editorialgirl

I’m currently putting together an online CV and portfolio, in the hope that I can make a proper go of this freelancing lark around my part time day job.

I tell people I’m a copywriter, editor and proofreader – and of course, I am – but really, it’s the specialism that counts. I write for the web. It’s a skill that I’ve been honing over the last… ooh, twelve or so years, and it’s about time I started telling other people about it – putting my knowledge to good use.

Anyway, I guess you could call this a teaser. It’s a list of the differences between the way that you read content on the web and printed content. I started it some time ago and I find it helpful to refer to when writing content for the web.

I know I don’t usually put worky stuff on my personal blog, but I figured this was interesting enough and could even prove useful to others who are writing for the web.

(Despite the point about web users being cynical, I haven’t cited any sources here. That’s because these are my own personal notes – and I know I trusted the sources that led me to include each point in the first place. I know there is bound to be controversy over some of them, but the idea is really just to get you thinking about the way you’re presenting content. If anything looks really wrong to you, or you’re intrigued and want to know more, ask away and I’ll try and find my original research.)

Of course, this is a work in progress. There are a million differences between print and web that should make a difference to the way you write. If you can think of any more, stick ‘em in the comments – I’d love to add to the list.

I haven’t blogged for ages, so I thought I’d slide back into it gently with a little story from the weekend.

I was on my fourth pint of Doom Bar on Friday night – possibly my fifth, actually; Daz had already gone home but I was on a roll – when our table was suddenly joined by a friend of a friend*.

*Actually: friend of a friend is probably overstating it. I’m not even sure we would have spoken were it not for the terrible service at the Cocks; the queue for the bar was at least six people deep and beginning to engulf our table, endocytosis-like.

He spoke first.

“Hellooo… I wasn’t sure if I should ask this!”

That’s generally a bad start to a conversation. But we’ve all had a drink, yada yada. I’ll roll with it.

“Go on…?”

“A little bird told me that you, er… you know…”

He gestured downwards. At the table? At my pint?

“…told me you’re expecting! Is that right?”

The beer stayed in my mouth, although I’m not sure how. I was laughing – mostly with shock that he was stupid enough to ask – but I managed to swallow before I replied.

“NO! No, that’s not right. That’s…” I looked down, to where he was looking. “That’s a beer belly.”

I’m not even sure he was embarrassed. Perhaps I shouldn’t have carried on smiling, but I was just so surprised. He didn’t go away straight away, either. He started talking really quickly instead.

“I should have realised, yeah, of course, I mean, you wouldn’t be out drinking pints I suppose, but, you know, you never know, do you…?”

No. You never know. Which is why YOU NEVER ASK. Seriously, what possesses people?

And I have no idea who the “little bird” was. Someone who obviously doesn’t know me at all, or – paranoid much? – thought it would be funny to stir.

It could be worse, I know. One definitely-not-pregnant friend’s experience involved a (female) acquaintance that she hadn’t seen for a while squealing from across the room, “Ooh! Look at you! BAAABY BUUUMP!” before running over, hands outstretched, for a feel.

What a pranny.