s name, or when I yell to one of my sons and out stumbles his brother’s name instead. There’s also forgetting someone’s name altogether. Faulty utterances like these are common and easily forgivable. In fact, it’s rare for anyone I know to point out spoken errors at all. They seem to understand and just let them go.
There’s a higher expectation placed upon writers, however. When we commit thoughts to paper, we are responsible to verify the facts being presented, to pay attention to details. Very often, the records being created are permanent, and they’re always subject to public scrutiny. A simple mistake could jeopardize credibility with an audience. Misspellings, particularly of names, make it appear that we don’t know, care about, or respect our subjects well enough. At the very least, a person’s name, like Grandpa’s, should be documented precisely as he wishes (“to correspond to that person’s own usage”). It’s important to at least that one person.
Armed with an iPad and wireless keyboard, I have the ability to write just about anywhere. On a late September day, I drove north in the hope of seeing the first sign of fall displayed in the color of the trees. With the tools of my trade in tow, I stopped to do a little creative work in the library of a small town, Bad Axe, located smack dab in the middle of the thumb of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula. About two and a half hours and 125 miles from home, I stood in the foyer and read through local advertisements, tourist pamphlets, and notices of community events that were tucked along a wall. Intrigued by the pioneer log cabins just across the street, I picked up literature about them in the pamphlet, “Museums of Huron County, Michigan.” Appreciating the vast acres of farmland all around, I also grabbed information on the “Huron County Nature Center.” One unexpected but pleasant surprise (please don’t think I’m as geeky as I appear right now) was the last copy of the “Michigan Antiquarian Book Dealers & Book Binders Directory.” I anticipated that a friend’s name, Phil Rosette, would be somewhere within its pages, so I had to take it. As soon as I found his and his wife’s business listing, I realized the distance from home just didn’t seem all that far away.
I looked forward to the inspiration I might find in this new writing venue. A sign in the foyer requested that cell phone discussions only take place here, a space separated from the rest of the library by glass doors, so I silenced my phone as requested, before going into the computer area. Inside, there were eight computers, three of which were being used by patrons checking e-mail, playing games, and searching the Internet.
Bad Axe Area District Library
I set up my equipment at a long, unoccupied table and began typing. I made progress on an article until one well-dressed, sport-coat clad gentleman came in. His smile made him look friendly, and I actually thought maybe he was the mayor just stopping by to say hello to friends and neighbors. He sat down at one of the computers and began typing. I didn’t find the clickity-clack of his keyboard to be distracting. Muffled conversations with his constituents were tolerable. But this man’s chomping gum…it was loud, endless, and just as aggravating as fingernails running down a chalkboard. Ugh! I frantically reached for my ear buds, crammed the plug into the jack of my cell phone, and turned up the volume on my music selection. The pop-country music group Rascal Flatts drowned out this professional-looking man’s annoying habit and calmed my nerves. However, I could no longer focus on my writing.
Evidently, I have lost my youthful ability to tune out the world around me in order to concentrate and get my work done. Having grown up in a 900 square-foot home with one sister, two brothers, my parents and a dog, I used to sit at our family’s kitchen table to do my school homework. The TV or radio served as my background noise. Neither kicked out neutral, white noise, but both helped me control the sounds of a busy household environment.
Now a mother to four nearly-independent children, I have the luxury to pursue a lifelong dream: writing my first book. In the past year, I’ve tried writing on airplanes, but I don’t like the thought of anyone peering from behind to read my work-in-progress before it’s been revised and polished. Local coffee shops are out of the question; I might run into someone I know and neglect my work. Libraries would seem to make perfect sense, but here I was failing to appreciate the ambiance.
Immediately, I missed the solitude of my home office, the comfort of my own chair, and a self-indulgent cup of cream-and-sugar-laden coffee. I wondered how other writers could get anything done in public places like airports, coffee shops, and not-so-quiet libraries. I realized that the spaces we choose to write in often reflect our personalities.
My favorite writing space certainly says a lot about me. The office itself is mostly mine. Shelves holding my reference guides, journals, and a voice recorder share space with my husband’s golf and sports memorabilia. Filing cabinets hide my projects, mementos, and ideas squeezed tightly between the kids’ school papers and activity schedules. But it’s the desk that gives away the most telling signs of who I am.
In the center of the desk is a lamp I purchased because it reminded me of my former pastor, Janet Noble-Richardson. She annually took teenagers who were involved in our church’s youth group from our city of Livonia, Michigan to New Wilmington Mission Conference at Westminster College in Pennsylvania. One year when Janet couldn’t be there, another friend, Linda, and I substituted as chaperones to continue the tradition for the children a little while longer. I spotted the stone lamp during an excursion from the conference to The Silk Road Fair Trade Market. I was drawn to the piece because it had been made in Pakistan, the place where Janet had spent the first eleven years of her life living with her missionary parents and siblings. I could offer you a hokey explanation that she was like a “light unto the world,” which in fact she was, but that connection never entered my mind until now. Simply, the lamp reminded me of her because it came from the earth where she grew up. I missed her. She died in a car accident in 2006, the year before this trip. Linda still grieved for Janet too. She bought a matching lamp.
As I look at the other items on my desk, I know most of them hold special interest for me. Black and white pictures of my children, dressed in fancy clothes for my brother’s wedding, lie on either side of the lamp. Mr. Bill—yes, the one from Saturday Night Live of long ago—is a gift from my son. An “Angel of Friendship” figurine is from a best friend. My favorite Christmas photo sits out all year long and reminds me of my family’s playful side: that time we were wrapped in ribbons and bows. A bud vase holds pretty, girly, crystal-adorned pencils and pens that contrast with the most recent desktop accessory: one old, ugly, tattered Stieff puppet that I bought at an estate sale. What could have easily ended up in someone else’s trash became a treasure to me when it helped me get to know a friend’s shy five-year-old son. The boy at first thought the monkey was creepy (it is), but after a fun guessing game of I Spy, he affectionately named it “Chocolate.” It now sits over a plastic water bottle and remains one of the best memories I’ve ever bought, and it cost me merely 50 cents.
Besides the personal items, there are almost always piles of papers, the most ominous of which is the stack of “to-dos.” When I get overwhelmed, or take a picture for a blog post, I hide these piles from view and enjoy the multi-faceted illusion of having nothing to do and looking more organized than I am. At ease and surrounded by feelings of love, I leave the TV and radio off, sit down at my computer, and crack open the blinds of my window to the natural beauty outside. Noise can’t compete with my inner thoughts. Aah. This is my favorite writing space.
I’d love to know where your favorite writing space and/or your dream place is.
(One day, I hope to be writing in a beachfront condo overlooking the cool, white, crushed quartz sand that lines the shore in a certain place along the Gulf of Mexico. Maybe it won’t be completely quiet, but it will be peaceful.)
“A song is like a short story with a beginning, middle and end,”[1] instructs Berry Gordy. He’s speaking to his friend, Smokey Robinson, who hasn’t written a timely ending to a song. It’s early in both their careers, and the insightful Gordy shows Robinson a way to improve his songwriting skills. In this case, it’s by truncating Robinson’s lyrics once they’ve become redundant and are no longer adding value. (Sound familiar to any writers out there?) That one line from Motown the Musical resonated for me. I had to agree that songs do tell concise stories. The musical was loaded with about sixty of them. Each one was skillfully placed so that by the end of the main story, the giant Motown story, audience members were left wondering if the sensational songs were indeed inspired by the experiences of the rising stars who sang their way into history.
The Broadway production was based upon Gordy’s book, To Be Loved: The Music, the Magic, the Memories of Motown, which was first published in 1994. Subsequently, an electronic version was released in 2013, most likely to coincide with the debut of the musical. Think: strategic marketing. It worked on me. Having enjoyed the play, I was enticed to download his e-book. In the not-to-be overlooked preface, Gordy explained why he penned his life’s story. He wanted to preserve his perspective and offer to readers the truth, as he experienced it, surrounding the entity he had created. He wrote, “…misconceptions about me and Motown became so great I finally had to deal with them.”[2]
Similarly, the musical story presents Gordy’s point of view to theater patrons. During the second scene, we learn of his upbringing in Detroit. A young Gordy and his family gather near a radio in their home and cheer on Joe Louis as he defeats German heavyweight champion, Max Schmeling, in a one round, knockout fight. The triumph is a source of pride for many people throughout the United States and impresses upon Gordy “a burning desire to be special, to win, to be somebody.”[3] The following scenes depict how Gordy achieves those things over a span of thirty years. Having written the script, he takes viewers through the rise and fall of his record label, unveils once-private moments, and sends a consistent message of the uniting force of love. Through civil riots, hate crimes, injustice and prejudice, Motown music spreads love and destroys boundaries between blacks and whites.
Although some serious subject matter permeates the show, the action moves so quickly there isn’t time to dwell on somber moments. Through Broadway magic and over 350 costumes,[4] the cast transforms into the characters they represent. All the favorites: Diana Ross and the Supremes, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson and the Jackson 5, The Four Tops, The Temptations, The Commodores, Martha Reeves and the Vandellas, Gladys Knight and the Pips, The Marvelettes, and more.
At some point, I stopped comparing the actors to the originals. Their singing, dancing, and portrayals made the show entertaining and fun, engaging, and convincing. The most conflicting thought I had while sitting in the audience was whether or not it would be rude to sing along. (Well, there was also the immediate development of my cougar-crush for Eric LaJuan Summers when he came onstage as Rick James. Until then, I hadn’t fully appreciated how hard he works…out.)
Still sharing his talents with the world, Mr. Gordy turns 85 years old on November 28th and doesn’t seem to be done telling stories just yet. He continues to invent ways of keeping our beloved Motown Sound alive and, in so doing, serves as inspiration to us writers. Motown the Musicalcomplements his legacy and earns its own place in history.
Congratulations to everyone involved in the production, including Detroit’s own Jawan M. Jackson. Well done.
Detroiters, Motown is coming to the Fisher Theatre October 21-November 16. Hope to see you there, singing and dancing in the seats.
[1]Motown the Musical. By Berry Gordy. Dir. Charles Randolph-Wright. Perf. Josh Tower. Lunt-Fontanne Theatre, New York City. 10 Aug. 2014.
[2] Gordy, Berry. To Be Loved: The Music, the Magic, the Memories of Motown. (1994; New York: RosettaBooks LLC, Electronic Edition for iPad 2013) 20.
A writer is supposed to write with a particular audience in mind. My editor tells me that just about every time she reviews my articles. I know. I know. I know. It’s something I’m sure I learned in grade school and have been striving to put into practice every time I sit down at my computer. When I type an e-mail, it’s to someone specific. A thank you note, it goes to someone specific. Why then, do I find it so hard to figure out whom I’m trying to reach through each of my blog posts? Can’t I just love to write, without having to please anyone other than myself? Of course not! Unless I’m writing in a diary, I hope to be interesting to somebody else.
My problem is not simply a difficulty in identifying an audience. It’s complicated by my desire to not exclude anybody. When my kids were young, I enforced a house rule that “everybody plays together or your friends go home.” No hurt feelings; no one left out or sitting on the sidelines. Honing in on just one specific target audience is hard for me, because by focusing on one group, I’m afraid I may alienate the others out there on the fringes, whom I also care about. Fourteen years of experience with Vacation Bible School shows me that the ever important audience varies according to one’s perspective.
I once thought VBS was only for children. In 2000, my family and I joined a relatively small church of about 200 members. We spent the first year getting acquainted with the worship services and the people. We weren’t expected to serve in any capacity. It was our time to settle in and get comfortable. Summer came, Polar Escape (a winter-wonderland program) was being promoted, and I had to ask, “What exactly is VBS?” and “What do you do at VBS?”
I was given standard answers: VBS is where children come to learn about God in a fun, creative, inviting environment. They often make crafts, participate in games, eat snacks, learn dance moves to songs, and hear Bible stories. I’ve since discovered that, beyond those things, a great experience depends upon who hosts VBS, the curriculum they purchase or create, and the amount of energy people involved with the program are willing to put in. Each unique presentation is limited only by imagination, time and a budget.
At St. Timothy Presbyterian Church, where I had that first year to relax, our VBS accepted children as old as sixth-graders and as young as three-year-old, potty-trained preschoolers. The kids were dropped off by their parents for a few hours each morning, Monday-Friday, for five days. Every child, regardless of denomination or church affiliation, was welcome. Older youth and adults led the young children through each planned activity. Unconventionally, the church absorbed all costs. Pastor Janet Noble-Richardson was adamant that money would not interfere with a child being able to attend. She insisted that the outreach would be free to the community. For some parents, VBS offered a perfect time to run errands without the kids in tow.
When I arrived to register my seven-year-old son and nine-year-old daughter for their first VBS, I was surprised at the transformation my church had undergone. We walked through hallways full of artificial snow, life-size penguins, and elaborately painted backdrops. The kids weren’t just going to attend VBS, they were going to experience it through all five senses. It was impressive, but I really didn’t know all that I was missing until the next year, when I was recruited to teach the preschoolers.
My twin boys were about to turn four and would be with me in class. I had been forewarned that the preschool teacher’s role was probably the hardest, due to the children’s short attention level, their possible anxiety in being separated from their moms, and the fact that our group didn’t rotate to other classrooms like the older children did. If nothing else, I was well-prepared with patience, a schedule of activities, and supplies to keep us busy. My room was staffed with three other parents, which gave us a ratio of about one adult for every four children. Yet, just minutes into our day together, my son was bit on the arm by a child I didn’t know. Eric cried. The boy cried. Eric bled and I held him on one hip as I tried to stick to the plan. I delayed a trip to the doctor’s office for antibiotics, because I had a class to manage. When I explained the incident to the boy’s mother, at the end of the morning, she wanted to know what my darling had done to antagonize her son. Day one couldn’t have ended soon enough.
The following year, I volunteered to once again teach the preschoolers…and the director let me. Thankfully, everyone was fine, we enjoyed our time together, and I fell in love with my VBS audience of boys and girls.
For nearly a decade, I took on an additional role and helped decorate the church in preparation for our guests. Other members and I painted, sewed, sawed, hammered, designed, glued and came up with intricate ways to amaze. We built outdoor classrooms: first a whale, then a hut, a burro to crawl through, even a ship. A stuffed lion, giraffe, buffalo, horse, cow, puppet theater, costumes for the closing plays. Heavy jobs often went to the men, but ladies weren’t shy about wielding hammers and staple guns too. Painting was popular for anyone, between five and seventy-five, who could hold a paintbrush or sponge. Forget the budget. Dozens of us donated time and money to finish our jobs. The only things slowing us down were our need for sleep, occasional illnesses and injuries.
Here was a whole other audience, men and women of all ages working together, committed to serving. VBS was for us too. We formed unforgettable memories and lifelong friendships.
Annually, I’m still involved with VBS at a different church. Now, the audience has become easier for me to single out. It’s expanded to include the grandparents who enjoy watching their grandkids perform a song, the retirees who step into new roles as musicians, camel herders, weavers and rope makers, and the visitors who are in awe as they admire and smile at the scenes I’ve helped create. VBS is for my friend who called to find out what she had missed on the day the children roasted marshmallow Peeps over a pretend fire. It’s for my current pastor who I recently found hiding in a storage room. He was dressed as an ancient Israelite and eagerly awaited his entrance into a skit. It’s for everyone I’ve had the pleasure of dancing with as we sing praises to God.
There are some people who don’t understand the hype. They think it’s totally absurd to spend time and resources on temporary decorations. They say that Vacation Bible School doesn’t require hours of cutting, pasting, hanging, and gluing. Hallways and classrooms don’t have to be elaborate. Buildings don’t need to get dressed up with palm trees and waterfalls or rocket ships and aliens. I’ll admit that all of that is true. Getting children excited about God and helping them get to know Him better are the goals. But, the cynics have a totally different perspective than I do. At least I’ve figured out Whom the extravagance is really for–finally, I’m sure of my audience.
Let’s hope it doesn’t take me another decade to identify who I write for…
Picky Penny said, “I’m studying The Chicago Manual of Style.”
Misplaced Mark replied, “I hope I never have to read that”.
Penny is attracted to Mark because of his gifted story-telling. He’s prolific with his ideas. Mark thinks Penny is really cute, and he likes that she always seems to know how to spell words without having to look them up in a dictionary. He notices that she’s good at applying the rules of grammar, too. Their common interest in writing is what first brought them together. Each realizes that, if they were to blend their talents, they would have a beautiful marriage in which they create compelling stories through clear, consistent communication.
Before they can live happily ever after, however, our two lovebirds have some issues to overcome. Penny is a stickler for the rules that she studies so well. In her quest for perfection, she corrects punctuation errors, fixes parallel construction flaws, and battles to avoid inconsistent verb tense while she’s composing first drafts. Her compulsion to be exact gets in the way of production. She would notice the mistake in the opening dialogue above and abruptly stop to fix it before moving on with another thought. Heaven help her; she can’t let anything go.
Mark is overly distracted by his surroundings. He keeps a notebook on hand to jot down tidbits from the conversations he hears, peculiar behavior he sees, and story lines that come to him. When he writes, he knows what he wants to say and how he wants to say it, but he has little patience for Penny’s nagging about following the rules. In his opinion, those are really just suggestions that slow down his creative process. To Penny’s horror, he finds revision to be cumbersome. He wouldn’t care to change anything in the same opening sentences above.
Penny and Mark’s relationship is complicated. Both have strong opinions and skills in different areas. Is there a way to help the couple get along despite their individual styles and abilities?
I relate to both of them. As a writer, I admire Mark. He is comfortable with his craft. He’s confident, capable, and inspiring in his creativity. He knows how to set a scene, develop characters, and engage audiences. He paints entertaining images, even with discrepancies in protocol. From him, I’m learning to let the rules go for awhile, write what I need to write, and fix the grammatical issues later.
At least I try to fix them later. When I’m revising, I’m aware that I’ll never master all of the idiosyncrasies that pertain to good writing. There’s just too much information to remember. But certain things pop out to me. Either I know how to make those items conform better to the rules, or I have to look up advice in a style guide. Taking a cue from Penny, I most often rely on The Chicago Manual of Style for three main reasons. First, it’s widely recognized by writing professionals as a reputable, Standard English resource. Second, each subsequent edition evolves to keep up with changes in the writing industry. Third, through my online subscription, I can get answers to questions that stump me.
Generally, I’ve heard it said that once you know the rules, it’s okay to break them. This applies to writing. For instance, consider the difference between conversational language and more formal communication. Suppose you draft the following e-mail to the high school composition teacher: “I am wondering to whom I should forward the paper.” Doesn’t it just feel a little awkward? It sure sounds that way to me. Few people, often not even the English teacher, talk like that. In relaxed, everyday conversations, I think most people simply bend long-standing rules and ask, “Who should I send the paper to?” It may not be perfect grammar, according to Penny, but it’s perfectly acceptable, as Mark will point out.
While I’m okay with text that reflects the way people naturally talk, I’m increasingly concerned about certain grammatical mistakes that are making their way into e-mails, messages, and online articles. One of the most common offenses I’ve noticed is misplaced quotation marks. Having seen so many, I started to doubt my understanding of the basic punctuation rules.
I went back to the books to brush up, and I’m relieved to say that some things never change. We still only have three rules to consider when determining where to place our ever popular quotation marks: inside, outside, and sometimes inside/sometimes outside.
Of those three, the rule I wish Americans would agree with and apply is: periods and commas always go inside quotation marks. The Chicago Manual of Style, Associated Press Stylebook, and MLA Handbook for Writers of Research Papers say so. Purdue University’s Online Writing Lab (OWL) concurs and further notes that this punctuation is standard in the United States but not necessarily in other countries.
For many reasons, we just don’t do things the same all throughout the world. Consider the following ways we in the US differ from the English. Here we write gray versus their grey, and practice instead of practise. We go on vacation, and they go on holiday. We can try to emulate the accent in their speech. But we don’t follow a king or queen and we shouldn’t follow foreign punctuation rules. We simply don’t want to confuse our American audience.
If you look back at Mark’s statement to Penny, you may notice that it’s improperly punctuated for those of us in the US. I should have written: “I hope I never have to read that.” The ending quotation mark is now correctly placed outside the period. Whew! Hopefully, I’m not the only one breathing a sigh of relief.
I recognize that it’s difficult for us writers to come to consensus over all the little details we face. Even within our own U.S. borders, we are bombarded with inconsistencies in how things are done. For instance, I used to cringe every time I read an article on Wikipedia that looked to me to be incorrectly punctuated. That organization has American roots and computer servers located in the US. So, why are its articles littered with periods and commas flagrantly outside quotation marks?
After a little research, I realized that the mistakes weren’t due to inexperienced contributors. The errors weren’t missed during half-hearted attempts at revision. They weren’t accidents at all. Wikipedia had established its own style and its own rules—which, as noted, are unconventional for us Yanks.
My Picky Penny tendency pushed me to get an explanation from Wikipedia itself. Why was a basic standard compromised? In an e-mail response, I was told that, “All of Wikipedia’s policies and guidelines are developed by community consensus…Wikipedia’s users are all over the globe, not just in American-English speaking places.” Yikes! That seems like a pretty big compromise to me, but I suppose if you make up your own rules, then you can rightfully claim that you’re really not breaking any.
I do concede some flexibility in what we’ll consider guiding principles. Remember my favorite resource, The Chicago Manual of Style? It discourages the use of italics for emphasizing words placed at the end of sentences, like I did in Mark’s statement to his betrothed. I could have written, “I hope I never have to read that.” The prevailing thought is that my readers would have naturally put emphasis on the last word, without a prompt from me. Was I wrong or breaking a rule to help the readers by forcing the emphasis and putting the final word in italics? Not exactly. The rule that applies is a pliable one. Not a hard and fast rule, like where to place an ending quotation mark. In this example, I was given flexibility to exercise a preference.
The hard part for writers is discerning between unbendable rules and suggested guidelines. It’s a daunting task. I’ve counted 35 different style guides used by just as many different groups of people. Lawyers, librarians, journalists, musicians, government officials, students, scientists, researchers, geologists, businessmen and editors all have their own style guides. No wonder writers struggle in deciding what to do under specific circumstances. Every industry, even every company, has the potential to do things differently.
If you pay attention, you’ll see how other writers address grammar issues. Be forewarned that they bring their own knowledge and personal choice—right, wrong, or just different—to their work. Personally, I have quite a bit of fun discussing fundamental principles with my father-in-law. He’s known to have a quirky way of punctuating sentences. Eventually, he convinces me of his unique logic, and I in turn try to persuade him to find a style guide that supports his view. (I’m beginning to think he’s British.) Picky Me suggests that if he can’t find one, then it’s time to conform to some published criterion. Heaven help me if he chooses Wikipedia or writes his own!
Let’s think back to Penny and Mark. In trying to help them blend their different writing worlds, I suggest that they, too, agree on one basic style guide. It’s less distracting to readers if there is uniformity amongst us writers. That’s one reason publishers and online sites post submission guidelines or indicate the manual of style they would like writers to comply with. At the very least, we don’t want to alienate or irritate their editors by ignoring the very tool they want us to utilize. We want our submissions to work for us, not against us.
Following the rules can be considered one of writers’ most basic job requirements. Consistency in applying them will make us look credible. Accuracy will generate respect; compliance may generate a paycheck. And Mark and Penny will have one less thing to argue about on their way to a fairy tale ending.
