The spaces left blank are just as important as the ones with words.
I wrote a super-depressed post last night, and scheduled it to be published during the time when Max and Lulu would be at the groomers today. I’m happy to report that I don’t need to put that super-depressed post on my blog, as I woke up happy and ready to face the day. For a few hours, anyway.
I woke up thinking about the white space on the printed page, specifically, the margins. The way the human mind (especially mine) works never ceases to amaze me–I was dreaming that I was exploring the desert with some of my friends, and our car got stuck. We decided to walk out (which, by the way, is about the worst thing you can do in such a situation) and were picked up by BLM worker, who took us back to his house, where his wife wouldn’t let us go home. He also had a red-headed little boy who kept throwing stuff at us–I woke up enough at that point in the dream to discover Max decided he wanted to sleep by my head and was kicking me in the ribs.
So, to get back on topic, I don’t know why I was thinking about margins when I woke up. But, when I was out with the dogs on their morning walk, I remembered two books I read just as I was starting to take design classes. The combination of those two books, with the classes I was taking left me a deep desire to become what used to be called a typesetter–someone who designs the inside of books.
The first book (actually, I don’t remember the order I read them in, but this is the book I want to talk about first) was called “Joseph Smith: Scientist” and I think it was self published. At least, my brief search to find it somewhere other than my local library was futile. It was an interesting book, if a bit outdated. I think it was written during the ’50s–well after Einstein, but it still discussed the ether as if it were a valid scientific theory. But what struck me is that all the text, including the block quotes, and the quotes pulled out to elicit interest in that particular chapter were all right aligned. It looked sloppy and cheap, and, for me, anyway, made the book hard to read.
The second book had margins of about 1/8 of an inch all the way around. It was about a man who was wrongfully condemned to work in a prison mine, (I don’t remember what it was called) so it could have been a conscious choice on the part of the publisher to elicit the cramped, uncomfortable in which the main character was forced to work. The result, though, again was that it made it hard to read. I had a nagging feeling that someone had taken a paper-cutter to the book and sliced off most of the margins.
Frankly, though, it’s a bad sign that I can remember the margins of a book but not it’s title years after I read it.
If I was going to tie this back to real life, I’d say something along the lines of “Things left undone are as important as things done”, but that sounds too much like a stoner trying to be profound, and I always try to avoid sounding like a stoner trying to be profound. Of course, this leaves me with the uncomfortable situation of not knowing how to close this post, and just abruptly ending. Like this.