The Compulsive Copyeditor

January 30, 2010

You Never Know Where That Word Has Been!

Filed under: Uncategorized — amba12 @ 5:04 pm

TABLOID. You hear it and you think sleazy paparazzi, exposé journalism, tattling for cash. The word itself sounds tacky, phony, and creepy — the “-oid” suffix connotes something that resembles the form of something else but isn’t it, is a little off:  an “android” is a lifelike robot, and a “tabloid” is a newspaperlike scandal sheet. Like a man in a dirty tan raincoat you know you could catch a disease just by standing next to, the word “tabloid” makes you feel the cheap black ink come off on your hands.

Yet you probably know that “tabloid,” applied to a publication, originally meant simply the smaller-format, easier-to-read, workingman’s newspaper that didn’t have an aristocratic fold for infra dig stories to be dismissed below.  Unlike broadsheets, tabloids were democratic, both socially and psychologically:  they had no “upstairs, downstairs.”  No one’s sordid doings were off limits, and the natural human interest in sordid doings was itself lifted up out of the dark basement of the psyche and given space to accord with its power.  If “humiliate” literally means to bring the high and mighty down to earth (humus), the tabs weren’t going to wait for death to do it.  They were the great levelers.

The associations that attach to a word are, of course, in large part a matter of chance and free association, picked up on the word’s seed-on-the wind, tool-passed-from-hand-to-hand travels (though sound plays a nonrandom role).  Only retroactively, through use, do those flavors of experience and milieu become part of the word’s aura.  Yet they are so vivid to our brains that they seem natural, necessary, and permanent.  It’s unsettling to discover how far a word has traveled to arrive at its seemingly self-evident place in our world.  If asked to speculate on “TABLOID”‘s derivation, I ‘d have proposed “tablet,” in the sense of a stone or clay slab with markings incised on it.  I found out by accident yesterday where the word really comes from.  I would never have guessed.


When Silas Burroughs invited Henry Wellcome to join him in business in London in 1879, modern drug production was an undeveloped field. …

Over 20 years previously, the British artist and explorer William Brockedon, exasperated by the poor quality of the graphite in the pencils he used for his sketches, had invented a mechanised method of crushing graphite to a fine powder then compressing it to produce better-quality lead. In 1843, he was granted a patent for his invention, and the drug firm John Wyeth and Brother hired him to make compressed medicines using the same technique.

The compressed pills made by Brockedon’s machine offered a much safer, standardised dose than medicines prepared by pestle and mortar, and soon became popular. Other American manufacturers jumped on the bandwagon and attempted to improve production methods. …

Across the Atlantic, things were very different. There were few manufacturing drug companies in England, very few medicines were produced on a large scale, and pharmacists still used the traditional, time-consuming and less precise pestle-and-mortar method to prepare medicines. …

Here was a virgin market, and Burroughs – who was Wyeth’s sole agent in London and had been importing and marketing pharmaceuticals since 1878 – realised that he might be able to make his fortune by importing the compressed pills and marketing them in England and Europe. He wrote to Wellcome to invite him to join the venture. …

Heavy stamp duty on imports from America made importing the pills costly, so the partners took another novel step – at a time when there were few manufacturing pharmacists in Britain – in deciding to manufacture their own pills.

In 1883, they purchased their first factory at Bell Lane Wharf in Wandsworth, and Wellcome bought the machinery needed for making compressed medicine tablets from Wyeth in America to produce pills for the British and European markets. By 1882 Burroughs Wellcome & Co. were up and running as drug manufacturers, and by his 30th birthday Wellcome was a wealthy man.

The company’s compressed drugs were an instant success in Britain, and Burroughs and Wellcome soon needed a bigger factory. They purchased the Phoenix Paper Mills site at Dartford, and used Thames barges for transport. This site remained the firm’s production centre until the 1980s.

In 1888, frustrated by the limitations of Wyeth’s machine, which was slow and unreliable, Wellcome put together a team of engineers to design a better one. The result was machinery that could produce 600 compressed pills per minute, each pill bearing an unprecedented standard of precision and giving Burroughs Wellcome & Co. a clear lead over their competitors.

The British competition soon woke up to the success of Burroughs Wellcome & Co., and other manufacturers began to make imitations of compressed convenience products.

To eliminate the competition, in 1884, Wellcome registered as a trademark one of the most famous and powerful brand names in business history, ‘Tabloid’ – a word he coined by blending the words ‘tablet’ and ‘alkaloid’ – to denote his firm’s pills.

Over the next few years Burroughs Wellcome & Co. fought and won legal battles to prevent other firms using the same name. In 1904 Burroughs Wellcome & Co. v. Thompson & Capper made history as the ‘Tabloid’ case. The prosecution argued that doctors prescribed ‘tabloid’ products because they had faith in the purity and accuracy of Burroughs Wellcome & Co products. And the judge ruled that ‘tabloid’ specifically referred to the products of that firm.

Not only did the ‘Tabloid’ brand name prevent the competition from taking a slice of the market, its associations with quality and precision also made it an effective marketing tool. The name was applied to the full range of the company’s products, including ‘Tabloid’ first aid kits and medicine chests, the ‘Tabloid’ photographic developer and even ‘Tabloid’ Tea.

The term has now passed into general use to mean anything in compact form, in particular a ‘condensed’ newspaper format. But it is still technically the property of Burroughs Wellcome & Co.


January 18, 2010

The Thrill of Anonymity

Filed under: Uncategorized — amba12 @ 1:43 pm

When I began working again as a copy editor, it was on a freelance basis, and I was simply — and for all I knew, temporarily — one of several taking turns filling the shoes of a long-timer who’d quit to go back to grad school in her 50s.  So when I was addressed as “Copy” in footnote conferences, it made sense:  the role was being addressed, regardless of who was in it.

But the job and I were such a good fit that within a few months I was “Copy Chief,” on the masthead, and handling nearly all the copy editing and fact checking.  To distinguish between the two roles (which are quite distinct, and cannot be done well simultaneously — when focusing on one, you’ll miss cues on the other), I continued to label my footnotes either “FC” or “CE” (or occasionally “FC/CE”).  Very rarely do I “come out” as myself, AG, and “break the frame,” as actors say when they step out of character and address the audience or camera directly.  The editors, of course, know perfectly well who I am, and they’ll sometimes address me by name in the footnotes.  (They use their personal initials to label theirs, which is useful because each is in charge of specific articles.)  But out of habit and a kind of guild tradition, they often still address me as “Copy” — and it never fails to give me a small thrill.

Why is this?  In our individualistic, attention-craving age, it seems almost masochistic. Well, let’s see.

When I began working with this crew, I took great pleasure in having colleagues again (writing is lonely work, editing much less so), and in the shop-floor talk of the ancient and honorable editing guild, which dates back at least to Gutenberg.  Editing is not the elite occupation you might think; it’s much more like being an auto mechanic.  The nuts and bolts and parts of language are dismantled and handled with an unsentimental focus on their eventual smooth functioning.  Much more than a writer, who (I should know) is often tempted to show off, you want your work not to show.  So there’s a funny blue-collar feel about the editing give-and-take that is very refreshing.  It feels like “real” work, with hands and tools, almost as material and hand-dirtying as typesetting.  (I wonder if the same people used to do both.)

Copy editing in particular is a supremely self-effacing job, and there is a satisfaction in vanishing into the role that feels ancient.  I can only explain by lapsing into medieval craft-guild analogies.

I naturally overstep the bounds of the role at times, straying into the more subjective and qualitative province of line editing.  I’m good at this, but it’s not my job, and thank God — I don’t want the responsibility, just now.  I took real pains to reassure my colleagues that I have zero attachment to my suggestions.  I won’t hold them back in case they might be deemed useful, but I will not get my nose out of joint if they’re not.  The result is that sometimes my fixes are accepted (rather than resented).  When they are, I feel a secret satisfaction in fellowship with one of the anonymous stoneworkers on Chartres Cathedral, looking up and being the only one ever to know, “I carved the left nostril on that gargoyle!”  And put a little extra flair into the flare.

Blog at