I'm Mike Pope. I live in the Seattle area. I've been a technical writer and editor for over 30 years. I'm interested in software, language, music, movies, books, motorcycles, travel, and ... well, lots of stuff.

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When the Sun-Times appointed me film critic, I hadn't taken a single film course. One of the reasons I started teaching was to teach myself.

Roger Ebert


<February 2018>




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Updated every 30 minutes. Last: 12:43 PM Pacific

  08:07 AM

I decided to add numbers to the titles of these posts. I might go back and change the older ones when I'm avoiding something that's actually important.

The new-to-me word is a somewhat obscure terms that John McIntyre might select someday for one of his "In a word" columns. The word is pelf, which I ran across in one of those fancy magazines that we have in big stacks around here. Pelf is defined as "money" or "wealth," but has a connotation that the riches were acquired "by reprehensible means," to quote one dictionary. The example sentence I found it in talked about "Trump family pelf."

It's an old word, which might not be surprising. We got it from French in the Middle Ages, and its first sense was "stolen goods" or "booty, spoil." So we can see where the negative connotation came from.

Update On Twitter, Edward Banatt notes that pelf is related to the verb pilfer.

Because I was curious about why I had apparently not seen this word before, I looked in the COCA corpus to see how common it is. Not very: as a noun (as opposed to a proper name), pelf appears 5 times out of 560 million words. And it's been on the decline since the 1800s. Perhaps circumstances will make the term newly popular again, who knows.

Unexpected etymology comes this week from a conversation we had at work the other day. We were talking about ancient Greece for some reason, and colleague Jay said, "People from Attica are 'Attic.' So where do you suppose the word for the storage space comes from?"

Well. This is why you keep bookmarks to dictionaries in your browser. Way much to my surprise, the name for the area under your roof—sometimes also called the garret—is in fact related to the Attics, the people whose capital was Athens.

The link is via architecture. It helps to know that attic was originally the attic story, where story refers to the floor of a building. (See #89 for more on story.) In the Attic style of architecture, the façade might feature a small structural element (an "order") placed above another, much taller element. Like this, thank you Wikipedia:

The name of this small story came to be applied to the space that it enclosed, and then was generalized to mean any space directly under a roof. So we go from classic architecture to the place to shove your Christmas decorations and unused sports equipment. What do you suppose the ancient Greeks called their version of the space for all that extra junk?

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  12:03 AM

We had a jolly talk about the word impactful on Twitter earlier this week. I think some of the people in that discussion are still speaking to me, but maybe not many.

Today's new-to-me term combines seasonal appropriateness (it's winter, hey) with a topic that I'm perennially interested in: traffic. The word is sneckdown, which requires some explanation.

First, a neckdown is one of several words for an area that extends the sidewalk into the street. Other words for this are curb bulge, curb extension, pinchpoints, bump-out, and bulb-outs. Here's a picture:

Neckdowns are traffic calming devices, and they also reduce the distance that pedestrians have to traverse while crossing the street. In case you were wondering (I was), the neck in neckdown comes from the narrowing or "neck" formed by the bulges. According to one dictionary, this was originally a verb: to neck down, i.e., to narrow down.

So what's a sneckdown? This is a blend of snow + neckdown. It turns out that snowfall provides a kind of laboratory for the design of neckdowns. Snowplows tend to pile up snow along the sides of the road, and especially at corners. This results in ephemeral neckdowns—they melt away, obviously—but while they exist, they not only form curb bulges, but they provide visual indicators about where cars actually drive. (A conclusion that traffic planners can draw from sneckdowns is that cars actually need less room in the roadway than they are often granted.) Here's a lovely image of a sneckdown:

I don't remember where I saw this term, but it was probably on social media during a snowstorm in the last few weeks. The word was invented in 2014 as a hashtag by an urban planner who wanted a name for this naturally occurring traffic alteration.

I don't think I'll ever look at snow on the street quite the same way again.

Delightful origins. I was reading an article the other day about Tina Brown, who helmed (ha) a series of magazines around the turn of the century, including Vanity Fair and The New Yorker. A throwaway comment in the article led me to the etymology of the word magazine itself.

Presumably when we hear "magazine," most of us think of the colorful publications we stare at while standing in line at the grocery store. If we have experience with guns, we might also think about the thing that holds cartridges (bullets[1]) for a pistol or automatic weapon. If we were in the military in an earlier time, we might also think about the room where we kept all our gunpowder.

Oddly, these senses are all related. You can see how a room for keeping gunpowder can evolve into the device for holding bullets: a storehouse for munitions. But People magazine? Also a storehouse, but this time for information. The term was applied to a periodical in the 1700s; before that, it was used in book titles to indicate a work that was a collection of information about a subject.

We in English got the term from French, where it appeared in the 1400s; there's an Italian version (magazzino) from the 1300s. A fun fact is that the word originates in Arabic, also as a word for storehouse. (This evolved in Spanish to almacén, "warehouse.") One might ask why we needed to borrow a word for something that surely existed long before the Middle Ages, but on that subject I have no information.

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[1] Yes, I realize that this is imprecise.

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  11:41 PM

February, finally. We had a bug in one of our internal tools at work that caused February to disappear, but some quick work by one of the writers saved the month just in time! PS Happy Groundhog Day.

Facebook Friend Doug recently posted something that alerted me to an emerging danger on American streets. Should you be worried? Maybe, if you're a petextrian: someone who texts while walking. (pedestrian + texting, right?) This term is older than I would have guessed—the first (only) entry in Urban Dictionary is from 2009, and that's hardly guaranteed to be the oldest attestation. Not that the idea of a pedestrian glued to their smartphone is surprising, or was as soon as texting was available.

For that matter, the idea of pedestrians being oblivious goes waaaay back: jaywalking— someone who "walks jay"—goes back pretty much as far as cars. And who can forget that delightful German children's story about "Hans-guck-in-die-Luft" (often translated as Johnny-look-in-the-air), a boy who walks around staring at the sky. Since this is a German children's story, it of course has a bad ending, for young Hans walks straight into the river and loses his books. (Compared to some of the other children in the story collection, he got off easy.)

Another new-to-me term (but old news to the younger set) came up in a news story recently about a woman who was booted out of college for posting a racist video on her Instagram [account]. It's possible she thought this wouldn't be widely seen because she posted it on her finsta. This refers to a "fake+Instagram+account," a more-private account that's supposed to be just for close friends. One article notes that "The birth of the Finsta can be traced to the time period between the generational hijacking of Facebook and Instagram and the generational adoption of SnapChat." (The birth of young people doing dumb things goes back considerably longer than that.)

As a bonus, the article asserts that the more-public account is a rinstagram, for "real Instagram." According to local sources (i.e., daughters), the term is real insta or rinsta. These same local sources also alerted me to the sinsta, where people post nude/drug photos (or "scandalous photos," as UD has it), a compound of sin+[In]sta[gram]. One of the daughters summarized it this way: "Instas (or rinstas) are for photos, finstas are for double lives, and sinstas are for confessing to murders." But, she added, "sinsta is more or less another word for a finsta. most people don't actually have three bc that's just extra af." There was more amusing discussion of the different use cases and privacy settings, but I'll have to leave that for another time. In the meantime we hope that socio-dialectologists are on the case.

Fun as that was, let's talk word origins. Last weekend I was staring at the toaster oven waiting for the cheese to melt and got to wondering where the word nachos came from. A story that a lot of food writers accept is that it's an eponym. According to the story, in the 1940s, some American women were in the Mexican border town of Piedras Negras and went to a restaurant looking for something to eat. The kitchen was closed, but the maître d' put together a snack from fried tortillas and cheese. The dude was Ignacio Anaya, whose nickname was Nacho, and he (again supposedly) named his snack Nacho's especiales. I'm not sure whether this story holds up to lexicographic scrutiny, but as I say, it's a popular tale, and it's not by any means implausible. Even if it's not true, I did learn that Nacho is a nickname for Ignacio (how did I not already know this?), which is another reason to like the character of Nacho Vargas on Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul.

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  09:54 AM

A fairly regular occurrence in the editor groups I participate in on Facebook or Twitter is that someone posts about how the spelling or grammar tools in Microsoft Word have gotten something spectacularly wrong. As I've noted before, editors in particular seem to take glee in bashing the grammar checker.

I find this frustrating for a couple of reasons, and I've pushed back a bit on social media when I see posts that dismiss proofing tools. But I thought I owed it to people to explain why I think it's not productive exercise to bash the tools. (Modulo the entertainment value of hilariously bad advice, which is by no means limited to advice dispensed by tools.)

I'm going to focus on two issues: the measurable deficiencies of the tool, and the question of audience.

Measureable, reproducible deficiencies

Imagine that you are a program manager (PM) at Microsoft whose job it is to improve the grammar-checking tool. It's not news to you that the tool gets things wrong sometimes.

You go out into the world to find out what sorts of problems people are having with the grammar checker. You find no shortage of complaints. An article in Slate claims that the grammar checker "makes your writing worse." At least that article has some explicit examples. Other complaints are more abstract:

Put yourself in the place of that PM. How is the grammar checker "creating problems"? Which things is it flagging that are "not errors"? What are examples of the "incorrect options as solutions"? These types of generalized, "it just doesn't work!" observations don't help the PM learn anything specific about what to fix. And they don't necessarily help other users, either, since it doesn't tell a user what to look out for.

As a PM, I might also have some questions about how prevalent these errors are. What percentage of the time does the grammar checker correctly flag errors? 15 percent of the time? 40 percent? 85 percent? In other words, are the issues that people report exceptions in an otherwise functioning tool, or are errors the norm? (If errors are the norm, I as PM would be surprised, since it's not like the company doesn't test the grammar checker.)

There's also a question about what constitutes an error. The grammar checker can find actual, non-controversial errors, like subject-verb disagreement. It can also check style—things like the use of passive:

As the PM, I might ask people to adjust the various knobs and levers to see whether the "mistakes" made by grammar checker are simply suggestions that they disagree with.

If I were that PM, I'd say that sure, please let us know where you're running into issues with the grammar checker. But be specific. Show us the error. Will we be able to reproduce it on the current version of Word? If you adjust the settings, do you still see the issue? And I would ask that in addition to posting on social media about the error, why not engage with the Microsoft community to see if your issue is known? In short, I as PM would ask you to use your experience to help make the product better.


Let's move on and talk about who the audience is for the grammar checker in Word. Let me posit this: the grammar-checker tool in Word is not designed for professional editors. No, let me take a step back: Word itself is designed for corporate use. When the Office team thinks about improving their product, they're not thinking primarily about freelance editors, or novelists, or programmers who are creating README files. They think a great deal about employees at companies that are going to buy 500 or 5000 or 50,000 site license of Office. Merge tools for mailing labels? Two-click tables of contents? Let's face it: the prototypical Word user is someone who sits in a cubicle.[1]

My point is that I think the prototypical user is not expert in spelling or grammar. Nor are they producing works of art— no, they're working on reports and memos and other contributions to the great stream of prose that moves corporations forward every day.

I note this because one editor I know said that she had once taken an article by Louis Menand (Harvard faculty, writer for the New Yorker) and run it through the Word grammar checker. She reports that the grammar checker had substantially worsened the article.

This does not surprise me. Let me give you an analogy. Suppose you want to make a dress. You buy a dress pattern and carefully follow all the directions. When you're done, you have a dress! But you do not have a Pierre Cardin dress, or a Dior, or a Vera Wang.

A dress pattern lets a person of modest skills produce a functional finished product. A dress pattern in the hands of an ordinary person does not produce a work of art. Similarly, the grammar checker in Word helps a writer of ordinary skills produce workable copy. It is not designed to help an ordinary writer produce extraordinary prose. It will not turn the average denizen of a corporate cuberhood into Louis Menand.

We professional editors cannot make broad judgments about a tool because we think it isn't as smart as we are about grammar and style. (Though it is probably more thorough.) We have to consider whether it's useful for its intended audience, and gauge the tool in terms of how well it helps that audience.

Finally, we have to help people use the tool to its best advantage. If someone who is unskilled is using some tool incorrectly, you don't say to them "Yeah, that tool sucks." You teach them how to use it right. How about if we do that?

Related posts:
[1] Full disclosure: this is speculation on my part. I am not privy to the planning process of the Office team, past or present.



  09:25 AM

After yesterday's word post that discussed spite mounds, I got a couple of notes from some folks that I thought I should share.

First, Friend Rick shared the photo that had moved him to talk about bygone spite mounds:

He added the comment "I had felt there was some mound (if that makes any sense), though certainly not the likes of which there was in the regrading days!" It's true, it does have that feel.

Second, Friend Leon pointed out another, similar term: nail house, which is a Chinese term for the same thing[1]. There's an article about nail houses with some quite amazing photos. Here's one:

Leon also noted the term spite house, which has a different sense of spite. A spite house is deliberately built or modified in order to spite someone—for example, to block someone's view. There's a related term spite fence, a construction that has the same purpose but is generally cheaper to build.

I will note that Leon is from a land down under, so it's possible that in his ozzy dialect, spite house has a different meaning. I'm sure he'll let us know if so. :-)

[1] A calque, I guess.

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  11:55 PM

You know what would be nice? Some sunshine.

I have a geo-topo-graphical term today that came up during a Facebook discussion with Friend Rick: spite mound. Based on what I can find, this might be quite specific to Seattle, and references some of the city's curious history.

Seattle was built on a set of hills overlooking Elliott Bay in Puget Sound. Hills can be inconvenient, though, so in the late 1800s, the city decided to "regrade" one of the hills by using water power to sluice it down into the bay. The story goes that some residents stubbornly refused to give up their homes. So the workmen sluiced around the houses, leaving them stranded on "spite mounds." Here's a picture:

(The history where I got this photo says that in fact people did not refuse to move; some just didn't get around to moving their houses before the job began. But the term stuck.)

The reason Rick brought this term up at all was in reference to what he called "modern-day spite mounds": so-called holdout properties where owners refuse to sell, so new development happens around them. Here's an example:

The analogy isn't perfect (no hill, hey), but I liked Rick's invocation of some Seattle history for these property owners who stick to their hills while development sluices on around them.

Not long ago I got to wondering about the expression a bum steer, as in "That tip about horses was a bum steer." Did this refer to an ox? And why do we call boy-cows steers anyway?

Well, the answers aren't terribly exciting, but at least I got things sorted. First cows. The word steer has been used for a castrated bull for as far back as we have records in English; the Saxons had the word stéor. This is perhaps not surprising, since animal husbandry was a topic of keen interest back when people spoke Anglo-Saxon. There is a theory that steer goes back to a source word that also produced taurus (bull) in Latin. But the OED calls this "doubtful," in their arched-eyebrow way.

As it happens, a bum steer doesn’t actually have to do with inadequate cows. In this expression, steer is a nounified version of the verb steer. If you got a bum steer, someone done steered you wrong. (I asked my wife, and this was self-evident to her.) But while I was looking up steer-the-verb anyway, I learned that this was also a word used by the Old Englishers. It originally meant to guide a) a vessel and specifically b) using a rudder or oar. (Thus it shares a sense, sort of, with whip to refer to a vehicle.) Only later (okay, still in medieval times) did it come to generically mean pointing your generic ride in a specific direction.

I did also find out that bum steer is an Americanism, first recorded in 1899, and that there is such a thing as a non-bum type of steer, i.e., steer used to just mean a piece of advice. News to me.

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  12:13 AM

We were off work for the MLK holiday on Monday. It threw me off all week about what day it was, in a most pleasant way.

I have a couple of new-to-me terms today that relate to recent politics. The president got a physical exam this week, and among the reported results were his height and weight. The report set off speculation in some quarters that these numbers had been finessed, and that the weight report was purportedly at odds with photographic evidence of the president's physique.

Trump was (is?) a prominent birther, i.e., someone who maintains that Barack Obama was not born in the U.S. So I was quite amused to read that there's a name for people who are skeptical of the president's reported weight: girthers. This term was obviously invented just this week, so it's not just new to me, it's actually new-new. Related terms are girther movement and girtherism. This is funny, right? But let's see whether anyone remembers this word in a month.

There was also that incident last week in which the president allegedly referred to "shithole countries." This was reported second-hand, which led to a confusion of assertions and reactions: Trump didn't say it; he said something different; anyway, it's true.

I recently learned that there's a name for this sort of sequence of explanations: kettle logic. The name derives from an example that Freud used in one of his books, about a man who borrows a kettle and returns it damaged. When confronted with the kettle, he claims that …
  • He returned it undamaged
  • It was damaged when he borrowed it
  • He never borrowed it
I don't know how widely the term kettle logic has been used to describe political doublespeak over time. It's certainly gotten a workout recently—when I went looking for examples of kettle logic, I found people using it to describe tweets about a proposed recount after the 2016 election; the Michael Flynn situation; and meetings with Russia. Trying to make sense of these types of conflicting stories can be a challenge, but at least we have a good name for them to lighten our spirits.

The other day I was watching the old version of The Thomas Crown Affair, and a scene came on where Steve McQueen is playing polo. I spent a few minutes trying to puzzle out where the word polo might have come from. Italian, maybe? Spanish? No. The word polo originated in a Tibetan language, where it meant "ball." The game and word spread across south Asia and was adopted by the British during their sovereignty in India.

But my guess about Italian or Spanish wasn't completely wild. Polo is also (entirely separately) the name of a particular style of flamenco song. Although as I recall, there were no scenes in the movie where Steve McQueen performed such a song.

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  09:46 PM

Suppose you're on vacation and you're driving to a place named Lisbon Falls. You see this sign, so you turn right.

After you turn, you drive for a long time, but you don't see Lisbon Falls, and you start to doubt that you're on the right road. How helpful would it be to see a sign that said "Lisbon Falls—keep going "?

Obviously, we need signposts to tell us where to turn. But sometimes we need signposts to reassure us that we're going the right way. Since I work in documentation, I'm going to talk about this applies when you're writing instructions.

The first and least controversial example is to show the results of the user's action, like this:

This type of signpost reassures the reader that they've run the command correctly, or made the right gestures in the page, or whatever.

A second type of signpost is one that makes sure the reader is properly oriented at the beginning of a procedure. This comes up a lot in the complex tutorials I work with, which might have many separate procedures. What I tell my writers is that at the beginning of each procedure, they should make sure that the user is clear about where they are. Here's an example:

I sometimes get pushback from an author about this if the user isn't changing contexts between procedures. "They should just keep entering commands where they left off!" the author might say. I get this; it can feel like we're sort of stating the obvious. But remember my example at the beginning—sometimes it's helpful just to know that you're on the right road, even if you haven't gotten any indication that you're not.

The final example is one that I see rarely in technical documentation, which is too bad. This type of signposting warns the user of something out of the ordinary: an unexpected result, a long delay, a tricky procedure, or a non-intuitive process. Here's a sort-of example:

During the editing process, I asked the author "Is that period on the end of the cp command correct?" Yes, was the answer, "unfortunately." This might have been an opportunity to actually say to the reader "Hey, that period at the end? That's part of the syntax." But we didn't do that, perhaps because the author felt that the audience for this piece would not have that question. But you can probably think of other examples where a little authorial aside to point out something weird would have been helpful for the reader.

One of my favorite examples of this was an article about installing tools for Python. It included the following refreshingly honest instruction:
See all that stuff flying by? Forget about it.
(I wrote about this a few years ago.)

Talk about reassuring!

Update On Twitter, Leon (@secretgeek) points out another example of signposting that I didn't call out. In the first example earlier, the instruction starts with "Wait 3 to 4 minutes"—this notifies the user that a delay here is to be expected.

All of these examples—indeed, signposting in general—is a matter of putting yourself in the user's shoes. At what point(s) in the user's journey is it helpful to reassure them that they're still driving in the right direction? As an editor—hence, a user advocate—I'll suggest that it's more often than you think.

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  06:06 AM

If these first two weeks are any indication, 2018 is shaping up as a lexicographically interesting year, right?

Ok, two new-to-me words today from the world of relationships. Let's start with dating. You won't have trouble finding lists of "the lingo of [online] dating," as one page puts it. In these lists you'll find words like ghosting (previously noted here), breadcrumbing, and cuffing season.

One term that's specific to online dating is catfishing, which means to have a false identity to entice someone for various reasons, generally unethical ones. The word catfish spawned one of the terms I'm interested in today: kittenfishing, which some people liken to "catfishing lite." (cat/kitten, probably you noticed this.) In kittenfishing, you don't present a made-up persona. But you do enhance your profile—misrepresenting yourself descriptively or visually, which some people refer to as "lying"—in order to lure someone into dating you. Note the distinction between the words in terms of motive: catfishing often has a quasi-criminal intent; kittenfishing just aims at getting a date. According to an article on the hingeirl.com site, people who work at that site invented the name: "… a practice so common in the world of modern dating that we at Hinge had to give it a name."

Ah, the world of online dating, eh? One article says "38 percent of men and 24 percent of women say they’ve been kittenfished." I should note that I learned the word kittenfishing from Friend Julie, who wrote a whole book about online dating.

Update It occurs to me that a famous historical example of kittenfishing was the betrothal of Henry VIII to Anne of Cleves. Henry's story, anyway, was that he had been misled about her beauty … i.e., he'd been kittenfished. He married her, but reluctantly.

I learned a second relationship term just yesterday: micro-cheating. In micro-cheating, you don't cheat on your partner in the generally understood way. But you do have an emotional attachment to someone else and engage in actions that further your external relationship—actions that you hide from your partner, like having a social media relationship with someone on the QT. (Someone suggested that this could also be called "emotional cheating" or an "emotional affair.")

What struck me about the term was the use of the micro- prefix. We've seen this elsewhere recently, as in microaggression. This made me wonder whether the micro- prefix is seeing greater velocity these days; maybe?

As an aside, I'll note that the words kittenfishing and micro-cheating are relatively new (within the last year or so). I think we can agree, tho, that the concepts they represent are probably about as old as dating itself.

Word origins! I was recently reading the book The Mark Inside, about a man who was conned in the early 20th century and who sets about getting revenge. In the introduction, Amy Reading, the author, presented a surprisingly specific origin for the term confidence man, whence con man, whence to con [someone]. I'll let her tell you the story:
Confidence artistry began one day in May 1849 when a well-dressed young man named Samuel Williams—or was it Samuel Thomas? or William Thompson?—walked up to a stranger on the streets of lower Manhattan and engaged him in a few minutes of intimate small talk. The stranger felt that he knew but couldn't place this friendly fellow; certainly he seemed like an old friend who was delighted to see him. Williams (as we'll call him) then asked the stranger, in a disarmingly direct manner, whether or not he had confidence in him. When the man answered yes, the only possible answer in polite conversation, Williams said jovially, "Have you confidence in me to trust me with your watch until to-morrow?" In high humor, his mark handed over his gold watch. And Williams sauntered off into the city, laughing and promising over his shoulder that he'd return the watch the next day. In the span of just a few days in May, he swindled John Deraismes out of a watch valued at $114, John Sturges out of a watch worth $80, and Hugh C. McDonald out of a watch valued at $100.
I was slightly skeptical, but the OED bears this out: their first entry for confidence trick is 1849, in a newspaper story about this exact incident. Who knew.

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  08:28 AM

There are many reasons to use styles in Word, as I've noted before. One feature I find handy is using styles that have different spell-check options for different types of text. I'll explain a couple of examples: one where I set a non-default spell-check option (Spanish), and another where I disable spell check for code snippets.

Note: If you'd rather see this on video, see the links below.

Spell check for non-default languages

Suppose you're writing a document that has quotations in different languages. If you run spell check over the document, it'll barf when it gets to your citations in Spanish or French or Latin or whatever.[1]

The hard way to solve this problem is to select the text of each citation, one by one, and then to set the proofing language (Review tab > Language > Set Proofing Language).

The easier way to do it is to define a style and set the language for that style. Then you can just apply the style to your citations.

Suppose I'm writing about One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia-Marquez:

I run spell check, and uh-oh: if it's going to stop on every word of Spanish, it's going to be a long night proofing this doc:

Instead, I'll create a style just for my quotations in Spanish. In this case, I'll create a paragraph style, although I can set language options for character styles also, which is useful for cites in running text.

Here's the Create New Style dialog. The new style is named Quotation in Spanish. It's a paragraph style, based on Normal, and I've set an indent.

Then in the Format options (bottom left), I choose Language:

For the language, I choose Colombian Spanish:

Now I can apply this style to any citations in the document that are in Spanish. When spell check gets to the citations, it switches to checking spelling in Spanish. (Which is handy, since I'm a bad typist in multiple languages.)

If the document contains text in several languages, you create a different style for each non-default language that you're using and apply them as needed.

Disabling spell check for selected text

I don't actually encounter a lot of Spanish citations in my work, but I do encounter a lot of snippets of program code and HTML. I also encounter filenames and URLs that are oddly spelled per English conventions. As with non-English text, this can throw spell check off. So I create a style for code and for HTML blocks and for filenames and for URLs. In those styles, I disable spell check altogether.

Skipping ahead, here's an example of what some sample text looks like when these styles have been applied:

There are 3 styles at work here. The green monospace marks a character style named Code. The blue italics mark a character style named Filename. And the indented block with gray background marks text that's styled using a paragraph style named Pre (a nod to the HTML element name for code blocks).

In addition to the various formatting settings that I defined for these styles (italics, blue, green, monospace, indented, etc.), in each case I chose the Language setting. Then in the Language dialog, I chose Do not check spelling or grammar:

When spell check runs, it skips over any text that has been styled using a style with this setting.

I should note that for code and HTML snippets, it can instead make sense to add the various keywords to your dictionary. (I do this for filenames that I encounter often.) However, defining a style that simply turns off spell check has been very handy for me in the code- and HTML-heavy documents that I work on.


I made a couple of videos about this also and put them on YouTube:
[1] I do realize that Word can be set to auto-detect languages, and that this works pretty well. But the method I describe here also covers scenarios where auto-detect doesn't work well. (Klingon? Dothraki? Etc.)

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