I did it.
The bio is finished.
It is vague and thin-shelled, because it does not tell about all these other things I have done in my life and where I went to school and stuff like that. I am not going to put it here, and it is not on my website, either, because I do not like that kind of stuff.
I have been restless.
I am not a good person when I am restless.
I am about ready to begin something new, but it isn't there yet. I know when things are there, and this is not.
There.
So, out of restlessness and my intense avoidance toward completing such tasks as taking author photos and crafting vague, thin-shelled bios which make me sound neither heroic nor accomplished by any stretch of the imagination, I decided to re-read through the last beast of a novel I'd finished writing this past October.
I still think it is good.
But I found about four typos in it.
Typos make me insane.
How can typos remain invisible through so many sessions of reading, rewriting, and editing?
Typos are like ghosts.
Here is one that made me want to break something: I typed od in a sentence where I had intended to type of.
How the hell can you do that and not even see the little bastard for months?
I hate typos.
Sure, you think, I am finished writing... now I will just do a quick read-through for spelling errors. And you read a few hundred pages a day and a misspelled, two-letter preposition camouflages itself amongst multisyllabic vessels of presumed significance.
And then I cringe, what if THEY think I really am an idiot who uses words like "od"?
This is what happens when I don't have enough to do.
