Secularize that door and come sip down. Oh, yeah, take off your clock and give it to the foodman. He’ll put it in the closed.
Okay, I run the absolute same test for indie books as I run for trads, and 99% of them pass them, same as trads: don’t hit me with five typos in the first paragraph, and we can stay friends. Otherwise I return the book and get another one.
(Weirdly, one of the ones that didn’t pass was a thriller with thousands of reviews, and the typos while not as bad as that paragraph above were bad enough I realized I was struggling to figure out what he was saying by the end of the second page, and I just didn’t want to work that hard.)
No. I’ve never come across that paragraph above, though I’ve seen typos in all those words, in different books.
And yeah, I know, right? Like I should throw stones on typos.
I don’t. Honestly I don’t. Except when they a) throw me out of the story. b) are really, really, really funny. Sometimes I feel I should keep a file of funny typos, because well….
I don’t really sweat the wrong verb tense. Putting a d at the end of a word happens, and is really hard for copyeditors to catch. And my “the things that copy editors miss” is pegged at someone killing a character twice and it making it to publication. (Phillip Jose Farmer, last book of the World of Tiers. At least the edition I read. And heck, in Noah’s boy, I introduce a character twice and not only did all copy editors miss it, but so did I. I should go in and fix it, I should. And I will within the next month.)
I also don’t sweat things like breathe and breath, even though it’s one of my pet peeves (I cuddle him, and feed him, and call him George.)
But normally the truly bizarre typos are easily understood, either a letter confusion, or a letter added or removed. Like when the regency gentleman hands the footman his clock. It threw me completely, because I’m seeing the movie in my head, and suddenly he’s taking a grandfather’s clock out of his pocket and handing it to the footman. Took me a second to realize he handed him his clock and his cane and go, OH cloak!
And I confess that I’d never before realized those were one single letter off.
However periodically you come across an author, who seems to be an English language native speaker (I’m if anything too sensitive to signs of ESL) and who writes well, but consistently uses a word not just wrong, but BIZARRELY wrong.
In this case, the author kept having people secularizing doors. And I kept going “were they religious before? did they give entrance to some kingdom yet unknown?”
It was done with such regularity — and yes, she obviously meant SECURING — that it’s either a single, massive search-replace snafu (say she misspelled secured — I don’t know how. You figure it! — and decided it was easiest to replace it all and somehow typed in secularized. (I once had one of those, where I accidentally replaced a misspelled word with a copied paragraph. My manuscript grew three times…. Eventually I figured it out))
Or, and this is the hypothesis I find fascinating, she was — like me — a precocious reader, too lazy to have recourse to the dictionary, and assigned words meanings by context.
I, for instance was in my teens when I realized that “aboriginal” (in Portuguese) did not mean savage, but “The original of its kind in the region.” And I only found out because I used it in an essay and the teacher kept asking “Aboriginal from where?” and I couldn’t figure out why that was germane…. And we won’t go into the fact that I thought sperm meant seed (well, it does! From the Greek) and started expatiating on the seed of something or other, but using the “classy” word at the table, and mom sent me to bed without dinner for indecent talk.
I mean, is it possible this woman somehow got the idea that secularize meant to secure? I can’t actually figure out a context in which she would think so, but the idea amuses me greatly. Mostly because sooner or later she’s going to use it in speech. “I want to secularize these documents.”
Of course, this is the way long running jokes are created in my family. Mostly through younger son’s spokeo’s. Like when he asked to be crucified AFTER death. (By which he meant cremated.) Or when he told his grandfather our newly purchased Victorian had Syphilis in the basement. (He meant asbestos, and that one truly is a complete puzzle to me. How did he confuse those two? I don’t know. And extra points to my — New England native — FIL for just going “uh uh. How interesting.”
A friend’s typo accident means we now have an effrontery door. As in he told me he’d come by between eleven and twelve, and if I were in the backyard, leave the effrontery door open.
That poor door is now the effrontery door forever. As in, Dan will shout from his office: “Can you get the effrontery door? Someone rang and I can’t go.”
Strangers will probably think we’re crazy.
But at least we always secularize the door when we’re done.
Can’t have the door going around doing Gregorian chants or something. It will cause talk.