​(Or, if we’re feeling pompous: Beautiful Game, The.)

Thanks to alphabetical order, we can get the grumpy bit out of the way right now.
 
Not only is this a maddeningly overused cliché – especially in titles and subtitles of football-themed articles in general-interest publications – it’s also unclear what it’s supposed to mean.
 
No one seems sure how and when the term was first coined, but it was popularised by Pelé in his 1977 autobiography, My Life and the Beautiful Game. People often assume it means football as a whole, as that title seems to suggest. Then again, there isn’t usually much beauty in, say, an English relegation battle on a wet Wednesday night in March. The term has also been used to refer to the style of play shown by a particular team or player, such as Pelé himself and his Brazil team-mates circa 1970.
 
I’d like to suggest that this combination of overuse and vagueness means it should be consigned to a not-very-beautiful dustbin, so we’ll see no more of that ‘Has the beautiful game been corrupted by money?’ silliness.

​Centre-what? The second, er, half of this label for a central defender makes no sense – but it used to, when it meant something else.
 
In modern football’s formative years in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, most teams used a 2–3–5 formation (or 2–3–2–3 if you count the inside-forwards as a deeper-lying separate line from the other three forwards). The two at the very back were the full-backs: a right-back and left-back. In front of them were the three half-backs: a right-half, centre-half and left-half.
 
Then – I’m cutting a long story short here – a change in the offside law in 1925 led to a deluge of goals, prompting managers (along with captains, whose role involved more than fist-pumping and trophy-lifting back then) to move their centre-half backwards into a defensive role, between the right-back and left-back. This brought about the 3–2–5 (or 3–2–2–3) formation that would be the norm for the next three decades.
 
The name largely stuck, though, even through the formation revolutions that came about from the 1950s onwards, which meant there were usually two or even three ‘centre-halves’. The more logical terms ‘centre-back’ and ‘central defender’ are often used as well, but ‘centre-half’ is still very much with us.

​Ah, yes – the World Cup, the FA Cup, the Associate Members’ Cup and, of course, the European Cup Winners’ Cup. All cosily familiar. But what is a ‘cup’ in football terms?
 
Although it had predecessors in various sports, the daddy of all football ‘cups’ is the FA Cup – officially the Football Association Challenge Cup – created by the London-based FA in 1871. The name referred to both the competition and the prize – an 18-inch-high silver cup that the FA commissioned for £20 from Martin, Hall and company.
 
Seventeen years later, the Football League was founded. The trophy – not awarded until the end of the league’s third season in 1891 – wasn’t in the form of a drinking vessel, which probably explains why it wasn’t known as a ‘cup’. As other football competitions sprang up around the world, the same convention was mostly followed: those with a knockout format were usually known as ‘cups’, while those with a week-by-week, home-and-away format and a position table weren’t (see league, coming up).
 
The World Cup’s original Jules Rimet Trophy did feature a cup-type object, held aloft by Nike, the Greek goddess of victory. However, its 1974 replacement, still used today, is entirely solid (with a globe at the top), making it thoroughly useless for drinking from. As we’ve seen with ‘centre-half’, though, words don’t have to make sense in this game.

​This acronym is based on the global governing body’s French name: ‘Fédération Internationale de Football Association’. This translates into ‘International Federation of Association Football’ (we’ll see where the ‘Association’ part came from soon), but the mildly comical acronym ‘IFAF’ has never been adopted – in any case, it’s now used by the International Federation of American Football.
 
So, in English, the all-powerful federation has ended up with an acronym only – not a name with all the words spelt out.

​Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s called ‘football’ because it’s a kicking game – the foot touches the ball. Not so fast …
 
This explanation is widely believed here in Britain, and is often used to mock Americans (though rarely Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders and the Irish) for using this word to refer to other sports. There is, though, little evidence to support it, and plenty of evidence to the contrary, as I discovered a while ago when researching for my book on the history of all football-type sports.
 
The earliest known use of the word is from 1314, when Nicholas Farndon, Mayor of London, issued a banning order in his ‘Preservation of the Peace’ proclamation, fretting over ‘certain tumults arising from great footballs in the fields ... from which many evils may perchance arise’.
 
Back then, and for centuries to come, ‘football’ was an informal, loosely defined game, played in many different forms around the British Isles. In most places, it was mainly, or even purely, a handling game – the ball was often too hard and heavy to be kicked anyway.
 
One common theory is that the word ‘football’ came about because the game was played on foot, rather than on horseback. This seems a bit shaky, though – it was hardly the only sport played without the aid of horses or other carriers. Another one, less common but perhaps more plausible, is that it was based on the size of the ball – about a foot long.
 
By the early 19th century, the game was becoming more formally regulated in some places, though it still varied wildly from one place to another. The most influential developments came at the public schools: notably Eton, Harrow and Rugby. At this stage, it was becoming more of a kicking game than before, but still featured a lot of handling, and not just at Rugby School.
 
Before long, many public school old boys were wanting to play the game at university and elsewhere, and some tried to agree on common rules. This wasn’t easy, especially as the Rugby contingent, unlike the others, wanted ball-carrying and hacking (yes, that means shin-kicking) to be allowed. In the end, a group of non-Rugbeians dismissed those pleas when forming the Football Association in 1863. Their version was known as ‘association football’, to distinguish it from ‘Rugby football’, which would be codified by the newly formed Rugby Football Union in 1871.
 
For many years to come, both were known simply as ‘football’ whenever it was obvious which version was meant. And when Rugby football reached the US via Canada in the 1870s, Americans simply called it ‘football’ – just like the British did. They soon developed it into their own game, and the name stuck. Other forms of football, all involving both kicking and handling, evolved in Ireland, Canada and Australia.
 
In Britain, it wasn’t until well into the 20th century that the word ‘football’ became mostly synonymous with the kicking game. The present-day Scottish Rugby Union was called the Scottish Football Union until 1924. Even today in England, rugby league people sometimes call their game ‘football’. We probably should remember this …

​As we saw earlier, until the mid-1920s, the two full-backs were usually at the very back of the ten-man outfield line-up. So ‘full-backs’ was a meaningful name for them. When the centre-half then retreated to play in between them, he should, by logic, have become a third full-back (the ‘centre-back’). And, with today’s four- or five-man defences, all of those players should be known as ‘full-backs’.
 
Logic lost out, though. These players are all called ‘defenders’, with only the two on the outside labelled as ‘full-backs’, even though they’re no further back than the others. This isn’t a unique oddity, though: in American football, if there is a fullback (no hyphen, please, we’re American), he usually lines up in front of the running back – who’s sometimes known as the ‘halfback’, which makes even less sense.

​Like ‘cup’, this word has come to mean a certain type of competition. It became established in football when the Football League was founded in England in 1888. William McGregor, a Scottish businessman on the Aston Villa committee, proposed that a group of leading clubs should play against each other, home and away, each season.
 
His suggested name, ‘Association Football Union’, was rejected because of possible confusion with both the Football Association and the Rugby Football Union. When ‘Football League’ was proposed, he worried that it might be associated with the Irish Land League – but he gave in, and ‘Football League’ it was. ‘League’ wasn’t a new term in sport, though – baseball’s National League in the US had been founded, under that name, 12 years earlier.
 
Once the blueprint had been set, other competitions with a similar format followed suit: the Scottish Football League and Irish Football League were formed in 1890, and other similarly named ones were soon popping up around the British Isles and elsewhere.
 
UEFA’s Champions League, though, is something of an oddity name-wise. Many of the entrants aren’t champions; it’s hardly a genuine ‘league’ in the sense of an ongoing alliance of clubs (teams qualify for it, year by year, on the strength of their domestic league placings in the previous season); and its format is a hybrid of group and knockout stages, much like that of the World Cup. And I won’t even mention the apostrophe thing.

​Simple, this one: ‘non-League’ leagues are the leagues below League level. Got that?
 
This term is mostly used in England. There is some logic to it – provided that the capital ‘L’ is used, the reader takes notice of it, and we all understand that it refers to the English Football League (perhaps in combination with the Premier League, though it was all simply the Football League when the term first came into use). Otherwise, and especially for the uninitiated, it could lead to some scratching of heads.
 
Its significance has faded a little since the arrival of automatic promotion and relegation between the League and non-League levels in 1987, and the later spread of full-time professionalism in the latter. Still, this hasn’t stopped some media types – notably at the BBC – from hyperventilating whenever a non-League team beat a League team in the FA Cup. Even if both sides are of about the same standard, we’re told it’s a ‘giant-killing’ that typifies the ‘romance’ of the Cup. Sorry, I’m getting grumpy again.

​Ah, yes – that’s what the Americans call it, isn’t it? What do they know?
 
Except … if you’ve read the ‘football’ piece above, you might have realised that it isn’t quite like that. As we saw, in the late 19th century, various newly formalised sports went by the name of ‘football’. None of them had a monopoly on the name. (This is still true to a large extent, but not recognised so much.)
 
Whenever anyone needed to be specific about the type of football they were talking about, a qualifier was needed. In Britain, the code defined by the FA in 1863 became known as ‘association football’, to, er, associate it with that association. The version derived from Rugby School’s laws was ‘Rugby football’ (later just ‘rugby’).
 
‘Association football’ was something of a mouthful, though, and something snappier was needed. Legend has it that the answer came from future England captain Charles Wreford-Brown, an Oxford University student in the 1880s, who, when asked one day whether he wanted to play ‘rugger’ – a typical Oxford slang term for Rugby football – said he’d rather play ‘soccer’, meaning the FA’s game. There are, however, also stories of the word evolving from other nicknames such as ‘a-soc’ and ‘socca’.
 
The new word soon spread around the English-speaking world, making the transition from slang to accepted usage. It came into common use in Ireland, the US, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa, as a handy way to distinguish the game from other football sports. But it was also widely used in Britain – especially in areas and social groups where rugby (of either type) was popular – until the later parts of the 20th century, and still hasn’t completely vanished in those circles.
 
Even today, it pops up quite often in the British media, especially where it helps to make a snappier title or headline than ‘football’. Although the game’s fans often scoff at Americans for calling the game ‘soccer’, they don’t seem especially bothered that (for example) the Saturday daytime schedule on Sky Sports Premier League is dominated by programmes named Soccer AM and Gillette Soccer Saturday.
 
In short, there’s nothing at all wrong with calling the game ‘soccer’. But, OK, I still cringe when people do it. Funny old game, funny old world.

Copy-editing and proofreading are two separate stages in the process of preparing a book for publication. They have different remits, and are usually done by different people.
 
Outside the publishing world, though, many people get these terms mixed up with each other (and with others, such as ‘copywriting’).
 
If your work is very well written and needs nothing more than an error check, proofreading will be enough. If it might need improvements in the style and flow of the writing, or a more ‘professional’ tone, it should be copy-edited instead. You might want a service somewhere between the two, which could be thought of as ‘proof-editing’ or ‘light copy-editing’. Many editors and proofreaders are flexible about this.
 
To avoid misunderstandings, it’s important to find someone who can provide the level of help you need, and to state this clearly when asking for a quote.

Rather than focusing on spelling, grammar and readability at a sentence level (though they might do that as well), a substantive or developmental editor looks at the bigger picture. They’ll usually start working with you early in the project, helping to shape your work’s overall ideas, structure and coherence, often both before and during the writing stage. They might do some major rewriting, or just make recommendations for how you could do this.

​This is a tricky term, which means very different things to different people. I won’t even try to define it here. If you ask someone about doing some line editing, I suggest you explain what you mean by it.

​Not many editors use this term, but I think it’s useful. As I see it, it means editing business material (reports, proposals, promotional content etc.) for clarity, coherence and impact, with a strong focus on how it will influence the target readers. It’s much like copy-editing, but with the emphasis on business priorities, rather than simply producing something that’s grammatically correct and nice to read.

These are not forms of editing or proofreading, but are sometimes confused with them – so I’ll mention them here for the sake of clarity.

• Rewriting: The author’s original work is completely replaced by newly written content.
• Copywriting: Based on a rough ‘sketch’ or set of ideas that the customer provides, a copywriter writes content from scratch in an appropriate style. It’s usually done for marketing purposes – for example, when creating a brochure or website content​.

Many editors and proofreaders do offer services such as these – but they are different services, which need different skillsets. You shouldn’t expect someone to offer them unless they actually say they do.

​​For your peace of mind, it’s important to find an editor or proofreader who’s clearly genuine – not someone hiding behind a pseudonym and a logo. Look for an actual person’s name, a photo and some clue as to where they’re based. A convincing presence on social media – particularly on LinkedIn, which (unlike Twitter) more-or-less forces people to be open about who, what and where they are – will help to prove their ‘realness’.

​Much, if not all, of the following information might be available on each provider’s website, social media profiles, online directory entries and so on. If any of it is missing, don’t be afraid to ask.

Training  ​Editing and proofreading are acquired skills, and good-quality training is crucial. Although many UK organisations offer courses, those provided by the Publishing Training Centre (PTC) and the Society for Editors and Proofreaders (SfEP) are widely considered to be the most valuable.

​Skills  Do they have the particular editorial skills that you need: copy-editing, proofreading, using Word with Track Changes, marking up PDFs?

​Background and knowledge  Most editors and proofreaders have also had other jobs. The skills and knowledge that they’ve gained from that work, from their education, and from other activities and interests, might well help them to do a good job for you. A familiarity with facts, names, concepts and terminology in your subject area will help them to spot errors and inconsistencies, and to clarify unclear wording.

​Experience  What kinds of editorial work have they done? How much? How relevant is it to your needs? What types of client have they worked for? Look at portfolios, testimonials and reviews.

Professionalism  Read some of the content on the provider’s website, or anywhere else where they describe themselves and what they do. Do they give the impression of being well organised and businesslike? A bit of informality and humour does no harm, but it’s important to choose someone who approaches their work seriously enough to do it properly and on time, and to interact with you professionally.

Affiliations  The SfEP is the UK’s main professional body dedicated to promoting high standards in editorial work. Its members have valuable access to training, help, advice and networking opportunities, and are bound by its code of practice, Ensuring Editorial Excellence. Other countries have similar organisations – you can find a list here (thanks to Louise Harnby).

Some editors and proofreaders advertise their hourly rates on their websites and elsewhere, while others choose not to. One problem with advertising rates up front is that a potential customer might have no idea how long the work would take.
 
An alternative is to show rates per thousand words or per page. This has its own drawback, though: it doesn’t allow for the inevitable variations between jobs. A lot depends on the complexity and quality of the writing, as well as its length.
 
The best way to get a realistic quote is to give the provider:

• a description of what you’re writing
• a sample of it
• details of your requirements (type of editing, timescale and so on).

That way, they can assess your job properly, and either give you a customised quote or advise you to look elsewhere.

You might ask a number of editors and proofreaders whether they can help you and how much they would charge. It’s tempting to go for the lowest quote, but make sure you’re confident that you’re choosing someone who will do the job properly. And if you decide not to use someone’s services after they’ve responded positively, please let them know (this is good courtesy, but it’s easy to forget to do it).

​Good luck with the search!​

My colleague Eleanor Parkinson (Manchester Editorial) recently wrote an excellent blog post about the overuse of capital letters to begin words, particularly in business writing. I’d like to dig deeper into this, to look at some of the likely reasons why people often fall into this trap.
 
I say ‘likely’ because, without doing a big survey or having access to the inner workings of people’s minds, I can’t be sure that these are the reasons. But there are certain patterns of what we might call ‘hypercapitalisation’ that crop up so often, I think these explanations seem fairly credible.​

​If a term consists of two words or two sets of initials, and the first of these begins (correctly) with a capital, it’s easy to think – maybe subconsciously – that the second should as well. This would explain why people often write such things as ‘an IT System’, ‘British Politicians’ and ‘American Football’. But these terms aren’t titles or proper nouns, so the second word in each case doesn’t need to be capitalised.
 
(The latter is very common, but there really is no reason for the capital ‘F’. If you’re unconvinced, try this: if you were just writing ‘football’ – or ‘golf’ or ‘swimming’ – in mid-sentence, would you start it with a capital?)
 
Tip: Unless the entire term is a name of an organisation, brand etc., only capitalise the words that you would always capitalise anyway (‘British’, for example).

​There are some words that we often see capitalised within titles of institutions. Some examples: ‘Leeds City Council’, ‘Metropolitan Police’, ‘University of Nottingham’. This is probably why some people capitalise these words in other contexts: ‘the people of our City’, ‘your local Council’, ‘he joined the Police’, ‘she went to University’ and so on. These are generic terms, not the titles of specific cities, councils, police forces or universities: so, no capitals required.
 
Tip: This kind of word only needs a capital if it’s part of a title (or being used as a shortened version of a title). 

​This is where business content writers tend to get carried away. There’s usually no need for things like ‘the Company’ and ‘our Customers’.
 
An exception is where legal-type wording is being used, for example, in a contract or a set of terms and conditions. If things such as ‘the Company’ and ‘the Customer’ are in a list of defined terms, it makes sense to capitalise them later on, as a way of referring back to those definitions. Also (as with reason #2), if ‘the Company’ is meant as shorthand for a name that actually includes the word ‘Company’, the capital ‘C’ is fine.
 
Tip: Importance isn’t a good reason for starting a word with a capital. If you really want to emphasise it (though I suggest you do this sparingly), use italics, bold, a different colour or maybe full capitals.

​‘The Financial Sector’, ‘the Energy Industry’, ‘the Private Equity Market’ – terms such as these are often capitalised, as if they were the names of actual organisations. In reality, though, each of them is just a loose label, covering an undefined number of organisations – so they don’t need capitals. The financial sector has no CEO, the energy industry has no organisation chart, and the private equity market has no head office.
 
Tip: Only use capitals for the names of actual organisations, not for collective terms such as these.

​If a term is often known by initials, these are usually written as capitals. So, it’s tempting to use those capitals when writing it in full: we then end up with the likes of ‘Key Performance Indicator’ (KPI), ‘Customer Relationship Management’ (CRM) and ‘Private Finance Initiative’ (PFI). There’s a good reason for using capitals in a set of initials – it signals that they are initials, not letters in a word – but this is no reason to use them in the complete words as well.
 
Again, though, there is an exception. If you’re writing the words in full as a way of explaining the initials, it makes some sense to use the capitals to clarify this, for example: ‘a set of KPIs (Key Performance Indicators)’.
 
Tip: If a term is sometimes shortened as a series of capital initials, this doesn’t mean you should also use the capitals when writing it in full.

​You might have noticed that I haven’t said any of these capitals are wrong – only that they’re unnecessary. So, is there really a problem with using them?
 
Yes, I say. As with many other things in writing and editing, I suggest it’s more a question of doing what’s best for the reader, rather than relying on notions of right versus wrong.
 
The thing to remember about capitals is that they grab the reader’s attention. Sometimes this is a good thing – for example, to draw attention to a brand name. If you overuse them, though, they can clutter up the page, making it look too ‘busy’. The more things you draw attention to, the less attention they’ll get. Also, a capital can have a jarring effect if the reader isn't expecting it.
 
Additionally, unnecessary use of capitals can look pompous, perhaps amateurish. In marketing content and other business writing, it can make it look as though you’re screaming too loudly about your importance.
 
All in all, then, to help the reader along and to make the right impression: go easy with those capitals. 

​There might well be other common reasons for overuse of capitals. If you can think of any, or if you have any other thoughts on this topic, I’d be glad to hear from you …

Here in Editorworld, we keep coming back to thorny debates about what is or isn’t grammatically correct, and our attitudes to such questions.
 
We ponder split infinitives, dangling modifiers and participles, comma splices, starting a sentence with a conjunction, ending one with a preposition, using ‘less’ with a countable noun, the singular ‘they’, using ‘which’ with a restrictive clause, ‘people that’ as opposed to ‘people who’ …

​At the extremes, there are two schools of thought. On one side of the fence are the conservative prescriptivists, who swear by whatever they regard as The Rules of Grammar and love to scowl at anyone who breaks them.
 
Looking sceptically across that fence, often heard shouting ‘Pedant!’, are the more liberal descriptivists. They believe a language is defined by the way it’s actually used, not by how it supposedly should be used, and emphasise how English is continually evolving.
 
Most prescriptivists – other than little-known peevers ranting on social media and below-the-line message boards – seem to keep a low profile these days, journalist Simon Heffer being one of the exceptions.
 
Those of a more descriptivist bent are more visible. This year’s Society for Editors and Proofreaders conference featured talks from two eminent ones: Times columnist Oliver Kamm (with his Whitcombe Lecture) and linguist Geoff Pullum (‘Grammar myths: self-defence for copy-editors in a world of bad grammar advice’), both making a big impression. (Admittedly, I missed both of them: Kamm’s because I was several miles away getting my now annual conference injury looked at – a sprained finger joint, following last year’s cut arm – and Pullum’s because I’d seen him speak on a similar subject at the 2015 event.)

​Both sides, as I see it, have their fairly big flaws. The prescriptivists cling to ‘rules’ – cynics call them ‘zombie rules’ – of dubious validity. Some of these, such as not splitting infinitives, seem to be based on a silly over-reverence for Latin. And if there really are definite rules, who has the power to say what they are?
 
Meanwhile, the descriptivists seem to overlook the trouble that questionable grammar structures can cause, and rely too much on historical usage to justify their lenience. (If, say, we find that somebody wrote ‘could of’ in 1832, will that mean it’s just fine?) They like to cite works by the likes of William Shakespeare and Jane Austen, the idea being that if it was good enough for them, it’s good enough for us. But this is a spurious argument, as Kamm’s fellow journalist John Rentoul suggested in a debate with him: great wordsmiths can get away with using suspect grammar, as they have a knack for producing clear, elegant phrasing regardless. (Or is that ‘irregardless’? Only kidding.) Most of us don’t.

​So, what does all this mean for proofreaders and copy-editors? Perhaps the prescriptivist–descriptivist divide is relevant to proofreading, where the emphasis is on checking that the text is ‘correct’, whatever that might mean. We may often need to check with the customer about how to deal with debatable aspects of grammar.
 
When it comes to copy-editing, though, I see the argument as one great big red herring.
 
Why? Because the main purpose of copy-editing, surely, is to help the reader by ensuring readability, clarity and flow – not to follow a set of rules (OK, we’ll probably do that as well, to some extent – it just isn’t the primary point of what we do).
 
We try to give the text a sense of smoothness, avoiding anything that could make the reader pause for a moment and maybe have to read a sentence twice. By doing that, we also help our customer and/or author, by helping to get their meaning across smoothly.
 
Whether a particular structure or usage is ‘correct’ or ‘acceptable’ is beside the point. Even if we consider it ‘acceptable’, it still might be confusing, or at least have a momentary jarring effect on the reader – in which case, why use it? Whether I’m editing a business report or a footballer’s autobiography, I won’t ‘fix’ a split infinitive or a sentence beginning with ‘And’ unless my customer has asked me to follow such a rule.
 
But if I come across a ‘people that’ or a comma splice, I’ll change it – not because it’s ‘wrong’, but because I think the resulting text will read better. After all, isn’t that what we’re here for?

OPEN ALLDAY EVERYDAY
 
That’s the proud boast on this sign outside a pub near where I live. Literacy-shaming isn’t my thing, so I’ve masked out the pub’s name – but the sign is a fine example of a common pitfall.
 
Sadly, of those three words, only the first is right. The second isn’t a real word at all. The third is a word, but shouldn’t be used in this way. As Meat Loaf might say: two out of three ain’t bad, but one out of three is a bit poor. (Not that I want to put words into Meat’s mouth, or take them right out of it for that matter. I really hope some of you are getting these references.)
 
An everyday mistake
 
Let’s not dwell on ‘allday’, as this non-word is rarely seen. This usage of ‘everyday’, though, is an easy mistake to make, and it happens often.
 
When used correctly, the single word ‘everyday’ is an adjective, with a similar meaning to ‘commonplace’ or ‘regular’. It doesn’t literally mean that something happens every single day. For example:
 
Washing-up is an everyday chore.
These are everyday situations.
 
‘Chore’ and ‘situations’ are both nouns, described by the adjective ‘everyday’.
 
If we are saying that something happens, and that it literally happens each day, we need two words:
 
The pub is open every day.
Every day, he gets up at 7am and takes his dog for a walk.
 
The ‘every day’ in each of the above isn’t an adjective – it doesn’t describe a noun. It tells us something about a verb phrase (‘the pub is open’, ‘he gets up at 7am ...’), so it’s an adverbial (that is, a phrase that acts like an adverb).
 
How to get it right everytime (oops!)
 
Here’s a tip to help with getting this right. Imagine for a moment that the thing you’re writing about doesn’t happen each day, but with some other frequency instead. Would you write ‘everyhour’, ‘everyweek’ or (please, no!) ‘everyyear’? How about a pub sign saying ‘Open till midnight everyFriday’? None of these would be right, and it’s the same with ‘day’.
 
If we use the Oxford, Cambridge and Collins online dictionaries on a best-of-three basis, these are the only words beginning with ‘every’ that are recognised as standard UK English:
 
everybody
everyday
Everyman
everyone
everything
everywhere
Everywoman
 
A common thread among these words is that they generally have abstract meanings. ‘Everybody’ and ‘everyone’ mean ‘every person’, but we wouldn’t normally refer to a person as a ‘body’ or a ‘one’. As mentioned already, ‘everyday’ doesn’t literally mean that. ‘Everyman’ or ‘Everywoman’ represents a concept of the ‘average’ man or woman – not all men or women.
 
‘Everywhere’ can’t possibly mean ‘every where’, as it would make no sense: ‘where’ isn’t even a noun. Admittedly, ‘everything’ at least comes close to meaning ‘every thing’ – but it generally means a loosely defined mass of ‘stuff’, not a collection of individual things, whatever ‘thing’ might mean in the context.
 
Any time, any place, anywhere …
 
It’s a similar case with words that begin with ‘any’. Here’s a full list of recognised ‘anywords’ in UK English, chosen on the same basis as before:
 
anybody
anyhow
anyone
anything
anytime
anyway
anywhere
 
‘Anybody’ and ‘anyone’ are relatives of ‘everybody’ and ‘everyone’. ‘Anyhow’ (meaning the same as ‘anyway’) and ‘anywhere’ have the same quirk as ‘everywhere’ – the second part isn’t a noun. Meanwhile, ‘anyway’ itself is used in various, er, ways, none of which really means ‘any way’.
 
The one glaring exception is ‘anytime’, which basically does mean ‘any time’ – but the latter is usually preferred.

… There’s a wonderful world you can share
 
(OK, that’s enough of the cheesy throwbacks.)
 
It’s worth noting that none of the above dictionaries include ‘everytime’ or ‘anyday’ – not even as informal or US-only words. For US usage, the Merriam-Webster dictionary doesn’t list them either. They do crop up here and there, but are best avoided.
 
Got all that? Good. Time for a Martini …

We have one toilet which is out of action.
 
So said the announcer on a train I’d just boarded recently. What did he mean? Was there enough of a pause after ‘toilet’ to suggest a comma? Like this:
 
We have one toilet, which is out of action.
 
– meaning there was only one toilet, and it was out of action.
 
Or, less worryingly with a longish journey ahead, was there no discernible break in his speech? If there wasn’t, his announcement could have been interpreted as:
 
We have one toilet that is out of action.
 
– in other words, one of their toilets was out of action.
 
It soon became clear that he meant the latter. But why make us fret, even for 30 seconds?
 
Now, I’m not in the business of copy-editing the spoken words of railway staff – or anyone else – but this is a fine example of the difference between those two commonly confused words: ‘that’ and ‘which’. Some people think they’re interchangeable in this context, and there is some truth in that – but you should take care when using them, and, as we’ll soon see, when deciding whether to use a comma before your chosen word.
 
Grammatical lingo alert
 
When ‘that’ or ‘which’ is used in this way, it’s introducing either a restrictive (or defining) or a non-restrictive (or non-defining) clause. Understanding the difference between these is the key to getting this right.
 
A restrictive clause restricts (or defines) the scope of what we’re writing about. A non-restrictive clause, on the other hand, doesn’t do this – it just adds some information.
 
Let’s look at another example:
 
(a) They painted the doors that had just been fitted.
(b) They painted the doors, which had just been fitted.
 
Which doors did they paint? In (a), the statement applies to only some of the doors: the ones that had just been fitted. There might be other doors as well, but if so, the ‘that ...’ clause is excluding them from the statement – that’s why we call it a ‘restrictive’ clause.
 
The statement in (b), meanwhile, applies to all of the doors. The clause beginning with ‘which’ is just telling us something extra: ‘also, the doors had just been fitted’. It doesn’t restrict the scope of what we’re referring to, so it’s a non-restrictive clause. The first four words would be meaningful and correct by themselves, though less informative.
 
Careful with commas
 
The other key difference between (a) and (b) above is the use or non-use of a comma after ‘doors’. A comma – or a pause in speech – tells us that the clause is non-restrictive.
 
Similarly, if the clause is in the middle of a sentence, it should also be followed by a comma only if the clause is non-restrictive:
 
(a) The doors that had just been fitted were going to be painted.
(b) The doors, which had just been fitted, were going to be painted.
 
In (a), the clause beginning with ‘that’ is integral to the statement, so it shouldn’t be cordoned off with punctuation.
 
In contrast, the commas in (b) are used to enclose supplementary information; these are known as parenthetical commas. Parentheses (round brackets) or dashes could be used instead, though each of these three choices has a different effect in terms of emphasis.
 
Decision time
 
Now we come to the crunch. With a non-restrictive clause, ‘which’ should always be used, preceded by a comma. So we can’t have this, which would probably baffle the poor reader:
 
They painted the doors, that had just been fitted.
 
Instead, we need this, as we saw earlier:

They painted the doors, which had just been fitted.

With a restrictive clause, though, either ‘that’ or ‘which’ is considered acceptable, and it all hinges (following the door theme) on the presence or absence of a comma. These two sentences mean the same thing:
 
(a) They painted the doors that had just been fitted.
(b) They painted the doors which had just been fitted.
 
A verdict
 
So, does it matter whether we use ‘that’ or ‘which’ with a restrictive clause?
 
Some argue that it doesn’t, but I’m firmly in the ‘that’ camp. It’s common sense, not dogma: you can’t go wrong with ‘that’, but you can create at least a flicker of confusion by using ‘which’ – so why use it? Although the lack of a comma technically shows that the clause is restrictive, some readers might not be fully aware of this rule, or might not notice whether there’s a comma or not.
 
I would only make an exception where another ‘that’ is lurking nearby, just to reduce repetition, as in this:
 
They used red paint for all of the doors which weren’t already that colour.
 
At the risk of riling purists, though, I’d like to argue that it sometimes doesn’t particularly matter whether the clause is restrictive or not. So we could use any of the three forms, like here:
 
(a) They moved into a house that had just been renovated.
(b) They moved into a house which had just been renovated.
(c) They moved into a house, which had just been renovated.
 
Whichever version we use, there’s clearly only one house involved, and it’s clearly just been renovated – no ambiguity, and no real need to ponder over which version is best.
 
Not only but also …
 
The same issues arise with some other words and expressions, such as ‘who’, ‘where’ and ‘in which’. For example:
 
(a) She praised the staff who had worked hard.
(b) She praised the staff, who had worked hard.
 
In these cases, we don’t have a choice of wording, and the humble comma can make a big difference, as it does above. We can only hope that the reader will understand the difference it makes.
 
Summing up
 
As usual in writing and editing, we should be helping the reader by making things as clear and unambiguous as we can.
 
Just because a word is ‘acceptable’ in the context, that doesn’t make it a good choice. This applies to the ‘that’ vs ‘which’ debate as much as to anything else.

​What’s the difference between copy-editing and proofreading? It’s a question that we’re often asked, as Sara Donaldson (Northern Editorial) pointed out in a recent(ish) blog post.
 
It’s important that the editor or proofreader and client are both clear about various aspects of what’s going to be done. One of these is the level of intervention: will we just be fixing errors, or also tweaking the wording, maybe rewriting the odd sentence? If we find something that’s unclear, will we fix it or just point it out?

What we do for publishers

In the world of publishing, it’s all pretty clear-cut. A copy-editor works with the manuscript (the copy) – usually a Word document nowadays – that the author has provided, and typically needs to do the following:

• make sure the spelling, grammar, punctuation and referencing are correct
• check that the content is complete, clear, readable, in the right style and suited to its target audience
• query the author about anything that needs clarification
• use ‘tags’ or Word styles to mark up various elements (headings, lists, pictures, etc.).

 
After copy-editing, the manuscript goes to a typesetter, who converts it into the format that’s needed for publication. The result is what we call the proof – usually a PDF file. This is then passed to a proofreader, who has two main jobs:

• check the content for any errors that the copy-editor might have missed or created
• check that the typesetting has worked correctly, i.e. everything is formatted the right way.

 
(The proofreader doesn’t correct anything directly, but just indicates things that should be changed or at least reconsidered.)

On the other hand ...

That’s all very well when we’re working for publishers. They know what copy-editing and proofreading are, and they (and we) know what needs to be done at each stage.
 
When it comes to other types of clients, though – businesses, researchers, students, independent authors and so on – it doesn’t usually work that way. They normally want just one person to work on their material, whether it’s in Word, PDF or any other format. But should they ask for copy-editing, proofreading, some sort of hybrid, or something else altogether?
 
As I see it, this problem is all down to wording (something that we should be good at!). When we advertise ourselves as ‘copy-editors’ and/or ‘proofreaders’ to clients such as these, we’re thrusting publishing jargon into the faces of people who aren’t publishers. It’s no wonder that they’re often a bit puzzled. And when we then try to explain it, this can seem condescending.
 
Instead, why don’t we use words that will make sense to them in the first place?

Breaking it down

Let’s look at the basic words that make up these terms: ‘copy’, ‘edit’, ‘proof’ and ‘read’.
 
This use of ‘copy’ – meaning a piece of writing – means something to journalists (‘filing copy’) and marketers (‘the copy for the website’) as well as publishers, but might draw blank stares from most other people.
 
As for ‘proof’, they might wonder what it’s proof of – guilt, purchase, pudding? ‘Read’ is suspect as well: I’m sure most clients will want us to correct the text, not just read it. (Also, we often do so-called ‘proofreading’ on a Word document, which isn’t really a proof.)
 
‘Edit’, however, does have a relevant meaning in the wider world. It suggests changing the content, bringing it up to a higher standard. I think we should keep this one.

So, here’s my idea

As an experiment, at least, I’m going to offer three levels of service to non-publishers:
 
Level 1: Error check

• fixing errors and inconsistencies in spelling, grammar, punctuation and referencing
• highlighting anything that seems unclear

 
Level 2: Light edit

• fixing errors and inconsistencies in spelling, grammar, punctuation and referencing
• rewording and/or querying anything that seems unclear
• making sure the content follows the required style

 
Level 3: Full edit

• fixing errors and inconsistencies in spelling, grammar, punctuation and referencing
• rewording some sentences to improve coherence, readability and flow
• making sure the content follows the required style and is suited to its target audience

 
Level 1 is what we might call ‘proofreading’, although, as mentioned earlier, it might well be done in Word. Level 3 is effectively copy-editing, while Level 2 is, unsurprisingly, part way between the two: it’s sometimes known as ‘proof-editing’ (another misnomer, sadly).
 
I’ve listed these on the ‘What I do’ page of my website, and I’m considering doing so in other places, such as online directories.
 
It isn’t quite that simple, though. I don’t want to eliminate the terms ‘copy-editing’ and ‘proofreading’ from my marketing material altogether. Publishers will be looking for people who can do those jobs, Non-publishing clients often think they’re looking for a ‘proofreader’, even if their actual needs don’t fit with that word’s traditional meaning (as demonstrated by the success of the Find a Proofreader website).
 
So, at least for now, I’m a copy-editor and proofreader who offers (a) copy-editing or proofreading to publishers and (b) an error check, light edit or full edit to everyone else. I hope this will be at least a bit clearer.

One of the most valuable things about the Society for Editors and Proofreaders (SfEP) is its network of local groups – a great way for members to get away from their desks, meet some like-minded souls, and swap ideas and advice.
 
Towards the end of 2015, a volunteer was needed to become the next coordinator for the Manchester group. Having been in the group for a couple of years, I felt settled in and was tempted to step forward – but also felt slightly uneasy about some aspects of the role, especially chairing meetings. Then, though, I went to my first SfEP conference and came away full of positive thinking: ‘Yes,’ I thought, ‘I’ll do it’. So I did.
 
I wanted to keep up the good work of my predecessors, Louise Bolotin (who had founded the group, and was helped by Paula Clarke Bain) and Tammi Merrell. I didn’t have any big changes in mind, but the group was quite small, typically with between six and ten attendees at the meetings, and I hoped to expand it.
 
So, well before arranging my first meeting as coordinator, I searched for potential recruits on the SfEP’s member list, and considered also looking for non-members through social media. But, before I had gone as far as contacting anyone, along came a flurry of emails from prospective newbies, and I put the recruitment drive on hold – probably for good, as it turns out.
 
At that meeting, in January 2016, there were fourteen of us – far more than ever before. It was a strange day: I started it feeling nervous about chairing the meeting – especially with such a big turnout expected – but was soon knocked sideways by the news of David Bowie’s passing, and hardly even thought about the meeting until I went to Manchester in the evening. The nerves had subsided by the time it started. (A year later, I chaired a meeting a few hours after getting some health news of my own that gave me plenty to think about – nothing life-threatening, though.)
 
There were only nine people at the next meeting, in April – more like the old days – but we then had twelve on a sweltering night in July. We were using a small, semi-secluded room in a large bar, which was ideal for the numbers we’d had before (except for the background noise of chatter, music and tinkling glasses, which could be a minor problem), but was now starting to get crowded.
 
This created a dilemma: I wanted to do something about the crowding, but certainly didn’t want to discourage people from going. Luckily, the same venue has a ‘Boardroom’ upstairs, which the management are now allowing us to use free of charge (on the understanding that we’ll spend a reasonable amount at the bar). We now have a table with space for fourteen, or more if we spread out (and there are plenty of spare chairs), and no background noise to speak of. Since moving to our plush new accommodation, we’ve had turnouts of fourteen in October and twelve this January.
 
Even these numbers don’t reflect the growth in interest in the group since the autumn of 2015. The invitation list (including non-members of the SfEP) has nearly trebled in size, from 17 to 47. I’m not claiming any credit for this – I don’t think it can be attributed to anything I’ve done other than responding to, and keeping track of, all those who have shown an interest. I’d like to think it reflects the good health that the SfEP is in, especially as it embarks on its drive for chartership.
 
So, what exactly does a local group coordinator do? There are, of course, the meetings (quarterly in our case):

• booking the room
• setting the agenda
• sending out an invitation
• keeping track of who says they’ll attend, who sends apologies and who actually does attend
• taking and distributing the minutes.

I also feel a responsibility to make every newcomer feel welcome and involved, though this is quite a challenge when there are around six or seven making their first appearance all at once.
 
Another part of the role – quite a big one over the last year or so – is to respond to initial contact from new people, usually members or prospective members of the SfEP who are interested in attending the next meeting.
 
I also

• keep a list of people who’ve attended meetings, or at least expressed an interest in doing so
• moderate the group’s online forum and encourage people to use it
• give the SfEP’s community director a monthly update
• provide occasional updates for the group’s page on the SfEP website
• run our Twitter account (not very well)
• occasionally arrange other events such as a Christmas get-together.

 
​This doesn’t all have to be done by one person: the duties can be shared with other group members, and some groups have two or more co-coordinators(?). Also, the range of activities can vary between different groups.
 
Being a group coordinator has been very rewarding and enjoyable, and a nice challenge. It’s good to feel that I’m contributing to the SfEP, hopefully encouraging newcomers to sign up, and helping SfEP colleagues – who happen to be a really good bunch of people – to reap some of the benefits from their membership. To anyone who is thinking about becoming a coordinator, I would say: if you have a bit of time to spare and some half-decent organisational skills, and aren’t thoroughly terrified at the prospect of chairing meetings (which isn’t as scary as you might think), why not give it a go?

​While reading a George Orwell essay a few years ago, I was momentarily thrown by a mention of ‘the nineties’. Was he already looking beyond 1984? It soon dawned on me that he meant the 1890s – a decade that was fairly recent in his day, but now seems far behind us.
 
Editors and linguists often talk about how elements of the English language evolve over time as a result of social change, migration, technology and so on. Well, here’s one that sometimes has to change purely because of the passage of time.
 
For the best part of a century, we had handy names for decades: the twenties, the fifties, the seventies – right up to the nineties. Of course, people began to associate them with certain trends in various spheres, such as fashion, music and social attitudes: the Roaring Twenties, the Swinging Sixties.
 
The first two decades of the twentieth century (as with any other) didn’t lend themselves to handy labels: ‘the 1900s’ could be taken to mean 1900 to 1999, and ‘the 1910s’ has a certain awkwardness because its pronunciation – ‘the nineteen-tens’ – bears little relation to the names of its individual years. Later, though, people got used to omitting the ‘nineteen’ part in less formal contexts: hence ‘the twenties’ and so on.
 
This was all very neat and tidy until we hit 2000. Suddenly, we were in another era of apparently nondescript decades. Few people seem to be interested in distinguishing between the 2000s and the 2010s, or in associating these decades with trends. No doubt this is largely because they lack catchy names (‘the noughties’ and ‘the teenies’ were suggested, but, thankfully, never really caught on), but it might also be a hangover from the impact of reaching ‘The Year 2000’. After such a dramatic change in the year number, with all four digits changing at once, perhaps decades seemed less important than before. Have we got out of the habit of affording importance to them?
 
It won’t be long before this is put to the test. In just a few years it will be the twenties all over again; soon, to some extent or other, people will start looking ahead to that decade.
 
For those of us who write, edit or proofread for a living, and those who manage the style guides that we follow, this will present a new challenge. How ambiguous will ‘the twenties’ be? Should we refer long-windedly to the ‘1920s’ and ‘2020s’, or even – where the style rules demand the use of words – the ‘nineteen-twenties’ and ‘twenty-twenties’, to prevent any possible confusion? Will these twenties roar or just whimper?
 
Twenty years ago, there was no real problem with the term ‘the nineties’, as the 1890s were rarely mentioned by anyone who wasn’t reading from an Orwell essay; but the 1920s – a period of radio, films and wild dancing – still seem quite familiar today. A simple reference to ‘the twenties’ might conjure up that decade in the reader’s mind, unless the context makes the correct meaning instantly obvious.
 
Meanwhile, roll on the (twenty-)twenties …

The first in a (possible?) series of posts about issues that often crop up in the work of ESL (English as a Second Language) writers.
 
I recently found a sentence similar to this, in a research paper written by an ESL author:
 
In case a new best solution is found, the search begins again, based on this new solution.
 
The intended meaning of ‘In case’ was actually ‘If’, like this:
 
If a new best solution is found, the search begins again, based on this new solution.
 
What’s the difference? In UK English, there is a clear distinction: ‘if’ is used for a conditional statement, while ‘in case’ indicates something that is done as a precaution.
 
Let’s look at another example:
 
If it’s raining, I’ll take my umbrella.
 
This is conditional. It means I will check the weather before I leave; then, if it’s raining, I will take my umbrella. If it isn’t raining, I won’t take it.
 
Compare that with this:
 
I’ll take my umbrella, in case it starts raining later.
 
This means I’m being cautious: I’ll definitely take my umbrella, whatever the weather is like when I leave, because it might rain later.
 
In US English, ‘in case’ can mean the same as ‘if’, but this is quite unusual. To avoid confusion, whenever you mean ‘if’, it seems sensible to use that word.
 
By the way, if you do use ‘in case’ for either of these meanings, it must be two words: ‘incase’ is a variation of the verb ‘encase’, which is completely unrelated to all of this.