How a typo changed my year.

I was sitting in the office at a local high school when the email came in. During a break while filming a video for the school, my publisher sent me a message:

Hi Jon,

I just would like to know how soon you can send the manuscript for the Finding Rest Workbook. We will have plenty of time for the video portion, since those don’t need to be complete until the book’s pub date (October 2022). But we do need to get working on the workbook. Can you let me know?

While I had just weeks ago signed a contract to create a companion workbook for "Finding Rest," there was one problem: I thought it was being published in October of 2023. So imagine my shock when I saw "October 2022" in the email and that the publisher wanted the manuscript ASAP. 

I felt my heart starting to beat faster. 

Quickly, I pulled up the contract to look for the manuscript due date. That's when I was even more surprised. I was right! The contract said I was to turn in a the final product on March 12, 2023. When I originally saw that date it stood out to me, but I just figured they wanted the most time to get everything right and design the book. I'm a writer, after all, not a publisher. I leave the publishing to the professionals.

I eagerly responded that while I was excited about what seemed like a new publication date, I was also a little confused. Within minutes, we all realized what had happened. There was a small typo in the year listed in the contract. The publisher was operating on the assumption that the book would be published this fall, while I was operating on the assumption that I had a year to produce a manuscript. 

Now, before we go any further, let me be clear: I love my publisher. I love the team there, I love working with them, and at every turn it's been a joy to partner together. Typos happen. (In fact, I've since found a couple in my book...even after multiple rounds of edits and multiple people looking at it.) In this case, the typo was literally one small digit. A small digit that made a big difference.

Here's the good news. That typo didn't send me into a tailspin. It didn't ruin my day or my week. It didn't send me into fight or flight mode. No, instead, it motivated me. We got on a call and came up with a plan that now means you will get a companion workbook not in a year, but in more like eight months. That's good for everyone!

In fact, as I pen this now I'm sitting in my favorite writing spot overlooking a serene lake as the distant sound of boat motors ripple across the water. I'm settling into one of four writing weekends that I've blocked out over the next six weeks. And I'm excited at the idea that I can, and will, create something worth your time in such a short period. Bring it on!

So why am I telling you all this? Because this whole chain of events reminded me of something: Small things can make a really big difference. One small digit in a contract changed my plans for the year. I had originally planned a very gradual writing process, but now that's changed dramatically. 

It got me thinking: What typos in our lives are making a big difference, maybe even a difference we don't realize? 

I was reading a story about Grammy-winning artist Mandisa today. She bravely has begun talking about her own mental health struggles after losing a close friend to cancer, struggles that culminated in suicidal thoughts. In describing how she got to that point, she called it a "slow fade": 

“I kept it all inside. Before I knew it, I was miserable and hopeless. I didn’t want to be around anybody. I stayed in my house for two years, essentially, just eating and getting worse and worse. It was a slow fade, until the point where I really wanted to end it all.”

I think there are a lot of us who have experienced typos in our lives that have given way to a "slow fade." Maybe it's trying that one thing you said you'd never try. Maybe it's drinking just one more drink than you planned on. Maybe it's a hurtful word to your spouse that you never thought you'd say. Whatever it is, those things build off of each other, until one day we find ourselves in a place we never thought we'd be. 

I know I've been there. I'm betting you have, too. 

But here's the good news: It's never too late to reverse course. It's never too late to try again. It's never too late to fix the typo. 

That's my story, both with my mental health and with this little contract mixup. It can be your story, too. 

So today, I encourage you to take stock of where you are and see if you haven't given in to a slow fade. Take a look and see where you've made a typo, and then correct it. I can't promise that won't involve some pain. But the temporary pain now is worth the future benefits that come with remembering, realigning, and restarting.

Because the best way to fix a slow fade, a typo, is with a fast correction.