Years ago I was rereading a short story of mine, which contained the following line:Read the whole thing. Back when I worked for The Magazine, my editor published an article in which he somehow managed to spell an individual's name two different ways within as many paragraphs. Not as funny as it sounds, though, considering the fact that all the rest of the staff, myself included, managed to miss the gaffe during the proofing process. When the stacks of mags hit our desks and Gaiman's Law of New Publications came into play (if there's a typo in the text, it will immediately be the first thing you turn to), no one was particularly pleased. Editorial blindness hurts.
"In the morning she photographed Vincent making coffee in his boxer shorts."
Now, I had already read that line dozens of times. And nothing had struck me as out of place. But on that last reading, something broke through. It was … laughter. I began to laugh uncontrollably. Real hurt-your-ribs kind of stuff. And I said, out loud (when able), "Why doesn't Vincent just use a paper filter like everybody else?"
"In the morning she photographed Vincent in his boxer shorts, making coffee."
That's what I had meant to say.
Unfortunately, you are the author. And you know what you meant to say. Ergo, you are the least qualified person on the planet to judge whether you are saying what you meant to say.
I have no magic bullet to remedy this special form of blindness. If I did, I'd be a rich author, indeed. But here are a few helpful hints.
(Picture: CC 2007 by myDefinition)