Copyediting sample 26:
Avoiding full-tilt panic

In this quirky dark novel, I needed to examine each sentence to assess whether it fulfills the author’s intention. Simple punctuation can often sabotage that intention, as my comment explains.

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This sample is presented here with the author’s permission.

Original
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There are things you can do at times like these to avoid full-tilt panic. You don’t have to suffer. You can find someone with whom to waylay the anxieties resulting from your poor life choices. Maybe you’ve made friends; maybe you’re too old for friends. If you own a smartphone, for instance, you can download an app that will put you in instant contact with hundreds of single strangers in your area—not that anything reminiscent of a human conversation is bound to result. If you happen to be a woman, most of the people you contact will immediately request to see your tits; if you’re a man, they’ll want to know up front about the size of your cock. In the latter case, honesty will get you nowhere, unless you can skate by on a joke: “Four inches,” you might say, “but you’ll only need the first three . . .” To continue with the latter case—and with the added stipulation that you are heterosexual: Even if you can’t relate to women in the real world you can find them on the internet, in pre-recorded videos or, if your suffering is particularly acute, on live webcam channels (that is, if you have a Wi-Fi account or a neighbor with an unencrypted network). If you’re feeling communicative, you can even open a chat channel with the girl and bark orders at her: “Now, three fingers,” “Show me your asshole,” etc. Or if women aren’t your thing you can shove a bunch of nutrient-weak garbage into your face and wash it down with alcohol—which I do more or less constantly. I was raised by a man who could not be bothered to boil a pot of water, much less prepare a balanced meal; his predilection for microwavable products became mine, yet whereas he was something of an anorexic, my path diverged toward a bottomless, agonizing, constant need for these products. As I understand it, many overeaters use food in order to engender a yawning mental blankness inside of which pain no longer registers: The brain’s ability to process pain signals, emotional or physical, is diminished during the act of eating, just as it is during sex. I believe my case flirts more openly, more abjectly, with masochism, even mortification. My insides are as ugly as the thing which appears in the mirror any time I can bear to look; I am generally good for nothing beyond the mass consumption of disgusting, processed, packaged shit, which I am more than happy to puke back up whenever I’ve gone too far. The vomiting has nothing at all to do with fear of weight-gain and everything to do with the cleansing effect.” The pain is magnificent, there is nothing like it, nothing comes close, not even ejaculation. Once sated, I am able to return with calm and confidence to my classroom—or to my office—or to my contemplation of Kaurismäki.

Markup
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There are things you can do at times like these to avoid full-tilt panic. You don’t have to suffer. You can find someone with whom to waylay the anxieties resulting from your poor life choices. Maybe you’ve made friends; maybe you’re friends. Maybe you’re too old for friends. If you own friends; in which case, if you own a smartphone, for instance, you smartphone, you can download an app an app that will put you in instant contact with hundreds of single strangers in your area—not that your area. [Why the preceding suggested revisions? The clause about being too old for friends contradicts the statement preceding it and does not belong attached to it with the semicolon. That clause is elaborated by the smartphone app, which soothes (but doesn’t resolve, as we learn in the next sentence) the friendliness dilemma.] Not that anything reminiscent of a human conversation is bound to result. If to result: If you happen to be a woman, most of the people you contact will immediately request to see your tits; if you’re a man, they’ll want to know up front about the size of your cock. In the latter case, honesty will get you nowhere, unless you can skate by on a joke: “Four inches,” you might say, “but you’ll only need the first three . . .” To continue with the latter case—and with the added stipulation that you are heterosexual: Even if you can’t relate to women in the real world you world, you can find them on the internet, in pre-recorded videos in prerecorded videos or, if your suffering is particularly acute, on live webcam channels (that is, if you have a Wi-Fi account or a neighbor with an unencrypted network). If you’re feeling communicative, you can even open a chat channel with the girl and bark orders at her: “Now, three “Now three fingers,” “Show me your asshole,” etc. Or if women aren’t your thing you thing, you can shove a bunch of nutrient-weak garbage into your face and wash it down with alcohol—which I do more or less constantly. I was raised by a man who could not be bothered to boil a pot of water, much less prepare a balanced meal; his predilection for microwavable products became mine, yet whereas he was something of an anorexic, my path diverged toward a bottomless, agonizing, constant need for these products. As I understand it, many overeaters use food in order to engender a yawning mental blankness inside of which pain no longer registers: The brain’s ability to process pain signals, emotional or physical, is diminished during the act of eating, just as it is during sex. I believe my case flirts more openly, more abjectly, with masochism, even mortification even mortification. My insides are as ugly as the thing which appears thing that appears in the mirror any time I can bear to look; I am generally good for nothing beyond the mass consumption of disgusting, processed, packaged shit, which I am more than happy to puke back up whenever I’ve gone too far. The vomiting has nothing at all to do with fear of weight-gain of weight gain and everything to do with the cleansing effect. the “cleansing effect.” The pain is magnificent, there is nothing like it, nothing comes close, not even ejaculation. Once sated, I am able to return with calm and confidence to my classroom—or to my office—or to my contemplation of Kaurismäki.

Result
Click to go to the next sample in the series.

There are things you can do at times like these to avoid full-tilt panic. You don’t have to suffer. You can find someone with whom to waylay the anxieties resulting from your poor life choices. Maybe you’ve made friends. Maybe you’re too old for friends; in which case, if you own a smartphone, you can download an app that will put you in instant contact with hundreds of single strangers in your area. Not that anything reminiscent of a human conversation is bound to result: If you happen to be a woman, most of the people you contact will immediately request to see your tits; if you’re a man, they’ll want to know up front about the size of your cock. In the latter case, honesty will get you nowhere, unless you can skate by on a joke: “Four inches,” you might say, “but you’ll only need the first three . . .” To continue with the latter case—and with the added stipulation that you are heterosexual: Even if you can’t relate to women in the real world, you can find them on the internet, in prerecorded videos or, if your suffering is particularly acute, on live webcam channels (that is, if you have a Wi-Fi account or a neighbor with an unencrypted network). If you’re feeling communicative, you can even open a chat channel with the girl and bark orders at her: “Now three fingers,” “Show me your asshole,” etc. Or if women aren’t your thing, you can shove a bunch of nutrient-weak garbage into your face and wash it down with alcohol—which I do more or less constantly. I was raised by a man who could not be bothered to boil a pot of water, much less prepare a balanced meal; his predilection for microwavable products became mine, yet whereas he was something of an anorexic, my path diverged toward a bottomless, agonizing, constant need for these products. As I understand it, many overeaters use food in order to engender a yawning mental blankness inside of which pain no longer registers: The brain’s ability to process pain signals, emotional or physical, is diminished during the act of eating, just as it is during sex. I believe my case flirts more openly, more abjectly, with masochism, even mortification. My insides are as ugly as the thing that appears in the mirror any time I can bear to look; I am generally good for nothing beyond the mass consumption of disgusting, processed, packaged shit, which I am more than happy to puke back up whenever I’ve gone too far. The vomiting has nothing at all to do with fear of weight gain and everything to do with the “cleansing effect.” The pain is magnificent, there is nothing like it, nothing comes close, not even ejaculation. Once sated, I am able to return with calm and confidence to my classroom—or to my office—or to my contemplation of Kaurismäki.