Where a Man Becomes Comfortable with His Idiocy...
It happened again last week, while editing my current novel: every moment now a mument. This time I wondered if my memory stick was to blame; it was the only thing tying the two separate incidents (and I won't lie to you, I rarely click that little green arrow in the bottom right of the screen that you're supposed to). If this were the case, it would mean that all my short stories might be suffering from the same problem, thus accounting for all the numerous rejections I've been receiving. "This man is inventing words," the editors all say at once in my mind before pressing delete.
Yet all my short stories were fine. My mystery was novel based.
So what was the answer then? What realisation suddenly hit me in the face like a fist doing a punch? Well, one of my many failings as a human being is my inconsistent use of the informal word for "mother" when writing long form. As I've hinted at elsewhere on this blog, it comes of having been brought up in Birmingham where we like to use Mom, considering Mum to be too southern and posh. But many of my friends, and my wife, are southerners who insist on talking to me, thus creating Mum/Mom confusion in my language unit.
Can you guess what happened then? I bet you knew from the start (unless you're one of those kindred souls who are reading this having searched the internet for "mument" and stumbled upon this; please say hi).
Find and replace is a dangerous tool in the hands of a moron.