Telling It, Strong and True

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Errata.

Errors made. Errors made and printed. Errors made, printed, and then recognized as inaccurate. Errors made, printed, recognized, and corrected. Corrections captured and communicated via an insert or addendum. An unspoken apology. Or not. An unspoken regret. More likely.

Errata.

Apology accepted. Grace bestowed. Because no one is perfect. No one. The author writes and the publisher publishes and it is all scrutinized; every detail, fact, statistic, quote, recollection is devoured and digested and then assimilated or spit out. The author writes and the publisher serves the words. Take two bites. Try it. Just a taste. Of the words. Strong and true.

Haste makes waste.

Someone didn’t do her homework. It was an honest mistake. It was a long night at the computer. It was an insane deadline. It was human. Human error. A booboo. A blooper. An oops. Measure twice, cut once. It happens.

Errata.

And the author writes; words are herded into line, into phrase, into submission. The imperfect author writes towards perfection of memory, of cadence, of recall. The words are written, the words are spoken aloud, the words are released to do their job of healing or educating or challenging. Telling it strong and true. The author writes and tells the story, strong and true.

Errata.

After years and many tries, the author writes a book. After years and many tries, the book is published. And there is validation. And there is celebration. And, perhaps, errors. Like a birth defect, undetected, until the moment of unveiling or soon after when the scrutinizing occurs. The creation is inaccurate, distorted. Errors made and printed and recognized subdue the book launch, coulda-shoulda-woulda, and crash the launch party, too-bad-so-sad. Now an olive branch is extended between author and reader. Correction and communication mend the anomalies. There is grace for the author who writes, who endeavors to tell it strong and true, to reveal humanity, to move towards perfection but never arrive. The author tries. Errata reside in the trying. Just try.

Errata.

A memory floats. Out there. In a misty wispy vaporous gray place. It wears a dress. A fact stands. Solid and stoic, it stands and perseveres. It wears a mustache. A memory is recalled, it is massaged, it is unreliable but artistic. Dress meets mustache. A truth is conceived. Truth = Perspective. A fact is checked. Incorrect? Bastard. An unspoken regret. Shotgun wedding = Errata.

Expunction of errata.

Erasure. It is possible. A reprint. A second chance. A pardon and reprieve from mistakes made, printed, recognized, corrected, and communicated. It’s possible, but not guaranteed. There are no guarantees. In life. In getting published. In publishing perfection. No; there is author, writing, telling it strong and true. There is trying. There is failing. There is more trying. And, hopefully, eventually, a book. With errata. Or not. Just write and move towards perfection; wear a dress, kiss a mustache, birth a bastard, try and fail and occupy the story, telling it strong and true. Just write. Just try.

Errata.

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