The letterpress test
An hour setting one line of type by hand, and what it does to the way you cut a sentence.
1 min read
At Harbour Press in Bristol, Ruaridh Blake let me set a single line of type by hand. Eleven words. It took me fifty minutes, and I got the spacing wrong twice.
I had gone to photograph the press and came away with the most effective editing exercise I know, which I now inflict on myself about once a month.
Setting a line makes you find out whether you meant it
Type is set backwards, letter by letter, out of a case, and every space is a physical object you have to choose and pick up. An adjective costs you thirty seconds and a hunt through a drawer. A subordinate clause is a genuine afternoon.
What that does to a sentence is remarkable. Halfway through my eleven words I removed two of them, not because I had a better rhythm in mind but because I could not be bothered to set them, and the line was better without. D. B. Updike, who was pompous about most things, was right that the discipline of the case teaches economy faster than any amount of advice.
(My line, once printed, contained a typo. Ruaridh pointed out that this too is traditional.)
Fifty minutes for eleven words, two of which I deleted because they were too much trouble to lift. I have written whole paragraphs since that could have used the same test.
