When I see so many professional authors who put books out there, with their name on the cover, that contain typographical errors, there are two natural mindsets.
One is that I don’t have to lose any sleep worrying about the errors in my own book if people who were paid an advance fee and royalties can stand to getaway with it. Second and probably more realistic, is that if there’s so much as one mistake in mine, it will be passed over, because why would anyone pay for a relative unknown when they can buy the latest offering from someone they’re familiar with and ready to forgive.
I dreamt last night that I was holding the print copy of The Ideas in My Head. The first page had a typo. It was so unforgivable that I was afraid to look at the rest of the book for fear of learning that I had wasted good money having this proof copy made and shipped to me.
It’s a rational fear. It’s a fear that every author, even the more experienced ones, who have had a longer career than I’ve been alive, should worry that something is out there poorly representing them. Every chef in a five star restaurant will not send food out there that he or she is not madly in love with. Why should I be any different, expecting a reader to digest the thing I have produced?
In the back of my mind is a far less rational hope. It’s the hope that by realizing things could go wrong, that somehow they won’t. But Murphy’s Law doesn’t have an amendment that allows for awareness, so all I can do is wait. Wait and watch.
By the way, the thing I didn’t want to jinx should be easier to figure out now.