Should I proofread when drunk?
There is a myth.
I always drive much better after a pint. Reactions are just a bit quicker.
In the good old 60s and 70s this sort of thing was common. Some people really believed it. I also knew a proofreader who subscribed to the myth.
See the errors much better after lunch. Couple of glasses of house red at El Vino’s and they leap out of the page.
Well, something leapt, but it wasn’t literals, transposed letters, jumbled text or the rogue apostrophes. After lunch Jim was incapable of seeing 20 point type and couldn’t tell italic from roman.
And you daren’t let him near a manuscript. His copy-editing style became brutal. The Stalin of the red pen. No author was safe. Jim would scrawl RUBBISH! across every other folio and write voluminous waspish notes to the author. When sober, he was brilliant, but after 2.30 a disaster.
Rogue editor
Authors needed therapy after one of his lashings. Trouble was, the harsh criticism was usually correct. But at copy-editing stage we cajole and nurse; we don’t edit with an AK-47. Jim knew this. Before lunch his discretion was legendary. After the fug of El Vino’s the red mist descended. He became visceral, abusive and raw. A small man with manicured hands and a pink shirt became a rugged SAS commander, a tiger among men. The poor author was a terrorist holed up in a jungle.
What to do?
How was this solved? Clearly, Jim had to be promoted to a position where he abused only his colleagues. A small seat on the board. He became a valuable asset. He was good at weeding the slush pile. He could suss out a best-seller. He was numerate before lunch. And after? Well, he dozed.
He would attempt a crossword. Dictate a couple of letters which Alison would rewrite. Have a couple of drinks about 5 before meandering to Waterloo and catching his train to leafy Surrey.
Moral of the tale?
Well, there isn’t one.
Now, Jim would be counselled about his drinking. A careful appraisal would be made by HR. He might spend his lunchtimes in St Brides listening to organ recitals. Or maybe find some ducks to feed.
No more would Jim attempt to proofread when drunk. In the afternoons he would copy-edit like an angel. He might send a kind email to an author suggesting minor amendments to a ‘brilliant’ book. Perhaps he would stop off at a less well-known bar for a couple before the train. A happier man? Who knows?