I was reading last night (I know you are shocked) and found myself lost in a story.

Not lost like “Oh, I’ve been swept away ass-over-tea-kettle, ‘Calgon, take me away,’” type of swept away.

No, this was the not-so-great kind.

The “ummmm, who’s talking right now?” out of the story, backtracking through text and doing people math to figure out who said what to whom in what order, “what the heck is going on?” not so great kind.

And I was reading a Big Gun.

Yep, an “everyone knows your name” author.

Which in some ways made it worse…

But I forgave and jumped right back in with a shrug of — well I’m in love with the story so I’ll let it go.

And I know this Big Gun does this often for me. In their books.

Because they are one of my favorite authors.

*Gasp*

*Shock*

(*swoon*?)

(Not yet.)

Yes. One of my favorite authors is not perfect.

What!?!

(Can I swoon now?)

(Almost there…)

You can have a favorite author with a fatal flaw so deep and egregious, popping you so hard out of a story you have to count dialog lines, backtrack through a conversation by pages, grab a pencil and write in the names of who is talking, just to figure out who is saying what.

Wait, your favorite author can be—(gulp)—imperfect?

Yes, that is exactly what I am saying.

IT CAN’T BE SOOOoooooooo….

*SWOON*

(Thump)

…

(stage whisper from the post-swoon, prone on floor position: You knew it was coming.)

(True.)

(One eye pops open dramatically: You even warned about it in the last blog.)

(Also true.)

(Both eyes open and up on one elbow, using the other to point with no less commanding drama: So what’s with the sighing, Bucko?)

(Are you quite done?)

(No. And resumes full horizontal lounge in a graceful descent, back of hand daintily flares from the forehead. Not. *heavy sigh* Quite.)

(Toes tap in steady impatience.)

(Al-right! Alright. I’m up, I’m up…mother.)

(Tongue stick-outs are exchanged.)

(And normality resumes…)

(Hopefully.)

Yes!

Favorite authors are not perfect.

Their books will contain typos and incorrect punctuation, that may lead you down the path of “who the hell’s talking?”

Or steer you in the wrong direction. Was it the maid in the kitchen (with the candlestick)? Or was it made in the kitchen?

And sometimes, people are talking and maybe the author got lost too and didn’t realize it, fix it. And because they are a Big Gun with big guns, nobody said anything…

Like hey, you made a mistake. Tiny, not a big deal, but if you clean it up—just relook at what you did and do what is probably just add a sentence in, take one out or flop something around—you’ll keep your readers (thousands…millions…) from popping out of your story and doing what I did.

Scramble back and try to figure out what I missed.

Because, as a reader, the first thing I think is that I made the mistake of not consuming the words correctly.

Maybe I was distracted…

That I sipped some tea and looked away and back incorrectly.

Or had a sudden case of cat-in-face *meow* with fur applied to eye, nose, mouth in large quantities.

(Which is such a case of conflicting emotions from frustration at the interruption to the joy of warm animal—so soft—wanting to face snuggle, that I just want to stop completely whatever I am doing and burrow my nose into the offered belly.)

Anyways…

Kitty application aside, I think it’s my reading fault. And search for my faux-paw. (Meow.)

Which pops me out of the story more because I can’t find my error.

The lo and behold, it was theirs.

The Big Gun’s.

Blazing with glorious imperfection between said pages.

Then, after I swoon—whether needed or not (looks exchanged with myself)—I jump right back into the story.

Because they are my favorite author for a reason. And that reason is NOT that they are perfect.

Not even that they write a perfect story.

That they write stories that I find perfectly wonderful to dive into on a regular, and I keep wanting to. For all the reasons.

They feed all my reader-cookie-monsters.

So, I am getting on with my imperfect self and learning to except imperfection in other’s writing.

And not be shocked (and swoon) whenever someone else proves to be imperfect themselves.

For none of us are.

Except maybe…

I went to the DMV a couple days ago.

The vast expanse of waiting bodies in a sea of questionably schmutzed chairs, the cavernous grey room echoing an air of accepted depression.

I mean, come on. It’s the DMV.

A recorded voice boomed on a regular, announcing the name of the next person released from waiting purgatory and the window they must proceed to, to be wholly and completely set-free.

In that inhuman electronic stuttering, my name was called.

“Stephanie to window number 12.”

In relief, I stood with required documents flapping, my eyes scanned the line of numbered windows for “12.”

Then I heard the next name called, and my steps literally faltered in shock.

“Jesus to window number 36.”

And I took it as a life lesson.

Even perfect people sometimes have to go to the DMV.