Last Updated on June 12, 2017
Last week, I did something I haven’t done in a while: I attended a local writers group and actually brought something along to read for the group.
It took a bit of courage for me to do so: I’m not a huge fan of reading my writing out loud, although it unquestionably helps: I spotted an error in which I had omitted the word that I hadn’t seen when I had read the passage to myself several times before. Sometimes your eyes just fill in a missing word without you realizing it has even happened.
The reading did, I’m happy to say, go well. It is a supportive group, after all, which is what led me to actually bring something to read to start with. I’m definitely glad that I managed to work up the gumption to read something, and I was very grateful for the constructive criticism. That’s what a writers group is supposed to be about in my book.
But here’s where the “stubborn” part came in.A while back, I had rewritten a good deal of the novel’s first half or so, but what I tinkered with least was the prologue. Stubbornly. That one scene was one of the last holdovers from an earlier draft that didn’t work well at all. I was convinced — and I still am convinced — that the prologue had nothing to do with why that particular draft wasn’t working. I was determined to keep the scene in and as the prologue. It would work, I kept telling myself.
A while back, I had rewritten a good deal of the novel’s first half or so, but what I tinkered with least was the prologue. Stubbornly. That one scene was one of the last holdovers from an earlier draft that didn’t work well at all. I was convinced — and I still am convinced — that the prologue had nothing to do with why that particular draft wasn’t working. I was determined to keep the scene in and as the prologue. It would work, I kept telling myself.
It didn’t.
So I ended up moving a scene from the original Chapter 2 to the prologue slot and that’s the scene I read. They seemed to like it, and offered a couple of suggestions that made sense to me. So made a few modifications and was ready to print the newly-reworked prologue.
Then I realized I had a new problem: it was no longer a prologue. The original scene was set six to seven years before the main story arc takes place. So that scene, when placed at the opening to the novel, makes more sense as a prologue. The new scene is the start to the main story, so it needs to be Chapter 1.
This means, unfortunately, that I’ll have to rebuild my “master document” in Microsoft Word to adjust for the additional chapter. (Nope, I can’t just stick in an extra chapter and call it “Chapter 1A.” I’m stubborn that way, too.)
The interesting part for the actual reading came after the questions and suggestions. One of the writers in the group asked why I had underlined certain words. She asked with an expression on her face that told me that she knew exactly why I underlined them. But I played along and answered that I had underlined words that were to be italicized in the final version. It’s one of those things that writers are instructed to do, and it dates back to the days of manual typewriters that didn’t have italicized text as an option.
This writer then told me that the new rule now is to drop the underline and just italicize.
I’ve since done some research about this, and have come to the conclusion that the actual rule is that there is no rule, yet. Parts of the industry are leaning towards italics over underlining, but that is by no means universal. The main places I see consistency in such instruction is in the realm of vanity publishers, who often never bother to read what they’re printing; they just want the writer to do all of the formatting for them because it means that they can rush the print job through and collect their cash without having any of their editors scan the words.
Most agents and traditional publishers who haven’t come right out and said that underlining should go the way of leaded gasoline and hoop skirts have long had macros that take care of such details automatically. The same goes for the other manual typrewriter-era rule about placing two spaces after a period; the typeset book will only have one.
One person questioned my preferred typeface, which is Courier New. I’ve never been a fan of writing in Times New Roman, which I find harder to read than Courier, but that may be because I had my first exposure to a typewriter when I was about four and have been typing ever since: I’m more used to that “typewritery” font. I was beginning to think that I was the only person who felt a manuscript written in Courier was easier to read until I checked out a few writing forums and was pleasantly surprised to find out that there are a few out there who agree.
I also think that underlining text makes text that is to be italicized easier to spot on the finished page. At least, that’s how it works for my eyes. The typeface used on this blog, at least at the time I’m writing this, is Trebuchet, which I also like a lot, but I wouldn’t try to write a manuscript in this font. Italicized type in Trebuchet would be just as difficult to spot quickly on a page as it would if it were in Times.
I converted the new first chapter and the new second chapter (which was the old first chapter) to the dreaded Times New Roman. I tried. Really.
Couldn’t do it.
But I compromised. Instead of reverting (note that I did not say “reverting back”) to Courier, I made a compromise: I’ll give Book Antiqua a shot. If I can get used to that, maybe going “all the way” to Times New Roman will be easier. I already miss Courier.
Of course, when it is time to submit the piece to agents, I’ll use whatever method those particular agents say they prefer. It would be foolish to do otherwise.
And the next time I bring a piece of writing for the group, I’ll be sure to print in Times New Roman or something similar.
Even if I print one copy for my own eyes set in something else.
Have I mentioned that I can be a little stubborn?
