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No matter how many times I read over the final draft of a paper I miss some typos, a chronic misspelling, a word left out in the cutting or polishing process. Sometimes I fail to see a difference in number between subject and verb, or a cumbersome adverb between the parts of an infinitive, a habit I've found hard to break. On the other hand, in publishing jobs, in committee work, and as a teacher, I've been an excellent proofreader for other people. The only satisfactory solution I've found for this irritating paradox is to barter: I will proofread their work if they will proofread mine. The fact that when I type I sometimes reverse letters (a learning disability) doesn't help. When I was in college, I could never show my rough drafts to anyone because they looked as if they were in a language only vaguely related to English. The papers I turned in were readable only because I put in twice as much time as anyone else making them so. I knew that some teachers equated proofreading with intelligence. But I had no idea how little inclined any reader is--whether conscientious, exhausted, or jaded--to put faith or energy into what seems at best the work of a sloppy writer, or at worst, an illiterate one. Any reader feels jolted by a typo, whether in a New Yorker article or in a personal letter. Professionally, this natural recoil can be devastating: grants are not granted, jobs are not offered on the grounds that "if they don't care enough to proofread their work then we don't want them here." Beneath this impatience is the myth of the perfect draft springing as if by magic from the hand of the perfect writer. Yet a look at the drafts of some of our favorite authors corrects this notion. Thomas Wolfe delivered his chaotic manuscripts in boxes, to be shaped into novels with the help of his editor. Most professional writers and most professional people who write have editorial help: an editor, an executive secretary, the "secretarial pool." Writing well does not necessarily mean proofreading well. If you can't proofread flawlessly, find someone who can do it for you, and view their help as a conscious necessity that some other people can take for granted. The goal is to make sure the spelling, punctuation, grammar, the whole final draft is free of distractions: typos or word processor quirks (a sentence missing inexplicably, a word repeated or placed out of order). You simply want to ensure that the reader reads what you have written, as you intended it. Unfortunately, the myths about final drafts (if they are not perfect the writer is unintelligent, sluggardly, illiterate, defiant, insulting) are shared by many people who are trying to write: "If I can't get it perfect myself," they say, "then it doesn't deserve to be read." Teachers often are not much help. If they fail to transform a student into a good proofreader through their red marks and exclamation points in the margin, they find it hard to suggest that the student get help elsewhere. In fact, the myths of the final draft preclude getting help ("Your father read this over for you? That won't do you any good in the real world!" or, "You should take a course in grammar and clear up this mess before you expect anyone to read your writing!"). Some people back off: they write less or not at all. I've had countless students who dreaded writing because they equated it with the act of proofreading; and I've known too many teachers who find that equation appropriate, and continue to apply it. Writing is difficult enough. Few people do it at all, except under pressure. Fewer people do it with any pleasure. Fewer still do it well. If the myths of the final draft prevent you from writing, or from writing with pleasure, or from writing well, you have to permit yourself, slowly and with determination, to give them up. Proofreading is the end of a complicated process of finding out what you think, and how to say it with clarity and power to readers. It's a process people need to call on throughout their lives. Proofreading is absolutely essential; but it is a simple act that neither measures intelligence nor talent. It is an act devoid of morality or nobility. It involves no more wisdom than putting the stamp on an envelope in which you mail your application or the article you've spent six months writing. Without the stamp, you won't get any reading; without proofreading, you may get a poor, or irritable, or unenthusiastic reading. If you need help, have someone proofread your work for you. Burnout is clearly evident in those teachers who can only respond to typos and "mechanical errors." I don't blame them, of course. After reading thousands of un-proofread papers, who would want to crank up energy again to try and find the ideas and personal style in someone's garbled writing? But the advent of software that corrects spelling and even grammar puts the whole question in a new light. For the writer, correcting the final draft by machine is a blessing. Without the burden of circling errors and weeding out good writers (or applicants, or subordinates) from bad based on the myth of proofreading, some readers will have to retrain themselves to look for meaning in the words on the page. And that is all to the good. Writers have been doing the hard part long enough. Writing done well, on time, and flawlessly proofread, shifts the burden to the reader. Let the reader be vulnerable; that makes communication possible.
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