confessions of a crappy spellre

i sukc. . .

I am the proud owner of a bunch of letters. BFA. MA. Okay, five letters. Worked my little butt off for those damn five letters. Cost me thousands, no lie, and I can’t tell you how many hours of HELL I suffered through, getting those two degrees. 

I can write, but I can’t spell. 

My god, I am a crappy speller. I’ve spend countless hours pulling up, checking the spelling of a stoopid woid I should know by now. The enorimity of my disfunction borders on mind-boggling, and makes me want to cringe, or hide under a slimy rock. Or both. Craziest part of the equation is the fact that I’ve now written–let me count–over 282,500 wirds, I mean. . .

Is this insanity? What the hell am I doing?

Truth is, it doesn’t matter. I’m lucky in that I can craft a decent sentence, and another one, and put those two together in a meaningful way. I’ve written four complete novels and I’m working on number five. Not saying their all good, they ain’t. But they’re decent, and with more effort on my part, they may be viable one day. Look how I just wrote “viable.” No problemo. Sometimes there’s no ryme or reason to it. Sometimes I think my little pea brain takes a mini-vacation that I don’t know about. Later I pull up something I’m written and think, what the hell? I know how to spell “voratious.” I think. Looks funny. Let me look that bad boy up. Oh, crap. J. C. Penney with a damn second e, for chrissake. Ridiculous, how bad I spell.

But like I said, it doesn’t matter. In the long run, my mistakes will stick out like a sore thumb. Somebody will catch the screw-ups–if not me, then my betas. If not my betas, my dear husband. He’s a voratious reader, a really good speller and if not him, maybe one day, if I’m lucky, an editor will grab that perverbial pen and vomit red all over my beautifully written manuscript. Guess what, folks? That’ll be okay with me.

That’s what keeps me going, you know it? The thought that one day my manuscript will cross the desk of an editor, on its way to getting published. I gotta believe that. Everybody has there cross to bare, don’t they? Maybe I suck at spelling but dammit, I can right.


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