Make Your Manuscripts Easier To Edit With This One Weird Trick

Pop quiz: Which of these two bibliography extracts is formatted correctly?

Example A
Example B

(These are from the bibliography for my dissertation, if that wasn’t 100% obvious.)

They’re exactly the same, right? I haven’t slipped in any typos or Chicago style mistakes for you to catch. If we’re looking at this on the screen in Word or printed out, we won’t notice any difference. But what if we change the font from Times New Roman to Book Antiqua?

Example A
Example B

Example B looks just fine, but Example A is a mess – most of the line breaks are in the wrong places, and the indenting isn’t consistent. It didn’t look like this before, so what happened?

Let’s shine the Microsoft Word equivalent of a black light on the original examples: the “Show paragraph marks and other hidden formatting symbols” tool.

Now we see the issue. Example B created the bibliography-style indentation by selecting the text and applying a half-inch hanging indent using the paragraph settings tool (see the screenshot below) or the keyboard shortcut Ctrl+T (Windows) / Cmd+T (Mac), while Example A used a mix of paragraph breaks, soft returns, tabs, and spaces to do the indenting manually.

The same principle applies to other indented elements, like block quotations – instead of breaking it down into individual lines and using tabs or spaces to indent each one, just select the whole paragraph and click the “Increase Indent” button or use the keyboard shortcut Ctrl+M (Windows) / Ctrl+Shift+M (Mac).

As we saw above, it looks the same on the page (as long as you don’t change the font), so if you’re writing a paper for a class, it doesn’t really matter one way or the other. But if you’re writing for publication or want to publish someday, it’s important to get in the habit of applying indents and other formatting in ways that allow for the text to be edited and the page layout to change, which means using the formatting tools in your word processor instead of manually re-creating the format using tabs and spaces. (Plus, once you learn how to do it, it’s much easier than sitting there and trying to put exactly the right number of spaces at the beginning of each line!)

When I’m copyediting a bibliography, the first thing I do is turn on that “Show paragraph marks and other hidden formatting symbols” setting to see how the author did their hanging indents. If I see a bunch of dots and arrows, I turn Track Changes off and remove all the manual indentation – which can take a couple hours for a book or dissertation bibliography, even though I have a few macros that help it go faster – so that I can 1) apply my corrections without throwing off the line breaks, and 2) save the next person in the publication process some time and frustration. (If I’m working directly with the author, I might also take the option of asking them to fix it and then send it back to me.)

So, in writing for publication, even at the earliest draft stage, keep in mind that what you see on the screen in your word processor isn’t what the final product will look like. Using the built-in tools for different types of indentation will save time and effort for both you and your editors.


Erin’s Weekly Project Tracker

My work life as a freelancer/adjunct isn’t all that different from when I was a grad student – I’m juggling a bunch of different projects and types of work on any given day, my responsibilities range from ten-minute tasks to long-term projects, multiple unrelated people are depending on me to finish things on time, and I’m mostly able to set my own work hours. (The pay is better, though!) All of this means that 1) I need ways to keep track of a variety of things all at once, and 2) the productivity tools out there don’t understand me.

I’m currently using Amazing Marvin for my daily to-do lists, which solves a number of the frustrations I’ve had with other apps (and it’s super flexible, so when I inevitably get frustrated again, I should be able to solve the problem without jumping ship!). But I also need something to show me how I’m doing with my weekly goals and progress toward deadlines. In particular, I need a way to visualize the relative time commitment of each thing I have to do – it’s one thing to know that Project A will take about two hours and Project B will take about ten hours, but if they both look the same on my list, I’m probably not going to do a great job of prioritizing my time.

For the past year and a half, my solution has been to use a spreadsheet based on the weekly to-do lists I made in my first few years of grad school, which looked something like this (but much longer!):

  • Grade essays ⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜ ⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜
  • Do seminar readings ⬜⬜⬜⬜
  • Draft fellowship application ⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜

I would write up my list at the beginning of each week and put blank squares after each item (this was more than a decade ago, so they were Wingdings squares, not emojis) roughly corresponding to how long I expected it to take me and/or how much I was dreading it (extra points for scary emails!). After printing it out, I would use a different colored pencil each day of the week to fill in the squares for the progress I made:

  • Grade essays 🟥🟥🟦🟪🟪 🟪⬜⬜⬜⬜
  • Do seminar readings 🟦🟦🟦🟦
  • Draft fellowship application 🟥⬜⬜⬜⬜

When I came back to this concept in 2020, I decided to adapt it into an Excel spreadsheet – to save paper, yes, but mainly to make it easier to add new things in the middle of the week, since my week never turns out the way it looks on Sunday morning.

Each week, I start out by copying the blank template to a new sheet in the same Excel file and renaming it with the starting date.

The template is set up to do all the counting and color-coding. For the cells in the columns numbered 1 through 20, which is where I assign points for each project and check them off as I make progress, I used the Conditional Formatting tool to apply the following rules:

  • If a cell has an x in it, it’s gray (the template starts out with an x in each cell)
  • If a cell is empty, it’s white
  • If a cell has a number from 1 through 7 in it (representing the days of the week), it’s the color assigned to that number

For the list of projects on the left, the cells are purple if it’s incomplete (“Steps remaining” > 0) and gray if it’s complete (“Steps remaining” = 0).

To enter a project, I fill in the description and start/end dates, then specify what counts as one step – this isn’t an exact science, but I try to make each one represent around 20-40 minutes of work, so it might say something like 1 paper for grading papers, 3pp for a copyediting project, 30′ for something I need to spend time on that either can’t be broken down into steps or has a separate list of tasks elsewhere, or x for something that will happen all at once (like a Zoom meeting) or that can’t be measured easily. This is a project tracker, not a to-do list, so I don’t go into any more detail than that about what needs to be done (at least not here), and I don’t include individual small tasks like emails or sending invoices.

I then enter the number of steps and clear that number of cells on the right, which turns them from gray to white. The “Steps remaining” column counts the number of blank cells in that row – because it’s more than zero, this makes the cells to the left purple to mark it as an incomplete project.

As I make progress throughout the week, I enter the number for that day (Sunday = 1, Monday = 2, etc.) in a cell to check it off. By the end of the week, if I’ve managed to stay more or less on top of things, the sheet looks something like this:

(The project descriptions are blurred out because I’ve got NDAs.)

There’s also a section next to this that automatically counts how many points I get each day and how many I have left for the week:

If this sounds useful, you can get a copy of the blank template page on Google Sheets by clicking the button below:

I’m making it available under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial license, meaning you’re free to adapt and share this however you want, as long as you give appropriate credit and don’t use it for commercial purposes. (Feel free to change the color scheme, for instance – I used purples, blues, and pinks because those are my favorite colors and I have to look at it every day, but that won’t work for everyone.) It should work equally well in either Excel or Google Sheets.

If you have any questions or comments, feel free to email me or connect with me on Twitter (@MaherEK)!

Hymn Descant: EASTER HYMN

It just figures that this would be the year I decided to Make An Effort and write new hymn descants for Easter! I had just finished arranging the hymns, prelude, and postlude for the little chamber orchestra we usually have when it became clear that we wouldn’t be having an in-person Easter service. I hope we’ll be able to use the arrangements next year, but in the meantime, I wanted to share my descant for the hymn tune EASTER HYMN.

I left the text out because I went on and immediately got overwhelmed by the number of variants–I knew there were two texts commonly sung to this tune (“Christ the Lord is Risen Today” and “Jesus Christ is Risen Today”), but the “Christ the Lord” text has a bunch of different versions, and it turns out the one I know (from the New Century Hymnal) doesn’t have all the usual verses, and that’s just too much for my pandemic brain to process. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Anyway, feel free to use this if/when we have an Easter with church choirs again!

(This is the Finale-generated last verse from my chamber orchestra arrangement.)

Christ, My All (for SATB choir and speaker)

Today is the 200th birthday of Fanny J. Crosby, who has been my go-to source of public-domain hymn texts for the past few years, so I figured I would finally share a setting of one of her texts that I wrote for my church choir last year, in the hope that church choirs will be able to sing together again someday!

(I finished arranging Easter music a couple weeks ago, just before services started being suspended due to the coronavirus pandemic. Our prelude was going to be an arrangement of Phoebe Palmer Knapp’s tune for Crosby’s “Blessed Assurance,” perhaps her best-known text. Maybe next year….)

The text repository lists 757 texts by Crosby (!), and I was clicking on them at random when I came across “Christ, My All” and was struck by the frequent repetition of the title. It seemed like a good opportunity to write a sort of pseudo-Taizé refrain. (I didn’t look at Hubert Platt Main’s original tune until after I’d written mine—it’s a lot… bouncier.)

I decided to make the verses spoken instead of sung, inspired by Marian Wilson Kimber’s book The Elocutionists and by the 2017 album The Songs and Poems of Molly Drake by The Unthanks (and, I suppose, by my research on Madeleine Milhaud).

(The spoken part starts at 3:50)

For reasons of rehearsal time, when the choir at my church ~premiered~ “Christ, My All” on Maundy Thursday last year, we just had the choir sing everything, but I see the version for choir and speaker as an opportunity for someone outside the choir—perhaps a pastor or worship leader, or just someone in the congregation who’s good at reading poetry—to participate in the music.

I’m making this freely available because there isn’t much point in trying to sell church choir music at the moment, but if you ever use this at your church post-COVID, please let me know!

(I don’t have a real recording, so this is just once through the refrain in Finale.)

New Christmas worship song: “Take Up the Story”

Between finals week and Advent, December is always an especially busy time for me. Last year, I realized after Christmas that I had forgotten to post the new song I wrote for my church, so I figured I would hold off until Advent 2019. You can see where this is going–I spent this month chasing one deadline after another and forgot again. But it’s still the Christmas season, so I figured I would share it now instead of waiting another year!

In the few years I’ve been writing new melodies to public-domain hymn texts, I keep coming back to Fanny Crosby’s prolific output, and this is another one of hers. The original title was “Never Shone a Light So Fair,” but I kept forgetting that, so I called my version “Take Up the Story.”

1. Never shone a light so fair,
Never fell so sweet a song,
As the chorus in the air,
Chanted by the angel-throng;
Ev’ry star took up the story,
“Christ has come, the Prince of glory,
Come in humble hearts to dwell,
God with us, God with us,
God with us, Immanuel.”
2. Still that Jubilee of song
Breaks upon the rising morn;
While the anthem rolls along,
Floods of light the earth adorn;
Old and young take up the story,
“Christ has come, the Prince of glory,
Come in humble hearts to dwell,
God with us, God with us,
God with us, Immanuel.”
3. Welcome now the blessed day
When we praise the Lord our King;
When we meet to praise and pray,
And His love with gladness sing;
Let the world take up the story,
“Christ has come, the Prince of glory,
Come in humble hearts to dwell,
God with us, God with us,
God with us, Immanuel.”
(If your church tends to stay away from “Lord our King”-type language like mine does, my suggested alternative for the beginning of verse 3 is “Welcome now the blessed day / When we give our offering.”)

My intent was to write an upbeat worship song along the lines of “Let the World Sing Gloria” (but faster, around 𝅘𝅥 = 144), but it works with a mellower feel too. I don’t have a real recording, but I do have a Finale-generated mp3 of the moderately over-the-top orchestration I did for last year’s Advent IV service!

“Take Up the Story,” music and arrangement by Erin K. Maher

Check out my Payhip store to purchase PDFs of “Take Up the Story” and my other church music. The music is licensed under a Creative Commons
Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License
, and one purchase authorizes you to make as many copies as you need for personal and worship use.


Checking Twitter between AMS papers yesterday afternoon, I saw a few musicology friends grumbling about critic Anthony Tommasini’s new piece in the New York Times, “The Case for Greatness in Classical Music,” adapted from his new book. I took a minute to read it before running off to another paper, and it annoyed me about as much as I expected. To start with, the article is illustrated with the images of Mahler, Beethoven, and Grieg, reminding me of what happens when you do a Google search for “music composers”:


(It goes on like that for a while–Clara Schumann and Hildegard von Bingen finally show up near the end.)

In his penultimate paragraph, Tommasini does acknowledge that the persistent fixation on “greatness” has contributed to inequality in classical music. But the caveat seems like an afterthought, and he remains attached to the concept. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Like most of my Musicology Twitter colleagues, I’m… not. In the courses I teach, I make a point of taking a step back from the “greatness” question, looking instead at what the rhetoric of musical greatness does. (My insistence on this issue may be because as a second-year graduate student, I was assigned to TA a music appreciation course titled “Great Musical Works”–all Dead White Guys, eight Germans plus Bizet and Stravinsky.) Teaching music appreciation, I make it clear to my students that while I hope they find some things to, you know, appreciate about the music we’re studying, I don’t expect them to set aside their own systems of musical value to buy into the idea that classical music is somehow inherently superior to other traditions and styles. I’ve assigned posts from Linda Shaver-Gleason’s Not Another Music History Cliché! blog to get students thinking about what it means to think of someone like Mozart or Beethoven as a “great composer.” In my Women in Music course, we discuss how Romantic-era notions of masculine genius have both limited recognition of women composers and prioritized composition over other professions in classical-music history narratives.

From the discussion on my Twitter feed, it looks like this essay is going to prompt several other blog posts (yay!), so rather than doing a thorough takedown, I just want to make one super-obvious point: that there is no universal standard for greatness in music, and that the language we use to assign value to music reflects our own perspectives, which are shaped by our environment.

(Update: If you’re looking for a thorough takedown, here’s Emily E Hogstad’s post!)

Tommasini’s description of Beethoven’s Third Symphony set off my “okay, but that’s your opinion, my dude” alarm:

This music is colossal, yet also audacious and unpredictable. On the surface the symphony’s four movements seem to come from different realms: a brisk, purposeful Allegro with a searching development section that climaxes midway in a gnashing burst of dissonant chords; a grimly imposing Funeral March; a breathless Scherzo at once godly and giddy; a romping, mischievous Finale that is somehow the ultimate statement of the heroic in music.

But the movements are linked, almost subliminally, by short musical motifs that run through almost every moment of this 50-minute score, lending it inexorable sweep and structural cohesion. Talk about greatness.

Tommasini offers this description to contrast it with his lifelong love of the music of Edvard Grieg, ostensibly a lesser composer than Beethoven and therefore some kind of guilty pleasure. (Pro tip: if you really don’t care whether the music you love is “great,” you don’t need to feel weird about it!) The qualities he hears in the Eroica and the language he uses to describe what he hears reflect a view of musical greatness shaped by… the belief that Beethoven’s music is great, and that its characteristics therefore exemplify greatness. We all do this–we describe the music we like in ways that highlight what we like about it. When it’s the Great Masterpiece of a Great Composer, though, the implication is that greatness is an inherent quality of the music (and the composer), rather than a subjective and culturally conditioned perception.

The idea that Beethoven’s music, or classical music in general, is inherently and objectively “great” perpetuates cultural hierarchies that, as Tommasini gestures at conceding, contribute to exclusion and marginalization on many levels. One of them is the notion that there’s a “right” way to listen to and understand music, and that it’s just a question of learning to ~appreciate~ the greatness inherent in the Great Masterworks. (Can you tell I have mixed feelings about teaching music appreciation?) But even within Tommasini’s field of classical music criticism, what a listener may hear and describe in a piece of music is conditioned by their values and expectations. (I think we all know this–it almost seems too obvious to point out. And yet.)

To illustrate this point, let’s look at the reception of a symphony that, as Tommasini describes Grieg, “would not make many people’s top 10 lists”: Darius Milhaud’s Eighth, subtitled “Rhodanienne” (1957). Like a number of his symphonies, it was commissioned by a U.S. institution–in this case, the University of California, Berkeley, close to his Oakland home. (A few years earlier, the Berkeley music department had made an unsuccessful attempt to lure him away from the Mills College faculty, but that’s a story for another post.)

Following the work’s premiere by the San Francisco Symphony under Enrique Jordá, San Francisco Chronicle critic Alfred Frankenstein wrote in his review of the concert:

Like so many works of Milhaud, it is full of gracious, shapely tunes given both weight and energy by polytonal harmony and colorful orchestration. I especially liked the third movement, which restores the wild, all-out exuberance so characteristic of Milhaud in his earliest music, and the fourth, which is probably the most grandiose of the numerous pipe-and-tabor folk dance pieces he has written in tribute to his native territory.[1]

Frankenstein stops short of the truly over-the-top praise employed by a few of his colleagues in Bay Area music criticism, but he certainly seems to have enjoyed the piece. Moreover, he heard it in the context of what he already knew and liked of Milhaud’s music–its tunefulness, its energy, its essential Frenchness. While I’m sure there were Chronicle readers who disliked Milhaud’s music and resented having to hear it all the time, they would not have been surprised to see the piece characterized in this way. Milhaud’s ongoing presence in the Bay Area was a point of pride for the region’s classical-music community; newspaper coverage of his activities regularly referred to him as “the greatest living French composer,” and the leading critics depicted him as a composer who was successful, powerful, and still relevant, and whose music was both important and interesting. In this environment, a new work by Milhaud was assumed to be worth hearing, as a valuable contribution to the region’s music culture.

New York City was a different situation. While Milhaud’s professional networks in the United States at the time of his exile from France in 1940 were concentrated there, his ties to the East Coast weakened as he developed closer relationships in the Bay Area. By 1960, a generational shift in New York’s musical hierarchy had displaced many of the allies he had once found there, and he lost the music critics who had viewed his work favorably. Columbia musicologist Paul Henry Lang, who replaced Virgil Thomson (a Milhaud partisan) at the New York Herald Tribune, was especially irritated by Milhaud’s music, finding it formulaic, predictable, and old-fashioned. Lang’s review of the first New York performance of the Eighth Symphony in 1960 picks up on some of the same characteristics Frankenstein identified, but here, they are to be scorned, not celebrated:

The first movement consists of nothing but tricks; Diogenes equipped with a light house could not find musical ideas in it. The second movement offered latex melodies that can be stretched in any direction, while the third and fourth represent a Frenchman’s idea of folksy-gutsy music with lots of ‘wrong’ notes. After a while I was convinced that Milhaud is trying to imitate some of our boys, the Copland and Schuman of the Thirties.[2]

For Lang, the Frenchness and folksiness are defects in the music, and he hears Milhaud’s melodic language as empty rather than substantive. Not only does he hear the music as hopelessly behind the times, but he considers it a cheap imitation of 1930s American music, reversing the trope of American composers looking to France for inspiration.

Just as San Francisco Chronicle readers would be unsurprised to read a positive review of a Milhaud symphony, their New York counterparts would have come to expect the reverse. Imagery of workshops and factories appears regularly in New York reviews of Milhaud’s late-period music, and critics used the figure of the craftsman to dismiss him as competent but uninspired. (Two years later, Lang described another new Milhaud work, Ouverture philharmonique, as “one of those Milhaud jobs that goes reeling along on ball bearings.”)[3] While Milhaud’s prolific productivity was perceived as a sign of vitality in the Bay Area, Lang and his colleagues found it deeply annoying.

Clearly, both Frankenstein and Lang heard Milhaud’s symphony through the divergent lenses of their own personal tastes, musical communities, and professional politics. Is it too much to ask that we acknowledge that we hear Bach and Beethoven the same way?

[1] Alfred Frankenstein, “UC Festival Presents Imbrie, Milhaud,” San Francisco Chronicle, 24 April 1958.

[2] Paul Henry Lang, “Music: Philadelphia Orchestra,” New York Herald Tribune, 3 February 1960.

[3] Paul Henry Lang, “Music: New York Philharmonic,” New York Herald Tribune, 30 November 1962.