09/15/03’s illustrious band:

Devils & Dingbats

Brought to you by Julie Kaewert, author of the Alex Plumtree novels, which are set in the world of British book publishing and collecting.

Kaewert's books are a delight for bibliophiles such as myself. They’re full of facts and trivia about the world of books in London and beyond. This weekend, for instance, I learned about devils and dingbats. In the olden days, a print shop errand boy was called a printer’s devil for some reason. And dingbats are special little non-letter symbols that were sometimes used to enhance or decorate pages of type. Dingbats have fallen out of favor in the days since specialty presses were replaced by mass-market monsters. But you can find them enjoying an electronic resurrection in one of the all-dingbat selections of typefaces in your word processing program.

I’ve been a bit of a dingbat myself lately, wrestling with my own devils. The worst one seems to be the one that says the rest of the world should adhere to my schedule. Repair and service personnel should schedule their available times to correspond with my time off work, whether that’s during regular business hours or not. Networks should air the good shows (if there are any) on nights when I’m home to see them. Cats should get hungry after I’m out of bed, not before. Colleagues should schedule their calls, e-mails and visits when I would prefer to receive them. Friends should arrange their free time around periods when I’m not at work or in class, and devote it to me.

You can see where this wrestling could wear a person out, for the world remains ignorant of my calendar. Much of the time, after a little tooth grinding, I manage to give way. Appointments get made. Cats get placated. Correspondence gets answered. Sometimes friends even get visited. Not as much as we’d like, but sometimes. I try not to waste too many of those fine moments chastising them for having jobs and lives of their own . . . but it’s hard.

So now I see why the printer’s gofer was called a devil. No doubt he showed up with requests and deliveries when people least expected him or wanted him underfoot. The devil does not abide by our clocks; that’s what makes him a devil. I suppose we need these interruptions, though. Perfectly smooth sailing wouldn’t feel like sailing at all, but like sitting still; it’s when the boat rocks that we know it’s getting somewhere.

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