If you happened to stroll past my kitchen door over the last couple of days, you would have heard a strange thing. Not strange like call the cops, or strange like call the plumber, or even strange like let's crash the party. (I wish.)
It's more like strange I wonder what the hell this chick is doing. And then you would remember that I have a proofreading job this week (the historic romance novel is over, I've moved onto an 18th-century sea yarn, of a classic nature, the title of which you could probably guess, but you know, discretion being the better part blah blah blah...)
...and, continuing to think in this odd, run-on, stream-of-conciousness way (which is, I suppose, a fine way to think, but a pretty sophomoric way to write, if you ask me, unless you're James Joyce, which you're not, so shut it) you think Ah, she's reading aloud into a microphone, vocalising and recording every point of punctuation as she goes. She will then check the recording against the proofs.
It's kind of fun.
And also kind of funny.
quote ah comma ah comma quote says he quote well comma sir comma I can see you're a gentleman apostrophe subbing for t comma and I says you're a fine one semicolon quote
and yes, it did give me a headache after about four hours. (dot)
and I wonder how warped this practice is going to make me in my general reading ! (bang)
I'm guessing pretty warped comma at least for a while comma until I finish the job and get a grip dot
I'll stop now.
(I'm already having restless dreams at night of typos swimming before my eyes, which is probably no different than when I first started cooking professionally about ten years ago, and dreamed I was being chased by thinly sliced cucumbers and tomatoes. The tomatoes collapsed after a few steps, being so thinly cut and full of seeds and air, but the cucumbers stayed alarmingly intact and fought me quite fiercely.)
No really, I'll stop.