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By Root 499 0

service of wiping out errata that probably nobody had ever noticed anyway. My concerned mother had asked me, “Are you sure that you’ll be able to find a typo every day?” Though I wasn’t worried about the hunting itself, I feared the greater trials that were sure to accompany it. I would likely encounter resistance the whole way from truculent shopkeepers and restaurateurs. I could even be arrested if I rankled the wrong folk. Plus I’d be blowing several thousand dollars in the process, money that could be spent in far more constructive ways, each now helpfully passing through my mind: exploring the far corners of Europe; a writing sabbatical for finally finishing my half-dozen half-completed novels; lots and lots of video games; or even, hmm, bolstering my pitiful retirement fund. What in the samhail was I doing?

Somebody encouraged a shot down my throat. A hurrah went out to the birthday boy, and it’s possible someone slapped my bum. My doubts dissipated: the renewed glimmer of the mission’s importance shone into my bleared eyes. This was virtuous work. Suddenly the vision shone bright, and I could see the future unrolling before me like a majestic throw rug, though its fringes were blurred. It would begin one typo at a time, each correction brightening the world a bit more. As each day went on, I’d meet more people, exhorting them to mindfulness of their p’s and q’s (along with any other relevant letters and punctuation marks). The cumulative effects of the multitude I’d inspire along the way would send ripples of proofreading across the land. As the legend of my deeds spread, people would come to my website, the one typo-destroyer in a sea of passive typo-patrol boats. I could inspire them, exhorting them to take up a marker and take their neighborhoods back. This could be the beginning of a true League beyond the humble quartet that I’d cobbled together.

The next day, once I could move my limbs again, I started gathering survival supplies for the road and cramming clothes into suitcases and bags. I bought a forty-eight-count steamer trunk of Pop-Tarts, reckoning that the abundance of toaster pastries—two dozen brown sugar cinnamon and two dozen frosted strawberry—would account for a major portion of our sustenance on the road.

I also began to assemble a rude collection of tools for fixing typos. The initial lineup consisted of

elixir of correction,* standard-sized

a thick black marker

a black Sharpie

white and colored chalk

vinyl stick-on letters

All of which I thrust into a plastic shopping bag. It didn’t stack up to, say, the Dark Knight’s utility belt in either efficacy or glamour, but I thought my tools would be able to handle most typo situations. I’d already written my first blog entry about my preparations, and I wrote another about the party. The blog had launched quietly, without fanfare, for Jane was still working on the official front page of the website, with its animated doodads. I didn’t expect very many people to be looking at the site at this pupal stage, anyway. As it turned out, my mom wasn’t my only reader; a couple of my friends posted encouraging notes. I felt nearly ready to depart. With three days left before the Typo Hunt Across America began, I had two things left to do: load up the car with my suitcases, and try my first typo hunt.

It did occur to me (rather late in the process) that I had never actually corrected a typo. I mean, sure, I’d corrected thousands of my own and those of classmates, colleagues, and magazine and journal authors, but they’d been looking for my help. Now I would need to confront strangers about spelling, punctuation, and grammar. These people would not necessarily share my zeal for such things, particularly in regard to their own errors. How could I, no extrovert by any measure, face them without wilting in fear? I could probably sneak in and make the correction myself in certain cases, but that wouldn’t work all the time. I had created a mission that forced me far out of my comfort zone.

I could work up to it, though. I had three days. I began at