For the past week or so, I’ve been working on the final, copyedited version of my book. All the typos and gramatical errors and style changes are noted in red pencil; it’s my job to go through them and accept or reject each change, and correct anything else I might find. It’s my last task, and after it, I’ll be ready to let go of this story.
It’s humbling, thinking of all the people who have helped me with this book. My friends and family, who blessed me twice, by being in my life, and then by letting me write about them. My agent, who believed in the story and found a good home for it. My editor, who helped make the book the best it can be; the artist who designed the cover; the copyeditor, who worked on the text. And there will be more people to come–book designers and publicists and book buyers, book sellers and finally, not least of all, readers.
More humbling even, is this: an astute reader noticed my last name is misspelled on the front cover. It’s easily corrected, but I had to laugh. It’s like finding out that you’ve had a little piece of spinach in your teeth all afternoon; or that you’ve been walking around with a white train of toilet paper attached to your shoe.
Or this: you’re packing up the car with the diaper bag and the extra diapers and the wipes and a sippy and a cup of Cheerios; a change of outfits and a bottle of lotion and wipes and the Whoozit and a binky. You’re pleased that you’ve remembered all these things, each of these little details has been attended to, until you drive off and realize, We forgot the baby!
And now, after missing the typo in my own last name, I wonder what else I’m forgetting?