caveat lector
Here are some things I love about the introduction to Dreyer’s English: An Utterly Correct Guide to Clarity and Style by Benjamin Dreyer:
One: the brief explanation of what the book is. Dreyer introduces himself, his job (copy chief of Random House), and what exactly he does in that job. The book, Dreyer writes, is a chance to share some of the skills that he’s gained over years of work in proofreading and copyediting, “from the nuts-and-bolts stuff that even skilled writers stumble over to some of the fancy little tricks [he’s] come across or devised that can make even skilled writing better.”
Two: the clear explanation of what the book is not. Dreyer isn’t writing a new be-all-end-all manual. No one book can cover everything, he writes, and no two books can agree on anything anyway. He’s not writing a ponderous new tome, a new edition of what he calls a “big fat stylebook;” he wouldn’t dare. Here be the caveat, the hey! look out! beware! This may not be exactly the book you want. This book can’t be everything to everyone.
Three: with these caveats in mind, a more specific follow–up explanation of what the book is—
In setting out to write this book, I settled on my own ground rules: that I would write about the issues I most often run across while copyediting and how I attempt to address them, about topics where I thought I truly had something to add to the conversation, and about curiosities and arcana that interested or simply amused me.
If all this seems like run of the mill organizing-your-writing stuff, well, I guess it is. You introduce your topic, you narrow your topic. But Number Two, the what-it’s-not, is super important and not entirely common. Sometimes the best way to focus is this kind of pruning around the edges. It’s good for both author and reader. It prevents the author from claiming too much competence or stretching their topic too far. It says, I could talk about all of these larger orbital points, but that’s too broad for today. I could drill down on all of these smaller sub-points, but that’s too specific for today. Making clear what-it’s-not puts guardrails up at both sides of the topic. These guardrails help the reader as well; they manage expectations. The reader has an honest chance to stop reading if the book isn’t shaping up to be what they had in mind. It’s hard to complain that something you think is essential wasn’t mentioned when the author told you up front that it wouldn’t be.
In just a few paragraphs, Dreyer anticipates what a reader might expect from a book like his. If you want a banterful approach to common questions peppered with some occasional trivia, step right up. If you’re looking for a comprehensive guide, look elsewhere. I’d like to think this saved Dreyer from some angry Twitter mentions. I’m not sure, but I suspect—unfortunately—not. Nonetheless, carefully putting up guardrails is a sign of his integrity.
Four: an address of one more expectation before the book begins. Library shelves are chock full of stylebooks that hand down Law to their readers. They speak with such authority. Ask and they have a good reason. Some people look to books like these precisely for this kind of confidence. In contrast, in Dreyer’s last ground rule, he bares his humanity—
I would remember, at least every now and then, to own up to my own specific tastes and noteworthy eccentricities and allow that just because I think something is good and proper and nifty you don’t necessarily have to.
This is the caveat to end all caveats. The most beautiful admission. I love it for its honesty. It strips away all the snooty know–better pretension that troubles so many books in this genre—so many books, period. This stuff may be my job, it says, but a lot of this is gonna be my opinion. And even expert opinions are but opinions in the eyes of God. It admits a weakness of our human brains: we like to have a reason for things, even when we don’t actually have a reason. We post–rationalize to ourselves and to others. We like to justify. We crave good reasons.
But real reasons are often not rational. Dreyer is rare among grammar gurus (and authors generally (and people generally)) for so frankly admitting this. Some important things we can argue about logically, and should. Other things, like matters of style, say, aren’t all that important. When the time comes to lay down a law he can’t explain, Dreyer doesn’t shy away. He doesn’t add to the heap of false and pointless arguments. He admits that sometimes it comes down to a person’s preferences. So when he makes grand pronouncements later on, we know they come from one place and one place only: his opinion.
Dreyer writes that it isn’t the job of the copyeditor to overshadow the voice of the author. It isn’t the job of the copyeditor to standardize all writing with the bludgeon of universal Law. It isn’t the job of the copyeditor to impose their will in order to crush an author’s idiosyncrasies.
It is is their job to help the author along, to make them stronger and clearer, to make them… more themselves than they could be alone. How wonderful it might be if we did that in all our writing—in all our interactions with one another. Not insist that our way is the one true way. Not burden with grave importance every argument we make. Rather, make clear exactly what we mean and identify precisely what’s at stake; draw out and revel in the differences that make but little difference in the end; when tempted to argue over little things, refrain; and help each other be the better people we can be.
dreyer reading review style writing