How Do I Become a Proofreader? A question I am sometimes asked

by

As the title of this post says, I’m asked this question from time to time, in fact often enough that I’ve written a response that I can send, which covers many aspects of becoming a proofreader that I hope will be helpful to the person who wants advice. I thought I’d put this into a blog post, for the information of anyone who’s wondering. I can only give my experience, of course; there are no doubt many variations of others’ experience of proofreading.

  • Steer well clear of online courses. Sure, you’ll learn a thing or two, but a) if you don’t already know how to do it, you can’t learn it from a course, b) they’re mostly interested in getting your money, and c) they can’t find you work, no matter what they claim. By the way, these courses are not recognised by the publishing industry, and won’t cut any ice with them
  • The only qualification you actually need is whether you can do the job or not. OK, I’ve got a degree, but you will mostly learn good English from your education and your own reading. I’m fortunate to have gone to school at a time when they made you sit there until you’d learned a particular point of grammar and then you had to repeat and repeat and repeat it until it was embedded in your brain!
  • All knowledge is good and it’s what you do with it that counts
  • You’ve got to love proofreading, and find words and grammar endlessly fascinating. It doesn’t hurt to know a bit about grammar in other languages
  • You won’t get work with a newspaper or traditional publisher. They use people whom they’ve been using for years

I can tell you what I did in order to get into this line of work, just to give you an idea of what a long and convoluted road it can be – yours will be different! This story starts well over a decade ago:

  • I’ve done lots of different jobs in my life, but whatever job I did, I always ending up being the person who was asked how to spell words/where the comma should go/what’s the difference between ‘affect’ and ‘effect’ etc
  • Quite a few years ago, I became more aware than most of the shift in the publishing industry, and the trend for self-publishing. My sister (@TerryTyler4 on Twitter https://twitter.com/TerryTyler4) is a prolific and successful self-published author. She said to me one day that she’d read a novel by a self-published author who said she’d used a proofreader. A lightbulb went off in my head – I could do that!
  • But how to get myself out there and find clients? I was working as a secretary to a firm of architects at the time. I decided I would buy a laptop and learn how to use Twitter, so I could publicise my services. It took me weeks. My sister had to tell me how to do it, and it takes a long time to become adept at Twitter. I followed lots of writers, some of them followed me back. I made my profile, wrote a blog post about what I did, and then put out a few tweets about what I could do
  • I offered to work free of charge on a novel by a friend of my sister. That way, I got a lot of valuable experience, and she got another free pair of eyes on her book
  • This was in August of that year. In October, I got my first client. Crikey, someone wants to pay me actual money! I was very happy. In December, I got one more client. Next February, a couple more. I was getting approximately one client per month
  •  A year after that, I had the opportunity to take redundancy, a bit scary, but I took it. For the next year I worked part-time in various temp jobs, and did my proofreading also. After a year of doing this, I ended up with enough clients to work at proofreading full time
  • So – it took me a while. In the meantime, I was posting and interacting Twitter every day, asking for testimonials from clients, generally building up my social media presence

It’s been years now, and I’ve never stopped learning, in fact I pretty much learn something new every day. All you think you know about English usage and grammar and punctuation/the differences between UK and US English/the intricacies that you need to refer to in Hart’s Rules and The Chicago Manual of Style? There’s a whole lot more than you ever thought, then double that, there’s even more, stuff you never learn in school. 

So, in essence – it can be done but you have to work hard at it and it won’t happen overnight. It takes a long time to build up a profile, show yourself as a credible proofreader. We’re not helped by the fact that there are a lot of charlatans out there, also, or just general incompetents, who are trying to make a quick buck out of newbie authors – I’ve heard some horror stories. Case in point. One of my clients referred a friend of his to me – an ex-soldier who’d written his memoirs. I put his name on my schedule. The guy then came back to me and told me his dad’s cousin was an established proofreader, and he’d do it for nothing, so as his budget was tight he’d rather keep it in the family. Fine by me, of course, I wished him well. Much later I looked at his book on Amazon, on the ‘Look Inside’ pages. It was an absolute car crash, sad to say, even the first 2 paragraphs were riddled with errors, and there was no way the person who proofread this book was an accomplished proofreader, in fact I doubt whether they’d got O Level English. I didn’t say anything, but I felt really sorry for him.

As a parting shot, I refer you to this blog post I wrote a few years ago, which sums its all up for me:
https://juliaproofreader.wordpress.com/2015/05/25/why-proofreading-is-the-new-rock-n-roll/

Sliding Doors – 3 friends who hadn’t met yet

by

On 7th December 1993, Aerosmith were signing albums at Tower Records at Piccadilly Circus that lunchtime, so off I went bright and early to queue up. Just in front of me, sitting on the pavement, was a long-haired young man wearing a leather jacket that looked custom-made, covered in Aerosmith-related symbols. Now, being English and therefore ingrained with the etiquette of queuing, nobody talked to anyone else for at least 2 hours (if we’d been American, it would have taken 5 minutes), but after that time as it was cold, clearly everyone was there with the same purpose in mind, and some of us could see Aerosmith through the window (!) we started to chat, along with the young woman in front of him.

Well, after about 4 hours we met the band and got our autographs, and once outside, we all agreed to meet up in a few days when we’d had our photos developed – remember that?! I was in my mid-thirties, Paul was a 17-year-old student, and Jenny was in her early twenties. A few months later we all got together at Donington Monsters of Rock.

On 7th December 2023, exactly 30 years later, all three of us met up again outside what used to be Tower Records at Piccadilly Circus.

In the intervening years, we’ve all become firm friends of the sort that you know you’ll have for the rest of your life, with our other friends and families being incorporated into ever-increasing circles. I’m not quite sure how this happened. Some said it was because we all liked Aerosmith, but apart from that we shared nothing much apart from a right to trial by jury. What is it that makes some friendships endure through the decades and others just fade away? I believe there’s a spark of chemistry when you meet someone who can become a good friend – it’s the same as falling in love, but without the romantic or sexual element.

Cheers, Paul and Jenny! (And thanks to the mighty Aerosmith.) xx

‘Think where man’s glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was, I had such friends‘ – W. B. Yeats

The Le Paradis Massacre, 1940 – and my family

by

This is a story of love, loss, war and a family honouring the memory of the departed.

It begins with my late father, Douglas, who was brought up by his aunt and uncle, with his cousin Francis who was 9 years older than him. Here they are as boys.

In 1938, Francis enlisted in the 2nd Bn. Royal Norfolk Regiment. In 1940 the Norfolks were fighting, along with the 1st Bn. Royal Scots and other regiments as part of a rearguard action, allowing the main body of the British Expeditionary Force and elements of the French army to withdraw to Dunkirk and evacuate to England. By 26th May, the 2nd Bn. Royal Norfolk Regiment had established headquarters at Duriez Farm in Le Paradis.

On 27th May, with no ammunition left, the commanding officer Major Ryder had no choice but to surrender. 99 soldiers, mostly Norfolks, surrendered to the Waffen-SS Totenkopf Division. They were treated brutally by their captors before being marched to a nearby pasture and were gunned down in cold blood. 2 men survived, and their testimony eventually led to the story of the Le Paradis Massacre being told, and the execution of the German commanding officer following the Nuremberg Trials.

You can find more details on the official website of the Le Paradis Memorial Appeal, see here:

http://www.leparadismassacre.com/the-massacre.html

Francis had been one of five ‘volunteers’ from the Pioneer Platoon who were detailed to destroy the Pont d’Avelette and delay the German advance across La Bassée canal, but they were ambushed by German troops and Francis was killed in the ensuing fight. Here’s the story of what happened to Francis and his comrades:
http://www.leparadismassacre.com/porter.html

Because of the confusion of war, and Francis’s body originally being buried in a local French cemetery, Francis’s family were not notified of his death in battle until October 1941 and his parents eventually died not knowing where their son’s grave was, or even if there was one. Here they are with my dad in 1951:

For years, my father tried to find out exactly what happened to Francis, and where his grave was. At some point in the 1990s he attended a Royal Norfolk Regiment reunion and by chance he struck up a conversation with one of the men who’d been with Francis that day, Ernie Farrow. In 2013 he visited the cemetery in Le Paradis and the river where Francis had died. Unbeknownst to him, Francis’s body had in May 1948 been reinterred in the Commonwealth War Graves section of Dunkirk Town Cemetery.

****

And now to the present day; my parents, in their retirement, regularly visited Ypres in Flanders, and after my mother was living in a care home I liked to visit Ypres every year with my dad. Now that both my parents are dead, I go there regularly.

My brother, cousin and I are all supporters of the Le Paradis Memorial Appeal. This year, on the 83rd anniversary of the Massacre, we laid a wreath for those who died there, during the nightly Last Post Ceremony at the Menin Gate in Ypres. On the last of these 4 photos, you can see us laying our wreath.

I wanted to make the wreath and our visit particularly special, so I commissioned a picture from the talented war artist Timothy Godden. (You can see more details about Tim and his work here: https://timgodden.co.uk/ )

Here’s a close-up of the picture he created for us, which incorporates the new memorial situated outside the Edith Cavell chapel in Norwich Cathedral.

We also visited Francis’s grave in Dunkirk. 83 years after his death, I was able to stand at his grave and tell him that Douglas never forgot him, and his family had come to visit him. I laid a specially made white rose and a copy of the picture next to his gravestone, where he remains forever 20 years old.

We were all so glad that we’d been able to honour Francis and all his brave comrades, and knew that our dad would have been very happy. I felt the sense of complete peace, that one rarely experiences, as a result of having done exactly the right thing at the right time with the right people.

Stalking Fran Lebowitz (and other equally worthy enterprises)

by

Remember those weeks that turned into months when there were such tight constraints on our social movements that we weren’t able to so much as go to our friends’ houses, or even sit with them in the open air? When going out for lunch seemed as exotic as flying to Milan for Fashion Week? During that time, I would plan where I would like to go, much of which seemed like a pipe dream in those days when I’d get excited about a trip to Waitrose. My most adventurous idea was sparked at first by watching Pretend It’s a City on Netflix. I thought I’d like to go to New York, stay in the Chelsea/Village area, and hang around in case I could see Fran Lebowitz. Go big or go home, as they say. Well, I don’t, but some people do.

I thought about my plan some more, and eventually mentioned it to my good friend Jenny, who as well as being my partner in crime on various rock-music-related trips, is also a travel agent. We booked a hotel and flights. We made arrangements to meet up with some old chums from our Aerosmith days, friends who live in Manhattan, and also one of my clients who lives nearby.

Walking down Fifth Avenue, me and Jenny
With our Aerosmith friends

Here we are with Nancy and Becky, in Osteria 57, a lovely Italian restaurant on W. 10th Street. While we were waiting for our cab to take us back to the hotel, Nancy got talking to a lady with her dog outside an apartment block, when out came the doorman, who was the lady’s brother. He was wearing an Aerosmith T-shirt, so we told him we were also Aerosmith fans. He said he’d been to over 300 gigs, and had been a fan club member since 1983, named his children after the band members, and if he knew us better he’d show us his tattoos – but our cab turned up, so that pleasure was denied us! 

I had dinner with one of my clients, Kate P. Adams, who as well as being the author of the delightful, funny, elegant Charleton House Mystery series (read about Kate and her work here) https://www.katepadams.com/, also proved to be the most charming dinner companion a girl could wish for.

One of the things I love about this city is the buildings of old New York, the sort that you can imagine in an Edith Wharton novel, and particularly the ghost signs which are plentiful because businesses move premises all the time in this ever-changing metropolis, and leave some of their story behind.

On our last night we went to the Waverly Inn, which I especially wanted to visit because I’d seen Fran being interviewed there, sitting under a cartoon of herself on the wall. Our friends who live in Manhattan made a booking and met us there. Jenny managed to get a photo of me sitting under that very cartoon, but afterwards I was reprimanded by the sommelier (the shame!) because apparently you’re not supposed to do that, although he was very nice about it and said he hoped I’d got the picture I wanted. It was only when I investigated the place further that I discovered that it’s frequented by celebrities, and there are always paparazzi outside. Perhaps he didn’t want to upset me in case I was famous!

Me and Jenny, ready to go out and live the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, well, for one evening anyway!
Here’s one for the Franaholics!

So, I went big – and then I came home. And that’s enough excitement for a little while. But I’m already making notes on my to-do list about where I’d like to go next.

Outside Fran Lebowitz’s apartment building – mission (almost) accomplished!

Update – Fran Lebowitz had speaking dates booked in the UK, for which I bought tickets in the beginning of 2021. In June/July I finally got to see her in person. Firstly, I was in the front row at her gig in Bath, then a couple of days later with my good friend Trish at the Barbican. It was here that I finally met Fran, and achieved my initial goal of ‘not saying anything stupid’! (The goal of many fans when they meet Fran, she can be a bit scary.) I managed to polite and charming (though I say it myself), and she asked me a lot of questions, ending by looking up at me and smiling. My finest hour – so far!

Fran in Bath

Durham, Always in my Heart

by

Long, long ago, back when the Pope was an altar boy, I was invited by Durham University for an interview to study for a degree, dependent on my A-Level results. I travelled there by train alone, having never previously been north of Birmingham, and as I looked out of the window I increasingly realised that I was in what felt like another country. Once you get past Darlington, the appearance of the countryside and the buildings is very foreign to a southerner. More stark, raw, tough, uncompromising – and that’s the nature of the people there as well. I thought it was wonderful, and fell in love with the city as I alighted from the train, greeted by the sight of the wonderful Norman cathedral and castle. I felt that it was a magic place, and I still do.

Last week, visiting my sister who lives in the area, I went to Durham on a day trip. We had lovely weather for it. Here is the River Wear, where we walked along the riverbank on the way to Prebends Bridge, just by my college, St. Cuthbert’s, named after the patron saint of Northumbria, associated with the monastery of Lindisfarne. Durham is one of the very few collegiate universities in England, the others being Cambridge, Oxford and London.

The view of the cathedral from the riverbank
The university boathouse, bearing the graffiti ‘uni students are puffs’. The eternal town/gown conflict is alive as ever!
Me, walking in the footsteps of my youth

At the top of Prebends Bridge is St. Cuthberts, with its imposing doorway.

My room at the top, when I stayed in college. It was between the main building and the bar. All the colleges in this road are old houses, it’s a lovely place.
You can see St. Cuthbert’s through the archway

And so to Palace Green, home of the castle and the cathedral, with its famous door-knocker whereby one could claim sanctuary.

My sister Terry in the foreground
The bones of the Venerable Bede are laid to rest here
When I first went to Durham University, the city had the 1970s ‘right to work’ posters everywhere, and many of the shops and pubs were run by ex-miners – very much the north of Thatcher’s Britain. It was not unusual for some pubs (like the Shakespeare, above!) to only allow women in to sit in a little room called ‘the snug’, which they would enter via a side door. Women were not allowed to go to the bar to order drinks in these pubs, and had to bring a man with them to do so. Now, I can enter through the front door if I want to!

On reading my (younger!) sister’s blog post about turning 60

Here is the post, written a couple of years ago, by my sister (@TerryTyler4 on Twitter). http://terrytyler59.blogspot.com/2019/10/on-being-sixty.html

She’s absolutely right about all of it, and no matter how much I used to tell her how being 60 would feel, we all have to find out for ourselves, like everything else.

I remember a few years ago, my then boss got his Senior Railcard and was most disappointed when, the first time he used it, the ticket collector on the train didn’t stagger back in amazement and demand to know where he stole it from. I live in a little town where the guards on the train know the regulars, and there’s one who always indulges me by asking in a loud voice where I got this card from, whereupon I say equally loudly that I mugged an old lady for it.

I was with my sister on the trip to Hever that she mentions, and naturally I too got the Senior Discount, but I’ve got used to asking for it and nobody saying diddly squat, or even looking at me closely to check!

Occasionally I forget that I’m the age I am, and still get caught out. I remember talking to a 30-something about a subject that escapes me, and I gradually realised that they were expecting to hear my views on the subject from the perspective of someone of great age and experience. I wanted to say, ‘oh, I get it, you think I’m old! No, no, you’ve got it all wrong! If you could see how I feel in my head, I think I’m just the same age as you’.

There are some huge compensations to getting older:

  • We’ve found out, to a large extent, what clothing/hair/make-up suits us and what doesn’t
  • We’re not afraid to say, ‘no, I don’t want to do that, thank you’
  • We are very happy to go to a friend’s house, get into our comfortable trousers, and sit around watching TV all night rather than feeling somehow obliged to go out and socialise

There is a French saying that I remember hearing from our mother:

Si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait

In other words – if youth only knew, if old age only could.

My heroine (one of my heroines) the great, ineffably delightful Fran Lebowitz, says that nobody ever thinks they’re going to lose their looks until they do. When we meet old friends after a long time, we think, what happened to you? Then we realise they’re probably thinking the same about us. She remembers finding some very old photos of herself, taken for a Vogue interview, which she’d rejected because she thought she didn’t look good in them – if she were to wake up looking like that every morning now, she says, she’d be ecstatic!

So we keep on trucking – and hoping for a good tomorrow.

Cheers, all you over-60s!

Some Punctuation Marks Walked into a Bar and …

by

(I didn’t create this list, and I’m afraid I don’t know who did, so I can’t attribute it – but to whoever it was, thank you!)

• An Oxford comma walks into a bar, where it spends the evening watching the television, getting drunk, and smoking cigars.

• A dangling participle walks into a bar. Enjoying a cocktail and chatting with the bartender, the evening passes pleasantly.

• A bar was walked into by the passive voice.

• An oxymoron walked into a bar, and the silence was deafening.

• Two quotation marks walk into a “bar.”

• A malapropism walks into a bar, looking for all intensive purposes like a wolf in cheap clothing, muttering epitaphs and casting dispersions on his magnificent other, who takes him for granite.

• Hyperbole totally rips into this insane bar and absolutely destroys everything.

• A question mark walks into a bar?

• A non sequitur walks into a bar. In a strong wind, even turkeys can fly.

• Papyrus and Comic Sans walk into a bar. The bartender says, “Get out — we don’t serve your type.”

• A mixed metaphor walks into a bar, seeing the handwriting on the wall but hoping to nip it in the bud.

• A comma splice walks into a bar, it has a drink and then leaves.

• Three intransitive verbs walk into a bar. They sit. They converse. They depart.

• A synonym strolls into a tavern.

• At the end of the day, a cliché walks into a bar — fresh as a daisy, cute as a button, and sharp as a tack.

• A run-on sentence walks into a bar it starts flirting. With a cute little sentence fragment.

• Falling slowly, softly falling, the chiasmus collapses to the bar floor.

• A figure of speech literally walks into a bar and ends up getting figuratively hammered.

• An allusion walks into a bar, despite the fact that alcohol is its Achilles heel.

• The subjunctive would have walked into a bar, had it only known.

• A misplaced modifier walks into a bar owned by a man with a glass eye named Ralph.

• The past, present, and future walked into a bar. It was tense.

• A dyslexic walks into a bra.

• A verb walks into a bar, sees a beautiful noun, and suggests they conjugate. The noun declines.

• A simile walks into a bar, as parched as a desert.

• A gerund and an infinitive walk into a bar, drinking to forget.

• A hyphenated word and a non-hyphenated word walk into a bar and the bartender nearly chokes on the irony