2020-06-13, 07:52 PM
If a post is edited in the full editor it can insert extra line feeds between paragraphs.
The link shows my effort to repeat the error with the initial post having been cut from a word processor and then edited. Two extra line feeds are unexpectedly added between paragraphs.
Other users have had this same problem when copying from different word processors.
https://tittlelit.com/showthread.php?tid...429#pid429
I could not repeat the error on posts that had been manually inputted. It happens only when the edit is on a paste from a word processor, or copying and pasting a post that was pasted from a word processor. The error seems only to occur after editing a line feed.
The following post is an attempt to repeat the error here.
Nearly everyone is able to suspend reality long enough to accept a story— the made up entertaining lie that is spun from a writer’s imagination. Sometimes we laugh or we cry. Sometimes we shake in our seats. But eventually we come to the end. We do not keep on believing. We tender our praise, or hack with our criticism, and then go on to another story.
To keep believing in the story would be a confession to our own dull existence. Reality is dull and therefore we are all we will ever be. Perhaps that is because we can be no more than what we are. But that doesn’t mean the stories can’t be true; some of them. People exist that are more than what we can believe.
For Jeremy Dancer they were only stories...his stories. He barely paid his rent with sales to magazines and anthologies. But these stories came to him as if from an opened tap. He had to write. Among them was one about a man named Justin Thyme who could hear your thoughts as though they were a radio broadcast. Another depicted a blind Ellen Duval as a woman capable of seeing your very soul— without eyes, without light— seeing all you are made of. A third featured Duster Cumming, a young man able to grab an object with his mind like he’d roped it and drag it to his feet.
Finally, there was the story of Matt Angel who knew...he just knew. He knew your name, knew were you were going and how long you would be there. He knew what stocks would double and which would crash. He even knew how many gnats lived in the bean can that was deep in the dumpster across the street. He just knew.
Only stories. What Jeremy didn’t know was he had written the truth. Each of the four stories had gotten the attention of their real life counterparts.
When you read a story in a magazine and the name is familiar, and the character someone you’ve met, and you see the life of someone you know...you believe. The City Detective came to Justin Thyme wanting him to assist in interrogations. Ellen Duval was transferred from a job she enjoyed to personnel. She was in charge of locating the guiltless applicants that were capable of providing the best company performance...at any cost. Duster Cumming narrowly escaped the knife point of a group of small time hoods who required his services for acquisitions. And Matt Angel wasn’t home when the Local crime boss broke down his door— because he knew.
Could not recreate it here.
The link shows my effort to repeat the error with the initial post having been cut from a word processor and then edited. Two extra line feeds are unexpectedly added between paragraphs.
Other users have had this same problem when copying from different word processors.
https://tittlelit.com/showthread.php?tid...429#pid429
I could not repeat the error on posts that had been manually inputted. It happens only when the edit is on a paste from a word processor, or copying and pasting a post that was pasted from a word processor. The error seems only to occur after editing a line feed.
The following post is an attempt to repeat the error here.
Nearly everyone is able to suspend reality long enough to accept a story— the made up entertaining lie that is spun from a writer’s imagination. Sometimes we laugh or we cry. Sometimes we shake in our seats. But eventually we come to the end. We do not keep on believing. We tender our praise, or hack with our criticism, and then go on to another story.
To keep believing in the story would be a confession to our own dull existence. Reality is dull and therefore we are all we will ever be. Perhaps that is because we can be no more than what we are. But that doesn’t mean the stories can’t be true; some of them. People exist that are more than what we can believe.
For Jeremy Dancer they were only stories...his stories. He barely paid his rent with sales to magazines and anthologies. But these stories came to him as if from an opened tap. He had to write. Among them was one about a man named Justin Thyme who could hear your thoughts as though they were a radio broadcast. Another depicted a blind Ellen Duval as a woman capable of seeing your very soul— without eyes, without light— seeing all you are made of. A third featured Duster Cumming, a young man able to grab an object with his mind like he’d roped it and drag it to his feet.
Finally, there was the story of Matt Angel who knew...he just knew. He knew your name, knew were you were going and how long you would be there. He knew what stocks would double and which would crash. He even knew how many gnats lived in the bean can that was deep in the dumpster across the street. He just knew.
Only stories. What Jeremy didn’t know was he had written the truth. Each of the four stories had gotten the attention of their real life counterparts.
When you read a story in a magazine and the name is familiar, and the character someone you’ve met, and you see the life of someone you know...you believe. The City Detective came to Justin Thyme wanting him to assist in interrogations. Ellen Duval was transferred from a job she enjoyed to personnel. She was in charge of locating the guiltless applicants that were capable of providing the best company performance...at any cost. Duster Cumming narrowly escaped the knife point of a group of small time hoods who required his services for acquisitions. And Matt Angel wasn’t home when the Local crime boss broke down his door— because he knew.
Could not recreate it here.