I haven’t had a chance to look through all the updates yet, but I hope to post a more thorough review soon. In the meantime, the staff at the University of Chicago Press were kind enough to let me send a few questions to Russell Harper, the editor of The Chicago Manual of Style Online Q&A and the CMOS Shop Talk blog. He has served as principal reviser of the last three editions of the Manual, including the newly published 18th. His responses are below.

Do you have an overarching philosophy when approaching new editions, and if so, how has it changed with the 18th edition?

There’s no overarching philosophy—no mission statement or anything like that—but we do need to keep up with the times. Every new edition is also an opportunity to refine the existing rules to make them as clear and as comprehensive as they can be. There were eleven editions between 1906 and 1949, partly to update all the typeface samples, which in those editions—in the era of metal type—took up half the book. Then in 1969 the 12th edition was published, and the type samples were dropped. That’s when computers were entering the picture, mainly in the context of typesetting, though the word “computer” wasn’t mentioned in the Manual until 1982 (in the 13th edition), the same year the word “Chicago” became part of the title. Since then, technology has been the main driver behind every new edition. We might still be using the 12th edition if not for computers and all that followed, from the internet and Unicode to URLs and DOIs and ebooks and social media. It’s not as if commas and semicolons have changed. Still, the 18th edition is the first to mention comma splices, a term that had been around since the 1920s but didn’t seem to get much attention from copyeditors until more recently. And we now advise our readers that authors may reject the use of semicolons in fictional dialogue—a small point, but it’s something editors should know. The 18th edition is also the first to cover emojis—mainly in terms of Unicode but also relative to sentence punctuation. There are several other firsts in the new edition, but for any concept to make it into the Manual, it has to be something that writers and editors might encounter as they get their words and images ready to publish. If the 18th edition is different, it’s that we know more than ever about how this work is done and which issues are likely to need a rule or recommendation—partly because the technology that we use to have conversations with each other is now essentially the same as the technology we use to write and edit and publish and all the rest.

The 17th edition still cautioned against generic singular “they,” which was gaining traction but was still heavily debated at the time. Were there any issues that inspired a great deal of debate among the editors of CMOS with this edition?

Our decision to refer, for example, to The New York Times instead of the New York Times—that is, treating an initial The as part of the name of a periodical that includes it on its masthead or cover—inspired a lot of debate. But the fact that the many academic journals published by the University of Chicago Press were already making this distinction when writing about themselves (as on their About pages) helped to tip the balance toward making the change. There was also a lot of back and forth about prepositions in titles. A few of our advisers wanted to stick to the traditional rule—even to the point of retaining lowercase for a phrasal preposition, as in The World according to Garp—but mostly the debate was about whether to set a three- or four-letter limit. We ended up settling on four, as in “The Trouble with Tribbles” (the Star Trek episode) but Much Ado About Nothing (Shakespeare), which was a less drastic change. But that also accords with what one would tend to find online, including at sources like Wikipedia and Britannica, where many people go to check titles (at least initially). Anyway, we tallied opinions, and that’s where we ended up.

Many editors have rejoiced at being able to drop the place of publication from source citations. Are there any changes that you are particularly excited about?

No single change stands out as unequivocally exciting, but we know from the responses we got along the way that some changes were more popular than others. Our endorsement of generic singular “they” had this effect; editors especially were happy to know they didn’t have to continue to revise that word out at all costs. And the new The rule for the names of newspapers and other periodicals seemed to make more than a few people happy—at least judging from the comments made by our reviewers in successive drafts of the manuscript for the new edition—but there were also a few who were unhappy about that change. Any change that aligned our recommendations with what people were already doing seemed to be mostly popular while generating at least some dissent. There’s always this tension between the rules, which can seem arbitrary, and actual practice, which tends to be where rules are adjusted to fit reality. And now that everyone can look things up with their phones, any shift that aligns with actual practice is likely to gain traction.

The grammar chapter is the longest in the book and includes topics that have inspired much recent debate. Can you tell us how you approached the revision of this chapter?

We worked with Bryan Garner to include the concept of prescriptive versus descriptive grammar in the introductory paragraphs to chapter 5 while also acknowledging that Standard English is only one variety of English—though it happens to be the one most commonly encountered in published prose. This was part of a broader effort in the new edition not only to address concepts related to inclusive language but also to acknowledge the difference between formal and conversational registers wherever applicable, which is also an important aspect of our new coverage of fiction and related genres. We also know that a working knowledge of grammar is essential especially to copyeditors and that they need a way of referring to the subject that isn’t too technical or academic. The fact that our readers can go to Garner’s Modern English Usage for more information without having to learn an entirely different vocabulary was part of that goal.

One change that surprised me is that a year at the beginning of a sentence doesn’t need to be spelled out anymore (as in “2020 was a good year for clairvoyants”). What other changes do you think may be a bit of a shock to longtime users of CMOS?

Some people are still getting over the fact that we don’t recommend more than one space between sentences. But seriously, the The in periodical names will be a shock to some; that rule had stood since the first edition. And some users may be surprised by the advice to capitalize a grammatically complete sentence introduced by a colon (if so, they could always use more semicolons instead of colons). Even our endorsement of generic singular “they” may cause a bit of grumbling in some corners of the universe. But we hope that each change, however much it might depart from previous editions, brings an increased awareness of what’s at stake when applying Chicago style. Are rules something to enforce no matter what, or a starting point for consistency that can be adjusted to suit context? Will readers understand what an author is trying to say? When is it OK to depart from how things are usually done? We hope we’re getting closer to striking the right balance, while helping writers and editors do all those things that make the difference between published prose and everything else.

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And from time to time you may also find it necessary to do whatever it takes to prevent that discussion from taking place. Perhaps you don’t want it to become apparent that you haven’t kept up with changes to The Chicago Manual of Style since the early ’90s. Perhaps you realize deep down that your style preferences are all indefensible, and you want to avoid being put in an awkward position. Perhaps you’re used to getting your way and don’t know how to handle differing opinions in a healthy manner. Or perhaps you’re simply afraid of change.

Whatever the reason, if you find yourself in such a position, here are five simple tips for sabotaging style discussions at work.

Tip #1: Delay

The easiest way to ruin a style discussion is simply to put off having it. When the topic of updating or codifying your house style guide comes up in staff meeting, say that you haven’t had a chance to look at the issues first. You can also suggest that now’s not a good time to have the discussion because you’ve got too much to do and need to get back to work. With this simple combination, you can keep kicking the can down the road for months. It has the added effect of making you seem more valuable than everyone else because you’re so busy.

Tip #2: Divert

When you can’t put it off any longer and are finally forced to have the discussion, start by asking if the house style guide is just a style guide or if it’s more of a training document. If it’s a style guide, then maybe it doesn’t make sense to repeat a bunch of rules that are already found in Chicago, but if it’s a training document, then maybe it makes sense to put all of those common Chicago rules in there to provide an easy reference for the interns and help them get up to speed faster. With any luck, you’ll kick off an argument that will waste several minutes and sap everyone’s collective will to keep the discussion going.

Once the debate settles down and your coworkers all agree that the purpose of the house style guide is, indeed, to serve as a house style guide, see if you can keep things going by interjecting “Oh, I just thought it might be helpful for the interns to put those things in there” a few more times, as if the matter still isn’t quite settled.

Tip #3: Disrupt

When your coworkers suggest dropping a particular house style rule and just following Chicago’s advice on the issue, respond by arguing that just because Chicago says something is okay doesn’t mean it is—we should have higher standards. Use this argument to pivot into a broader rant about how nobody reads anymore, how most of our readers are culturally illiterate, and how almost none of our designers know anything about fine typography. A simple question about end-of-line hyphenation quickly descends into an exhausting debate about whether accepting a longstanding industry standard is somehow contributing to societal decline.

Tip #4: Disorient

If you’ve thus far failed to persuade your coworkers to keep all your arbitrary preferences in the style guide, switch to complete non sequiturs. Try alternating between contradictory statements like “I just don’t know why we would change the way we’ve always done it” and “Well, if you guys don’t think we need any of these rules, let’s just throw them all out and stick with Chicago.” Your coworkers will quickly become exhausted from trying to figure out how to respond to your constantly shifting position.

Tip #5: Disengage

Once your coworkers are all thoroughly enervated and exasperated, try to opt out of the discussion altogether. Say something like, “Well, you guys can do whatever you want. I’ll just do what I want on my projects.” If someone points out that the whole purpose of a house style guide is to make sure you’re all on the same page, argue that your projects are different, so you don’t need to follow the same rules as everyone else. Bonus points if you can sneak in an implication that your projects are more important than everyone else’s.

By the end, your coworkers will be so mentally and emotionally drained by the discussion and so bewildered by your hostility that they’ll gladly abandon the topic and avoid bringing up any other style questions for a good six months or more. Then you can happily go back to following your own idiosyncratic style rules while leaving the rest of your department to fumble along without any common body of rules to ensure consistency or simplify decision-making.

That is, until someone once again has the temerity to suggest that, hey, maybe it would be a good idea to write some of these rules down.

My chapter is titled “Dictionaries and Editors”, and, as you might guess, it focuses on the relationship between dictionaries and some of their most frequent users, copy editors and proofreaders. It discusses dictionaries’ role in the editing process, what style manuals say about how to use dictionaries, how dictionaries serve as editorial authorities (despite lexicographers’ stated goal of documenting rather than gatekeeping the language), and how dictionaries influence editors and editors influence dictionaries.

I’m not a real academic, of course, so this contribution is a little out of the ordinary for me. The author that was originally lined up to write this chapter fell through, so one of the editors got in touch with me with “a mad request” (his words) to see if I might be able to throw together a chapter on the subject. It was kind of a wild ride, but I’m pleased with how the chapter turned out, and I’m truly honored to be included among so many great scholars of lexicography. (Seriously, look at the contents—there’s a lot of interesting chapters written by some great people.)

This is an academic book, so it won’t be for everybody, but if dictionaries and the academic study thereof are your thing, please check it out!

I was hoping to see a clear geographic distribution, and it appears that we have one: In the US, punch buggy and punch bug are most common on the East Coast, in the South (not including Texas), and in Hawaii. There are some scattered instances of punch buggy/punch bug across the West, including a cluster around the Bay Area. Slug bug is most common everywhere else, though some parts of the Midwest are a little mixed. There’s also a handful of results for other names, including beetle bop/beeter bop, slug-a-bug, love bug, and peewee slug. A couple of results might be referring to different games, like perdiddle (apparently a game where you spot cars with one headlight out) and I spy.

Outside of the US, the prevailing forms are punch buggy and punch bug. There’s one instance of slug bug in Ontario, one of coccinelle (French for “ladybug”) in Quebec (showing that the game has crossed the language barrier!), and one of punch Herbie in the UK. All the other results outside of the US are for punch buggy/punch bug.

A few of the respondents in the US and Canada were unfamiliar with the game, but there doesn’t appear to be any pattern to where they’re from. More people outside of North America seem to be unfamiliar with the game, though of course it’s hard to draw any meaningful conclusions from an informal survey with a small sample size.

Have fun exploring the map! And if you participated, thanks for your help!

Whether or not you’ve played the game or even heard of it, would you mind answering a short survey about it? Once I’ve gotten enough replies, I’ll blog about the results.

Edit: Please respond by the end of the day on September 27th. After that, I’ll close the survey and then start going through the responses. Thanks!

Update: The 25 percent off sale is over, but you can still get 15 percent off through December 1st. This is the last sale before Christmas, so act fast!

Take this recent example from Maura Hohman at NBCLX, a site dedicated to “thought-provoking content” “about tech, the environment, politics, community, social issues, and current events.” It takes the familiar kids-these-days trope and gives it an unusual spin: the author is only thirty, but she feels old because she doesn’t recognize a few of the 455 words recently added to Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary. She starts off by calling herself an elder millennial, which I found cute as a millennial who just turned forty. I also found it odd from someone complaining about definitions. Definitions vary, of course, but elder or geriatric millennials are generally considered to have been born somewhere between something like 1980 and 1985 or 1981 and 1988. Even by the more generous definition, Hohman misses the cutoff by three years. Nevertheless, she says it was “a gut punch” to realize that she didn’t know a lot of these new words, which she calls “wrinkle-inducing additions.”

The first word she complains about, zero-day, means “of, relating to, or being a vulnerability (as in a computer or computer system) that is discovered and exploited (as by cybercriminals) before it is known to or addressed by the maker or vendor”. Weirdly, though, the definition she gives appears to be for a noun, not the adjective that Merriam-Webster enters. At any rate, Hohman imagines that this is a term used by children and that her unfamiliarity with it makes her old, when really it just means she doesn’t read much about device security. And that’s fine! But if she ever reads an article that mentions a zero-day vulnerability, now she’ll be able to look up that phrase in Merriam-Webster.

The next term, blank check company, was one that I don’t think I’d encountered before either. It’s defined as “a corporate shell set up by investors for the sole purpose of raising money through an initial public offering to acquire another business yet to be determined”. But rather than taking my unfamiliarity with the term as a sign that I’m old and out of touch, I took it as an opportunity to learn a new word. I’m still not totally sure I understand it, but it’s also not a term that’s really relevant to my interests. Again, that’s fine—but now it’s in the dictionary for anyone who might want to know what it means.

Deplatform is next on the list, and I’m honestly surprised that a journalist working in the year 2021 had never encountered this term before. It’s been everywhere for the last few years, and for what it’s worth, Merriam-Webster says the first known use was in 1998 (much older than I would have guessed), back when Hohman was probably in third grade. But Google Trends shows that there’s been a lot of interest in the term in the last few years, so it seems like it’s certainly worth including in the dictionary.

When she gets to oobleck (“a mixture of corn starch and water that behaves like a liquid when at rest and like a solid when pressure is applied”), Hohman says, “At this point, I knew Merriam-Webster was mocking everyone born before 2000.” Did she never make that corn-starch-and-water mix in elementary school? I certainly remember making it, probably before Hohman was born. I can’t remember now if we called it oobleck at the time, though I’m certainly familiar with the term, which is even older than I am—Merriam-Webster dates it in this use to 1973, putting it in the middle of Gen X rather than Gen Z. If anything, the question here isn’t why it’s in the dictionary but why it took so long to be included.

Last on the list is teraflop, which Hohman says is “a unit of measure for the calculating speed of a computer equal to one trillion.” But this definition doesn’t even make sense. A unit equal to a trillion is a trillion. It looks like she copied and pasted only the first line of the definition and missed an important part: it’s a unit “equal to one trillion floating-point operations per second.” It’s a rather technical term, so if you’re not a computer geek, I can see why you might be unfamiliar with it. But it seems strange for her to say that she’s never thought about the calculating speed of a computer. Aren’t we supposed to be the generation that grew up with computers? And, again, this term isn’t new—The Oxford English Dictionary dates it to 1984. (By comparison, gigaflop and megaflop are dated to 1976.)

Of course, the real problem with all of these complaints has nothing to do with Hohman’s age or even the fact that she wasn’t familiar with some of the new words in Merriam-Webster’s dictionary; it’s that she seems to think that if she doesn’t know all of these newly entered words, then the dictionary isn’t for her anymore. But that’s silly. A dictionary that contained only the words you already know wouldn’t be a very useful dictionary, would it?

When I was a kid, I’d often come across an unfamiliar word and ask my parents what it meant. Their answer was almost always the same: “Look it up.” So I’d pull out the big two-volume World Book Dictionary that came with our encyclopedia set, and I’d look it up. I learned a lot of words doing that. There will always be words that you’re not familiar with, either because they’re not from your generation or from your region, because they’re technical or obscure, or because you simply haven’t run across them before, which means that there will always be opportunities to learn something new in a dictionary. Because that’s the real job of a dictionary—not to wrinkle your face but to wrinkle your brain.