A quick reminder about the memoir and meditation workshop tomorrow. It’s not too late to sign up.
This Saturday from 2:30 p.m. to 5:00 p.m. and every other Saturday after that. Cost: $45 for first-time attendees.
This Saturday from 11:00 a.m. to 1:30 p.m. and every other Saturday after that. Cost: $45 for first-time attendees.
Get words on the page and learn new writing tools every Sunday at 11:00 a.m. This workshop often sells out. Do not wait to register.
Last week, I spent an entire day berating myself over typos. I’m sure you can all relate. It’s stressful sending newsletters out to writers! So of course, I wrote about it to get past all the negative self-talk. I thought I’d share my little rant. 🙂
Anti-Ode to Typos
Eff you, typos! Leave me alone.
Stop haunting me with your sneaky letter drops, your blasted homonyms, your repeated words. Can’t you see that all I want to do is tell a story or communicate a message? Why must you lurk there in my computer, silently chewing letters away? Because I know, I know I’ve typed them correctly! Yeah, okay I rush when I type sometimes but have a little mercy for us lowly, imperfect, and ridiculously busy beings.
My inner critic, Bertha, of course, adores you. She laughs at me from her farm, which my parents called Mrs. Meanie’s Farm. She delights when I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m missing a typo, but I can’t see it with my own two eyes. You two work together, you sneaky snogbaggers (I made that up, but it’s really, really insulting), one of you sabotaging my brain and the other my computer screen. I hate you both, but I can’t stop you. So I sit here, defeated, questioning my right to be on this earth and communicate. I end up hating myself, and that’s your goal after all.
No more, I say. No more self-berating, no more blaming typos on my unworthiness. I have but one choice now. I must deal with this infuriating and depression-inducing situation. I must stop caring. I must leave the extraordinary proofreading The New Yorker, the grammarians, and the proofreaders. In a way, I’m doing them a favor, for without people like me, they’d be lost for work. So I give you, The New Yorker, the grammarians, and the proofreaders, I give you my angst. I trust you to tuck it away or diffuse it or do whatever you beautifully detail-oriented people are able to do with it that us ordinary folks aren’t able to do.
I resign from typo stress. From here on out, I shall embrace the typo and consider it a reminder of my beautiful and imperfect humanity.
Love to you all. I hope to see you soon!