To err is human . . .

[a meditation on a delicate point of etiquette]

[originally published April 19, 2025]

Hand to You Know Whomst, even as I was about to sit down to compose this very essay on the somewhat incendiary topic of the dos and don’ts of calling out another writer’s published errors, I took note that a friend—a pal of longstanding, let’s say, one I’ve known online for years though have never met face to face, one with whom I’ve enjoyed periodic private correspondence; basically, I’m just trying to set up for you, dear readers, our level of intimacy—had committed a wee but notable and noteworthy error in a just-published web essay.

Do I say something or not?, I thought.

How solid and secure is our friendship?, I wondered.

Am I able to point out the error privately?, I considered.

Can the error be easily and discreetly repaired?, I contemplated.

How would I feel if the shoe were on the other foot?, I mused.

Well, I have informed my friend of the error, because I’d say that we’re, by now, pretty secure in our buddyhood, and I was able, to be sure, to inform my friend of the error outside the public gaze (the magic of email), and the error can be fixed with a quick keystroke or two and probably no one (no one else, that is, besides my friend and me) will much notice one way or the other, and if I’d been the one to commit the error I’d, me being me, very much want to be told about it so that I could repair it.

So we’ll see, perhaps even before I finish writing this piece, whether I’ve happily helped enable perfection or lost a friend, and

BREAKING: I’ve just this second heard back from my friend, who’d just this second noticed the error (without, I’m told, my having pointed it out; and, yes, there’s no better time to notice that one’s gotten something wrong than the very moment you’ve published that something) and was in the process of obliterating it. And we’re still, it seems, on speaking terms.

Now, where was I?

Well, I’m right here.

And so are you.

So let’s, upping the ante, say that you’ve just read not an online essay but an actual printed book, and that the author is not an online chum of short- or longstanding but a complete stranger, and that you’ve noticed an error, perhaps a missing “the,” or a “lead” where “led” was meant, or, who knows?, a reference to the ancient musical comedy Florodora as “Floradora.”¹

What do you do?

What do you do?

One option, surely, and let’s call it Option A, is: Do nothing. The world is full of errors large and small, and mistakes are the price of being human, and quite possibly the error’s already been detected and pointed out to the writer thirty or forty times,² a repair has already been effected for reprints of what we now, perforce, refer to as the print book (and faster, nearly instantaneously, for the ebook, presuming there’s an ebook, as there almost invariably is these days), and the writer is good and tired of hearing about it by now.

Another option (might we call it Option B?), rather popular these days, is to call out the error publicly via social media, tagging the author, of course, and providing an accompanying screenshot so that everyone can witness the eagleness of your eye. Quite possibly, experience and observation have shown me, you’re going to, for your trouble, get blocked by the author and the more sympathetic members of the author’s online entourage, but at least you’ve done The Right Thing.³

Option C, and perhaps you can infer what the C stands for: Some folk have been known to check a book’s acknowledgments for the names of the book’s publicist, its editor, the author’s agent, etc., seek out those people’s email addresses, and send any number of individual messages, all to be certain that that “the” is set in place, that that “lead” is properly made a “led,” that that ancient musical comedy is called by its correctly spelled title. (He must be joking, you may well be thinking. He is, I assure you, not.)⁴

You could also—and by the bye I’m presuming that you’re not married to the author, or related by blood to the author, or currently shagging the author, or some combination of the above, all of which likely grant you the sort of quick and easy intimacy that can wrap up this entire issue with anything from a shout across the room to a fast text or phone call—avail yourself of the author’s publisher’s customer service email address, which you can likely find on the author’s publisher’s website, and you can be reasonably certain (here I can, as the person who used to handle these things for his division, speak from at least my own experience) that your message will be forwarded to some responsible party who can take note of your correction and, if it hasn’t already been processed (and presuming that it’s indeed a correct correction; it isn’t always), process it, quite possibly without disturbing the author at all. This is Option D, the D standing for Delightful.

And yet: Seems like quite a lot of work, you may be saying.

Perhaps it is. In which case, perhaps, Option A—doing nothing or, at least, doing something—anything—else, like going out for lunch or getting a mani-pedi or phoning your congressperson and senators about the ongoing fascist takeover of our country—may be your best option.

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Today’s cover image:

Jacques-Louis David, The Death of Marat Only a Few Short Hours After He’d Announced to Charlotte Corday at the Top of His Lungs at High Noon in the Place Vendôme That She’d Misspelled the Word “Bourgeois” in a Revolutionary Pamphlet (1793) (Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium)

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This is—wow, if I say so myself—the one hundredth installment of A Word About . . .

I’m pleased that you’re here, whether you’ve been along for the whole ride, or just dropped by for the first time because someone forwarded you this essay with a smirking, chortling, or infuriated emoji, or something in between.

And I’d like to express my gratitude, once again, to all of you who’ve subscribed. If you’re a paying subscriber, I’m particularly happily indebted to you, as you’re doing something you don’t need to do (there’s no paywall here), and your generosity and support mean the world to me.

Sallie is grateful too!

Sleepy but grateful.

🎶 Tell me, pretty maiden, are there any more at home like you? 🎶

1.

2. Indeed, a friend—a different friend—was lamenting just such a scenario yesterday, and thus I was inspired to finally write this piece, which has been knocking around in the back of my head for a while.

3. I do not recommend this option.

4. I do not recommend this option either.