Texas Chainsaw Massacre was really good, too.
As a copy editor, it's my job to be hyper–detail-oriented. If there's an extra space between words, I have to find it and close it up; if a period after an italicized word isn't italicized as well, I have to be able to spot it and fix the font; if a dangling participle dangles or a person is a that, I have to de-dangle and who-ify. Also, I have to enjoy the word dangle because it's a little dirty.
So it's no surprise that office conversation can border on the crazy where specifics are involved. I'm afraid I got a little carried away on Friday during a battle of semantics, so feel free to tell me if I should have backed down instead of digging in my heels, all petulant and snobby. I present to you The Crazy:
EDITOR: So, I see that you changed zombies to predators.
RESEARCH EDITOR: Yes. Because in this case, they're not zombies.
EDITOR: Why not?
RESEARCH EDITOR: Because zombies are people who die and come back to life. These characters don't die first.
ME: [eavesdropping] Yeah. They're definitely not zombies.
EDITOR: Are people going to know the difference?
ME: Absolutely. Horror-movie junkies are hard-core about the difference between zombies and mutants.
EDITOR: But I feel like if we use predators, people are going to think of pterodactyls or something.
REPORTER: I agree.
ME: That's fine, but we just can't use zombies. They're not zombies. That's what made 28 Days Later so great, that they were people who got infected and mutated. They were still alive.
EDITOR: OK, so can we find some reviews of 28 Days Later and see what we called those characters?
RESEARCH EDITOR: In the movie, they called them "the infected." Or we can call them mutants.
EDITOR: [pauses, thinking] I'd really prefer to call them zombies. I just think it's more clear.
ME: [becoming smug and bratty] My husband is a horror-movie junkie. I just know that they're not zombies. They haven't died.
EDITOR: [calmly] Let's just see what the reviews said.
ME: [walking away, immature, singing quietly to self] They're not zommmmbies ...
First of all, it's good to know that even tedious office arguments are hugely entertaining here because, when it comes down to it, we're nitpicking nomenclature of the undead. This type of conversation is not uncommon where I work. (You should have seen what went down when I tried to delete the word oversize before the word ogre, calling it redundant. I had to forfeit that fight, as I was clearly torturing the editor.)
Second, I admit I took the whole conversation a little personally, because I can't live with who I live with and allow zombie to get into the magazine if the character is not, in fact, a zombie. Josh is a to-the-bone horror-movie fanatic (you should see the titles of the movies he has in his collection — Blood-Sucking Pharaohs of Pittsburgh, anyone?) and he has spent years trying to show me the wonder that is gore. It's not that I don't appreciate the genre; it's that I get so stressed out when I'm scared that I find it nearly impossible to enjoy these movies — except for a few, 28 Days Later being one of them. But I do listen to his proselytizing, so if I had backed down, it would have been as if I haven't learned anything. I would have failed my husband's teachings, and I'd probably never be allowed in the house ever again. More important, appearing as if I have not taken interest in his bloodlust would derail all the Duran Duran Appreciation Efforts I direct toward him, and I just can't have that. After eight years of attempted brainwashing, I kind of, sort of, won: He finally offered to go to one of their concerts with me; I'm not about to toss that kind of success out the window.
"You fought the good fight," the research editor said to me afterward.
"Power," I said.
And really, it's not as if I don't see where the editor was coming from. Generally, when one thinks of the undead, one thinks of zombies. But then my freakish copy-editor brain kicks in, and if someone isn't technically undead ...
This is when being a copy editor is dangerous. We are such specific people — specific-minded, specific in temperament, specific in talent. And it takes a specific type of person not to want to strangle us when we put up our dukes over an em-dash or a colon ... or a mutant. But I think I speak for all copy editors when I say this: We may be nitpicky, but we're never wrong. Never ever ever never. We're always right. And beautiful. And engaging at cocktail parties. And rich.
In any case, for as often as I say, "Pick and choose your battles," you'd think I, uh, would. But lately I find that I don't think so much before I assemble my soapbox and then throw it at a crowd. I think it's all about how, when I'm wiping out in a wave of a prolonged period of stress, I just don't want anybody messing with me, even about little things like zombies and ogres. (Perhaps because, during prolonged periods of stress, I begin to resemble both.)
Just don't call me a zombie. Unless I actually am one. And then, you know, whoo, boy.
So it's no surprise that office conversation can border on the crazy where specifics are involved. I'm afraid I got a little carried away on Friday during a battle of semantics, so feel free to tell me if I should have backed down instead of digging in my heels, all petulant and snobby. I present to you The Crazy:
EDITOR: So, I see that you changed zombies to predators.
RESEARCH EDITOR: Yes. Because in this case, they're not zombies.
EDITOR: Why not?
RESEARCH EDITOR: Because zombies are people who die and come back to life. These characters don't die first.
ME: [eavesdropping] Yeah. They're definitely not zombies.
EDITOR: Are people going to know the difference?
ME: Absolutely. Horror-movie junkies are hard-core about the difference between zombies and mutants.
EDITOR: But I feel like if we use predators, people are going to think of pterodactyls or something.
REPORTER: I agree.
ME: That's fine, but we just can't use zombies. They're not zombies. That's what made 28 Days Later so great, that they were people who got infected and mutated. They were still alive.
EDITOR: OK, so can we find some reviews of 28 Days Later and see what we called those characters?
RESEARCH EDITOR: In the movie, they called them "the infected." Or we can call them mutants.
EDITOR: [pauses, thinking] I'd really prefer to call them zombies. I just think it's more clear.
ME: [becoming smug and bratty] My husband is a horror-movie junkie. I just know that they're not zombies. They haven't died.
EDITOR: [calmly] Let's just see what the reviews said.
ME: [walking away, immature, singing quietly to self] They're not zommmmbies ...
First of all, it's good to know that even tedious office arguments are hugely entertaining here because, when it comes down to it, we're nitpicking nomenclature of the undead. This type of conversation is not uncommon where I work. (You should have seen what went down when I tried to delete the word oversize before the word ogre, calling it redundant. I had to forfeit that fight, as I was clearly torturing the editor.)
Second, I admit I took the whole conversation a little personally, because I can't live with who I live with and allow zombie to get into the magazine if the character is not, in fact, a zombie. Josh is a to-the-bone horror-movie fanatic (you should see the titles of the movies he has in his collection — Blood-Sucking Pharaohs of Pittsburgh, anyone?) and he has spent years trying to show me the wonder that is gore. It's not that I don't appreciate the genre; it's that I get so stressed out when I'm scared that I find it nearly impossible to enjoy these movies — except for a few, 28 Days Later being one of them. But I do listen to his proselytizing, so if I had backed down, it would have been as if I haven't learned anything. I would have failed my husband's teachings, and I'd probably never be allowed in the house ever again. More important, appearing as if I have not taken interest in his bloodlust would derail all the Duran Duran Appreciation Efforts I direct toward him, and I just can't have that. After eight years of attempted brainwashing, I kind of, sort of, won: He finally offered to go to one of their concerts with me; I'm not about to toss that kind of success out the window.
"You fought the good fight," the research editor said to me afterward.
"Power," I said.
And really, it's not as if I don't see where the editor was coming from. Generally, when one thinks of the undead, one thinks of zombies. But then my freakish copy-editor brain kicks in, and if someone isn't technically undead ...
This is when being a copy editor is dangerous. We are such specific people — specific-minded, specific in temperament, specific in talent. And it takes a specific type of person not to want to strangle us when we put up our dukes over an em-dash or a colon ... or a mutant. But I think I speak for all copy editors when I say this: We may be nitpicky, but we're never wrong. Never ever ever never. We're always right. And beautiful. And engaging at cocktail parties. And rich.
In any case, for as often as I say, "Pick and choose your battles," you'd think I, uh, would. But lately I find that I don't think so much before I assemble my soapbox and then throw it at a crowd. I think it's all about how, when I'm wiping out in a wave of a prolonged period of stress, I just don't want anybody messing with me, even about little things like zombies and ogres. (Perhaps because, during prolonged periods of stress, I begin to resemble both.)
Just don't call me a zombie. Unless I actually am one. And then, you know, whoo, boy.
Labels: dirty, grammar, pop culture, the hubs, work
posted by Marla at 1:35 PM
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