On the heels of a fairly frustrating day with technology recently, an email popped up from sorryyoucantspell@aol.com. This address was no good when I tried to reply, but the point of the message: One of my stories had two typos in the lede. That story was actually several stories, layer upon layer of rolling post-storm coverage. At one point, because I was rushing, I updated the text using an autocorrecting smartphone.
That right there was a mistake, because smartphones are dumb tools with great potential. Regardless, I fell short by not proofing better, by not taking time to see the edit through its conclusion. It’s not the first time I’ve edited an typo into a story and will probably not be the last — not that I’m the least content with that fact.
Errors rankle but don’t define me. No writer reviews his or her work without the urges to tweak something, no matter how small.
I embrace the critics, especially those who are so intensely bothered by my error, it becomes a mission to let me know. Most just email; a few call and point out the stupid thing I’ve done. They are usually a little surprised at being thanked for their kindness. Rarely do they hide behind an anonymous email address. A well-delivered criticism is a credit to both parties. It means the critic cares enough to speak up. I respect the time and consideration given my work.