Here’s an editorial issue I’ve been dodging for decades. Right there, did you see it? There it is again. Two spaces between sentences.
Years ago I was taught that one types an extra space at the end of a sentence. On, you know, a typewriter. Never seen one of those? It’s a gadget we used in the olden days, kind of like an abacus, ok? I’ve been typing extra spaces ever since. So ingrained is the habit I’m not sure I could quit. And I think it makes a block of text easier to read.
But now, since I’m going to be the Editor rather than the Editee, I can no longer fall back on my writer’s prerogative. I will have to repent my sins and follow the Big Orange Bible, and the BOB says no extra spaces. Can I enforce the rule on other authors when I’m merrily extra-spacing my way through my own pieces?
I will now try to type a paragraph without extra spaces. There, I did it once. Twice. But it feels wrong, friends, wrong. I may forget or backslide. Those little blank spots, two roomy spaces wide, may show up in my dreams, calling out their comfy temptations. Come on, they’ll whisper, don’t your words deserve a little elbow room? What prose could breathe under those conditions?
Pray for me.