The Typo on Page Seven

Christopher was preparing to take a bite of breakfast when his cell phone beeped. Christopher eagerly dropped his toast and scrambled to check the notification; it was his email. The subject line told him all he needed to know: Your package has been delivered.

“Honey! It’s here!” he yelled to his wife as he scrambled to put on his sandals. He ran to the mailbox, practically tripping over himself in excitement. He yanked open the door and there was a package underneath several envelopes. Christopher ripped open the unremarkable brown paper and gazed down at the most wonderful thing he had ever seen: a pristine, hardcover copy of Christopher’s newly printed debut novel. Christopher’s eyes started to tear up as he gazed at the beauty of his work. The cover art was eye-catching, the title was captivating, and the aroma was irresistible. He stood there for a long time admiring his name across the front.

Christopher had spent nearly nine years working on this book. He had started writing in his spare time as a college student, putting his ideas together piece by piece. As he graduated college and started supporting a family, his writing was consigned to occasional weekends and rare writing frenzies. After years of editing and improving his story, he had a satisfying manuscript. His story had been rejected almost two dozen times before a publisher agreed to print the book, and that led to another year of editing, negotiating, and preparing for the big day.

And that big day was today, when he finally had his masterpiece before him, when people around the nation could have his masterpiece before them. Christopher’s book was being released at several major booksellers across the country, and he now had a copy in hand. Soon, he hoped, hundreds of people would also have a copy in hand.

Natalie, Christopher’s wife, walked up beside him. “Is this it?”

“Yeah,” Christopher responded, awe dripping from his voice. He held it up to show her the cover. “It’s incredible!”

Natalie gave Christopher a big hug and said, “Congratulations, dear! It’s finally happened! I’m so proud of you for sticking with it and getting this released.” She let him go and stepped back, making sure he looked her in the eyes. “Now it’s time to come inside. You look like a crazy man, standing here in socks and sandals and crying at the mailbox. Normal people don’t do that for twenty minutes.” They both laughed and went inside.

Christopher was so excited that he couldn’t focus at work. While many of his coworkers were excited for him, none fully understood the euphoria that Christopher felt, the elation that kept him so distracted. Finally, the workday was over, and Christopher could return home to gaze at his hard work, which by now was likely being read by people he would never meet.

He was so thrilled that he just stared at the book on his desk at home for almost an hour before picking it up and opening the pages. He riffled through them, inhaling the glorious smell of new print, and then sat down in his reading chair. He could hardly contain his giddy glee as he opened the book and started reading every word of the front matter.

Before he made it to the prologue, Natalie came into the room carrying a plate of sliced apples, his favorite reading snack. “I figured I’d find you reading. I wanted to bring you a treat as you enjoy your book. I love you.” She kissed him, put the plate on the end table beside his chair, and left the room.

Christopher happily started crunching on the apple slices, savoring the crisp sweetness, and continued reading. He moved the plate from the end table to his lap as he blissfully munched away. While he finished the prologue and moved to chapter one, he unconsciously curled his feet beneath him to sit comfy and snug in his chair, completely enthralled with his own writing.

But then he saw it. The shock of it completely dragged him out of the story, jolting him to his feet in terror. The plate of apples skidded across the floor, throwing fruit slices around the room. Christopher just gaped at the book in his hands in horror, ignoring the mess on the carpet. He started to tremble and sank down in his chair with a feeling of despair; there was a typo on page seven!

He scanned over it again, to make sure he had read it correctly. His eyes might have played a trick on him and it wasn’t really a typo, he reasoned. But no. There in the middle of the page, glaringly obvious, was a typo that stabbed at his writer’s heart. He read the offending sentence over and over, burning its sin into his memory.

No one would ever believe him, and there were right not to. Christopher started to feel sick to his stomach. No one would ever believe him, and there were right not to. Sweat started to gather on his forehead and roll down his back. No one would ever believe him, and there were right not to. Blackness started to creep around Christopher’s vision as he sat in his reading chair, the words now streaming passed his eyes. No one would ever believe him, and there were right not to. Christopher let the book fall from his quivering hands onto the floor and slumped in his chair in misery. His masterpiece, the culmination of his life as a writer, the story that he loved more than anything except his wife, was flawed with a typo on page seven.

When Natalie entered the sitting room a couple hours later, she found Christopher, moaning in anguish, slumped in his reading chair with apple slices scattered around the room and the plate upside down on the floor. Startled, she ran to him while calling his name. His skin was cold and clammy, but he recoiled from her concerned hands as she touched him.

“Christopher, what’s wrong?”

The only response she got for several minutes was continued moaning and a shrill wail. She eventually gathered that all of his moans were directed at the book on the floor. She picked it up and tried to hand it to him when he flinched worse and fell off the side of his recliner. She set the book down and went to cradle him instead, whispering soothing words until he calmed down.

After several minutes, Christopher was able to tell her about the typo on page seven. She lovingly smiled at him and stifled a laugh. “Christopher, does this one tiny flaw make your whole story not worth experiencing?” she asked.

Christopher paused as he thought about her question. “No,” he admitted.

“And would you allow such a mistake to prevent you from enjoying an engaging story?”

“No, probably not.”

“Then most other people won’t either. Let this defect be something that makes you human rather than something that degrades your sense of worth,” she said. “You are more than the mistakes that other people see. Never forget that.”

Christopher took some time to calm down enough to help Natalie clean up the room, but he pondered her words all that evening. By bedtime, he felt almost back to normal.

The next morning, just before breakfast, Christopher called his publisher to discuss the issue. Natalie, preparing breakfast in the next room, only heard his side of the conversation, but she could make a good guess about the other half.

“Good morning, Mrs. Pack. I wanted to talk about the book launch yesterday. No, my copy arrived right on time. No, I haven’t seen any of the numbers about how well it sold. But I do have . . . Really? Is that number good or bad, ‘cause it sounds really good to me. Oh wow. Oh wow! That’s incredible! Do you know what caused it? Book collectors, huh? Misprint collectors? I’ve never heard of that. How many were printed before we caught the mistake? That’s a good thing? Yeah, the one I have is one of the typo versions. Wow, that’s incredible! I don’t know what to say. I guess keep up the good work! Have a good day. Thank you, you too. Bye.”

Natalie smiled as she walked over, setting his breakfast before him. Christopher dug in with renewed enthusiasm and appetite.