Originally published in June 2021
In a world that tells us to just be ourselves, I feel like people spend a lot of time expecting those selves to be perfect. Namely, I feel like men who read my writing and hunt down my typos like some sort of literary spaniel and then point those typos out as if conducting a vital public service need to calm the Christ down and let a woman live. And write. I’m always fascinated by individuals who physically cannot stop their fingers from critiquing that which does not belong to them and that which they’re not being paid to edit. For free? For free you’re doing this?
I typo a lot. I am a writer, not an editor, and expending energy on that which doesn’t actually have an impact has never really been my cup of coffee. I am a creative, but a logical one, and since I’ve never actually seen harm come to me or others from a misplaced consonant, vowel, or comma, I keep it moving.
I also write a LOT. I’ve written over 440 essays on Medium since 2017 and if you’re bad at math kids that’s over 100 per year or approximately nine per month. To err is human, to write this much means I’m a fucking monster. What do you think happens when that monster opens her Medium notifications to learn that someone has read her work and the key takeaway from that work, for them, was something as ineffectual as a typo? Monster angry. Monster angry indeed.
You could have a blank space as a profile photo and a series of numerals as your name and I’d know you’re a dude.Ninety percent of people pointing out my errors for me like they’re doing me a favor,like editing astranger’s workis even a remotely normal thing to do possess the arrogance and entitlement only men can ooze from pores.
Did the boy have a problem with an accidental isle for aisle? Can he not go on living until he tells the girl what she did wrong? Does he feel better now? DOES HE? Let’s ask the girl how she feels. Oh, wait—why would we do that? Her feelings don’t matter, not to boys. Certainly not to boys on a mission to correct the errors of girls. Boys’ desires always come before girls’ feelings, everybody knows that!
Here’s a neat secret: My typos don’t matter! MOST typos don’t matter! Most typos, provided they don’t occur on medical records or tax forms (and don’t you know how many men are going to point out all the other places typos matter in my comments), can occur without causing harm at all to humanity. I don’t give a shit about the writing community’s exaltation of perfection and the unspoken criminal codes assigned to minor fucking mistakes. Do. They. Actually. Matter. If your answer is yes, I really need you to think about why. It’s an AP Style Guide not a fucking bible.
Why does the work of another person need to be perfect to you? Have you ever asked yourself why that’s an internal drive of yours? Explored what may be causing it? Or are you to—I’m sorry, too busy firing off corrections to someone who didn’t ask for them? I’m so baffled by the physical inability of human beings to just let shit be. Oh god, an error—GUARDS!
Moreover: You knew what I meant. My typo did not confuse you, you got the goddamned gist. Most comments and emails that correct my typos consist of one corrected word only and then end with a “?” I find this simple “?” an absolute urination upon the graves of my ancestors. The condescension. The belittlement. The audacity. As if to say, “You meant to type this instead, didn’t you, silly girl? I’m not confused, I know what you meant, I just like inserting my superiority into your day. But I don’t want to be too wordy, you know, so I just use a ‘?’ to keep things snappy, rather than typing out: I think what you meant to say was. Something about a question mark just makes your mistake seem so obvious and therefore makes you feel worse about it in our perfection-obsessed culture, you know?” I know that you know what I meant to say but obviously didn’t say because I’m a human being and humans make mistakes. What I struggle with is understanding why you have to poke the jello when you can clearly see what’s inside. It’s because you enjoy the wiggle. You enjoy the disruption too much you rancid prick.
I get it, you’re perfect. If there’s one thing we know about men on the internet it’s that their real lives off-screen are exemplary. Guys correcting my typos are simply imparting their perfection on others so that the whole world can level-up. That must be it.
Or is it that men believe the world is for them, the internet is for them, the work of other people is for them, and all of it should look exactly as each individual man wants it to look at all times or else heads will roll because they’ve been led to believe they’re entitled to roll heads? Hear me lads, from now on, I don’t give a shit how badly I misspell or misuse something. I don’t care if a missing period—try missing a real one some time by the way—causes you to break out in full-body hives. I’m not listening. I’m not hearing your commands to make the can labels in my cabinets face the front. I will not only leave the typos where they stand, but I will actually start inserting your entitled corrections into the work itself as a warning. Look ye! Here lies an asshat who corrects other people’s work but probably has an entirely empty Medium profile himself!
I am a great goddamned writer. I don’t need your help. Of course I didn’t mean to typo, but it happened anyway. I happen anyway, in lots of different, completely okay ways. And when you see a simple typing mistake that I made with my fingers and you’re just gagging to tell a woman what she did wrong? I beg you to go fcuk yourself instead.
Update, 6/22/21:
And here they come! Men telling me what I did wrong! The internet giveth.
