the FALLIBILITY attached to the REALITY of being HUMAN Part 1
Such a grand title, eh?
In the midst of my very first school visits talking about my new picture book, THE MOLLYS B., I had the very unfortunate realization that there was a glaring error in my book. Ah, yes.
I was recently invited to speak to 24 classes at four schools in two communities north of my hometown. Let me say, without a doubt, it was the most splendid of experiences. I met approximately 800 children ages K-5th grade who were interested and engaged in the dual stories of Margaret Tobin Brown and Molly Bovine. Many smart and curious questions were lobbed my way during the Q&As, and it was in the midst of one of these sessions that a niggling thought began to peck away at the back of my brain like a persistent woodpecker.
About a half dozen children overall asked me about the date of Margaret’s death. (There’s a section of backmatter in my book that tells the reader what happened to both Mollys after their near-death experiences. For the older children, their teachers and I included this bio section to the reading experience.) I found it interesting that this fact was such a curiosity to them. And I kept telling these inquisitive youngsters “1934” despite the cow bell clanging madly away in the recesses of my mind. (A woodpecker and a cow bell – wow, talk about mixed metaphors. Truly, it was that kind of disjointed experience.) I kept telling them this because that’s what it says in my book, for garsh sake! I kept telling them confidently and assuredly as the author of a non-fiction book. Even though I knew in a vague way this wasn’t correct.
Hubris will get you every time. (Huge sigh.) The woodpecker and the cow bell sent me racing back to check my “facts” - my sources, my research, the twelve drafts of my book, the other blogs I’ve written about Margaret. And guess what? Margaret Tobin Brown died in 1932. HOW had I let this happen? At first, I was speechless – stunned - embarrassed – and angry. Here I was telling budding authors that when you write non-fiction, it’s imperative, crucial, of the utmost importance, your main job as an author, etc. etc. that you get your facts straight. Pie in the face for me! Or would it be egg?
In the days following this unfortunate realization, I’ve asked myself over and over how this gross negligence occurred. I don’t really know, frankly. My brain knew the truth, but my mouth kept saying something different. I can hear people asking, why didn’t my publisher catch this error? I don’t know. They trusted me, first and foremost, to know what in the heck I was doing. I am the author, after all.
I think the bottom line is that we’re humans, and humans are fallible. We make mistakes. I have to let it go and focus on its repair because in the scheme of the world, this is not that big of a deal. It’s unfortunate. It’s embarrassing. But no one is going to die over it. Lose a little sleep over it – yes, done. Now I’m challenged with figuring out a solution.
Stay tuned for part 2 . . .
