Lily is reading Go, Dog, Go! out loud on the couch in my office. I am working.

"Get up! It is day. Time to get up. Go, dogs, go! Where are they going?"

The images that flash and are superimposed on the screen defy the controlling orderliness of conventional narrative. Keller does not eliminate the dark corners that do not fit a predetermined story. She includes, rather, all the contradictory, obscure, and mysterious images and sounds in a prismatic structure that documents her own experience of the place that formed her.

"Go, dogs, go, to the top of the tree. Up there on top of the tree. A dog party. A dog party. A big dog party."

The film differs, however, in both its overt political intentions and in its imagery, for Keller has moved here from the natural and familial world to one in which found footage plays an important role. Just as her unfinished book project sought to examine women’s films that deranged patriarchal constructs by manipulating media manifestations of them, this last film contrasts two versions of a world she knows well: the narrow descriptions of women’s lives offered by Hollywood and a dominating male voice, as opposed to the far richer version created by the wide-open eyes of the experimental artist fully aware of cinema’s potential.

"'And now do you like my hat?' 'I do! What a hat. I like it. I like that party hat.'"

The photocopied art from the goth collection I edited in the spring is still in the coloring-paper stack. When Lily asked me to staple a sheaf of papers labeled "Harold and the Purple Crayon," her tribute to the Crockett Johnson book, I didn't think much of it. Until, that is, she announced her intention to take her creation to school for show and tell.

Obviously, the juxtaposition of low-res bondage images and a kindergartener's drawings isn't the stuff of circle time. I'm photocopying the rectos and excising the versos to make a new, more appropriate book.

I've been quiet all week because I'm deep in the underworld of goth culture, editing a collection of essays on goth themes. It's been interesting work; I'd enjoy it more if I weren't banging up against the deadline. (I envision it as a dungeon gate with spikes, about to slam down at the end of Memorial Day weekend.)

Some of the pricklier editing points: "goth" or "Goth"? "S/M," "S-M," or "S&M"? (Webster's says "S-M.") Is it OK to let "dom" stand without further explanation? (It's in the dictionary.) And, of course, I'm enforcing the distinction between hard-core (adj.) and hardcore (n.).

In my day job this week, I've been explaining editorial style to a very conscientious client. When she apologized for asking "tedious questions," I told her to consider a copy editor as a hair stylist. Both have ideas about how the finished product should look, but neither has to walk around with the results on her head! My name's not on the book; if someone insists on capitalizing "The" before the name of a university, I can explain why it's not necessary, but I don't really care in the long run. I want my clients to look good, and I use my experience to help their writing look its best, but the finished product reflects their work, not mine. (Ideally.)

The history of ECU I've been working on is a little dry. For example, one chapter was a line-by-line description of the university's five-year plans since 1975. Imagine my delight at finding this story buried deep in the chapter on the history of the medical school. It's told by the first dean of the school, remembering the days the twenty-student program shared space with the Department of Biology.

We once received a cadaver we badly needed for Gross Anatomy. The cadaver arrived unannounced in the late morning at the peak of campus activity at the loading dock of the biology building. The cadaver was a tall, large man, and we were unable to get his carrying case into the small elevator. It was necessary to remove the cadaver and stand him up in the elevator to get to the fourth floor. Unfortunately, this elevator serviced the entire biology tower. On our way to the cadaver storage area on the fourth floor, we were lucky that it stopped only on the third floor. But before we could get the doors closed, two chatting and totally unaware young coeds entered. When they looked up, one fainted into the arms of the other (fortunately), and the other was screaming. We felt bad that we had to leave them there, but we thought we would only cause more confusion and disruption by staying. By the time we returned to check on the two students, they were gone. Long gone, we were told. We never heard from the two unfortunate and scared young women, but we did hear from the elderly: the president, the provost, assorted deans, and an irate chairman of the Department of Biology.

1. En dash redux. My publishing friends say go with it; others aren't sure. (And Joan, it'd be "phone-number-length," with hyphens; the en dash comes when you can't wedge a hyphen in a word, say when it's a proper noun, such as "USA Triathlon" or "Team Polar." The en dash offers deference to open compounds.) I think it comes down to this: is it better to be right in your own mind, or to go with something that seems on the surface more conventional? Having given in to my mother's insistence that "honour" was the right spelling for my (and Wes's!) wedding invitations, I think this time I'm choosing personal integrity, even at the risk of looking funny. Maybe I'll pick up some clients who work in publishing!

2. Thank you, PowerBar. On a whim, I applied for a PowerBar sponsorship last fall. (There's a new model whereby not-so-great athletes with high visibility can get corporate sponsorship. They act as living billboards and product reps.) The extensive application had questions like, "What are your long-range sport goals?" My answer was something I hadn't yet formulated to myself: "I'd like to write a book on yoga for endurance athletes, and I'd like to get certified as a triathlon coach." Putting that down on (virtual) paper, I started to wonder, "Why not?" I didn't make the team—they had 4,500 applicants—but my life has changed. And I will get one free box of PowerBars, which is great news, since that's what my kids eat for breakfast. (Yes, seriously. I ran it by a pediatrician, who conceded, "It's better than Froot Loops.") Meanwhile, I've just applied for sponsorship by Polar. I use a Polar watch every day and preach the benefits of heart-rate training in my Spinning classes. My hopes are high. And unless Protocolo vineyards or the Weaver Street Market bakery starts to sponsor folks, it's my last chance at corporate sponsorship affiliated with a product I use daily.

3. Could Joey Cheek be any more wonderful? He's cute, he's modest, he's concerned about world peace. He likes four-hour bike rides. I have a soft spot for guys from Greensboro who work to help prevent HIV infection in Africa.

Before I worked in publishing, I didn't know what the en dash was. It's a dash the width of a capital letter N, and it's used in place of a hyphen in open compounds. For example, we'd use one instead of a hyphen in the compound adjective "Pulitzer Prize–winning." (I don't think that's visible here, but it'd be a slightly longer dash.) If you keep your eyes open, you'll start to notice them in books and magazines.

And in the mock-up business card above. See how the line in "USA Triathlon–certified coach" is longer than the hyphens in my phone number?

What I'm wondering is this: does it make sense at first glance, or is it annoying? That is, does your eye think it's an em dash (a full dash, the width of a capital letter M), which renders the meaning murky?

More generally, does this look good for a card? I welcome proposals of alternate layouts.

Surely there is no place in the world where the inhabitants live with less labour than in North Carolina. It approaches nearer to the description of Lubberland than any other, by the great felicity of the climate, the easiness of raising provisions, and the slothfulness of the people. . . . To speak the truth, ’tis a thorough aversion to labor that makes people file off to N[orth] Carolina, where plenty and a warm sun confirm them in their disposition to laziness for their whole lives.

—William Byrd II, William Byrd’s Histories of the Dividing Line Betwixt Virginia and North Carolina (1728)

With two big projects fresh on my desk, I find renewed energy for anything but ECU's institutional planning history. (The other ms., a book on white trash, sounds great--it'll be my reward for finishing the ECU book.) So I looked into making a podcast using Apple's Garage Band software, and I hope to get a short podcast up by the weekend. My plan for the first one is a five-minute postrun stretching routine, probably without music. Folks can listen at the end of a workout--it's inherently portable. I'll provide a link once it's up.

This week and last, I've been working on an academic journal devoted to English pedagogy. Half of it is highfalutin theory, and the other half is complaints that border on scorn toward the students. As I listen to my college- and law-school-teaching friends complain about stacks of papers and exams to grade, plagiarists to expose, and heavy courseloads to plan for, I'm reminded again of how good I've got it.

My yoga and cycling students want to be in class. They want to do the work. They like it to be challenging--in the case of the indoor cycling students, they complain when it's too easy. When I look out at my yoga students and see a class full of blank expressions, or when I hear snores in Corpse Pose, I know I'm doing things right. The planning I put into the class is a satisfying use of my teaching training and experience. I have no grading to do.

And when I need some intellectual stimulation, there's always the other teachers' complaints to copyedit.

This Thanksgiving, we had a twenty-first century version of our childhood experience of reference works at the dinner table. My brother sat with Mom's iBook in his lap and verified assertions folks made over cocktails. How does a snowflake know to form six arms? Look it up instantly! (The answer was very complicated.) Are you allowed to use a fireplace in New York City? Google to the rescue. (Yes, but not in Manhattan.)

This morning, Dad whipped out his thirty-year-old American Heritage dictionary. It was a common sight was we were growing up: a word would catch his fancy, and he'd reach behind him for the dictionary to look up its etymology. Today's entry: pomegranate. The issue was the pronunciation. He contended it should be "POM-granit," without an extra "uh" in the middle, and his dictionary backed him up. (The secondary pronunciation was the hopelessly effete "PUM-granit.") We didn't expect him to be right, because he insists on pronouncing it "WARSH-ing-ton" in homage to his Cincinnati roots.

But now that I'm home at my desk, I see that Merriam-Webster's 11th Collegiate Dictionary, the source for all my copy editing work, lists "POM-uh-granit" first. So we aren't the rubes we felt like this morning. I did learn, too, that I was misspelling the word as "pomegranite," when in fact it takes two As: "pomegranate."

Don't get me started on "persons" for "people," my biggest editorial peeve, which Dad tried to defend.