Two Little Irritations.

Somebody told me recently that I’m ‘a comfort.’ Somebody else told me that I’m ‘intriguing.’ Yet a third person said I could ‘talk about the deeper things in life.’ I suppose I should be grateful for such compliments, but there’s something missing. I only want what I want, that’s all. Is that so terrible?

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I’m reading my novel again, just to see whether it still strikes the same chords. And do you know what I’ve found? Three bloody typos! How many times did I re-read and edit that book? And still there are three typos. A copy editor would have been useful. Damn. I suppose I can take some comfort from the fact that I read the best-selling novel Obssession last winter, and there are several typos in that. Good job I'm only an idealist and not a perfectionist.