Fiction Proofreading

Be the editor: there are 25 errors to be corrected in the fictional extract below.

Errors are of all varieties: spelling, punctuation and grammar, including homophones, placement of
apostrophes and capital letters.

Creative Space
bunker wasn t the write word because it was an attic conversion. Nevertheless, this was the refuge
she had longed for, where she could hunker down to work over her neatly-ordered desk; the inscescant
distractions of family life shut outside.

The staircase leading to it was like a portal to a second life, where she could loose herself in the act
of creation. Here she breathed life into character’s that had emerged stillborn when having to share a
space, as if her imagination were crippled by the sheer presents of others’. Sometimes she apreciated the
sumptuous warm glow of the designer desk lamp that had been an indulgent purchase. She bought it
to mark her materialisation into a ‘serious’ writer, but it stood in stark contrast to her frugal nature. At
other times she sat in the mask of the dark, people-watching through the porthole, dreaming up second
lives for the oblivious passers-by. Too think she had been worried that the splendid canal-side vista her
new vantage point awarded her would be a distraction; insted it fed her creativity.

Today s subject was a distracted dog-walker. she had spotted him before, each time tapping away at
his smartphone while the little brown terrier bussied it self in the bushes, always several yards behind.
So much for the grate outdoors giving one space to think, he thought to himself, glancing back for the
umpteenth time in a matter of minutes to check the mongrel was behaving itself.

His masterplan was to make use of the hour or so a day he spent exercising man’s best friend by drafting
the novel that had been rattling around inside his head ever since he was a teenager. The condensed
screen of his notes app wasn’t an ideall work station, but it was no less practical than the anticque word
processor that he had sucesfuly typed a 10 000-word dissertation on, despite not being able to view
more than twenty of those words at any won time. Alcohol music and girls had been the distraction
then, now it was a maniacal rescue dog with an intense dislike of cyclists and an inexplickable fondness
for the excrement of foxes

Antisocial workaholic,’ She wrote, ‘creativity drained from him by the demands of office life.’

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Fiction Proofreading Answers
Creative Space
Bunker wasn’t the right word because it was an attic conversion. Nevertheless, this was the refuge
she had longed for, where she could hunker down to work over her neatly-ordered desk; the incessant
distractions of family life shut outside.

The staircase leading to it was like a portal to a second life, where she could lose herself in the act
of creation. Here she breathed life into characters that had emerged stillborn when having to share a
space, as if her imagination were crippled by the sheer presence of others. Sometimes she appreciated
the sumptuous warm glow of the designer desk lamp that had been an indulgent purchase. She bought
to mark her materialisation into a ‘serious’ writer, but it stood in stark contrast to her frugal nature. At
other times she sat in the mask of the dark, people-watching through the porthole, dreaming up second
lives for the oblivious passers-by. To think she had been worried that the splendid canal-side vista her
new vantage point awarded her would be a distraction; instead it fed her creativity.

Today’s subject was a distracted dog-walker. She had spotted him before, each time tapping away at
his smartphone while the little brown terrier busied itself in the bushes, always several yards behind.
So much for the great outdoors giving one space to think, he thought to himself, glancing back for the
umpteenth time in a matter of minutes to check the mongrel was behaving itself.

His masterplan was to make use of the hour or so a day he spent exercising man’s best friend by drafting
the novel that had been rattling around inside his head ever since he was a teenager. The condensed
screen of his notes app wasn’t an ideal work station, but it was no less practical than the antique word
processor that he had successfully typed a 10 000-word dissertation on, despite not being able to view
more than twenty of those words at any one time. Alcohol, music and girls had been the distraction
then, now it was a maniacal rescue dog with an intense dislike of cyclists and an inexplicable fondness
for the excrement of foxes.

‘Antisocial workaholic,’ she wrote, ‘creativity drained from him by the demands of office life.’

visit twinkl.com