|Image from John Carpenter's "The Fog"|
Cue scary music. They never leave. They're just waiting under your bed until you fall asleep.
I was looking at my e-book manuscript, Barking Mad At Murder, with the intention of turning it into a Nook edition, when I found a hideous typo. Something so sloppy that it makes me cringe just the think about it. Something so embarrassing that it makes that dream where your standing in front of the class in your underwear sound like a good time. (Isn't it odd that, even in our dreams, we subconsciously retain enough modesty and good taste to keep on our underwear?)
A complete scan brought up a few additional mistakes that never should have made it past my grammar-paranoid eyes. Had I not let the manuscript set long enough between readings and "filled in" what I thought it should say instead of reading what was on the page? Were my eyes simply tired from reading the manuscript so many times? Was I suffering from a rare form of mental stuttering that would allow me to think that "She took a a thingamabob--" sounded perfectly natural?
Hundreds of people had already bought this book. Did they think I was an idiot? If so, they were kind enough not to say so on Amazon. My mother suggested that, since so many people hadn't caught the mistakes in the first place, maybe the readers didn't notice them either. Thanks Mom, but that's not the point.
After I let loose a cry of anguish and shook my fist at the sky, I did another grammar check, fixed the errors, and uploaded the new manuscript. Then I changed my address and telephone number and started thinking of a good pen name for future books.
Is there ever a point where a writer can feel safe about typos? Do YOU ever feel safe about typos?