Before publishing anything, we always want to make sure the piece is as “clean” as possible. Sometimes, no matter how hard we try, our work escapes us in less-than-perfect form.

19th-century portrait of a Puritan woman writing at her desk while rolling eyes heavenward
Kids, man.

Some issues are due to our own errors, editing, or computer glitches. Whatever the cause, we suddenly we feel deep kinship to Anne Bradstreet in “The Author to Her Book.”

Anne Bradstreet wrote her poems almost 400 years ago, but writers today can empathize. We can use spell check, run our work through writing groups, hire editors . . . Stuff happens. While we want to send our best work out into the world, sometimes we need to let go of it, blemishes and all.

Almost 20 years ago, I did a prewriting exercise that turned into “Snowdrop in the Supermarket at Midnight.” This tribute to late-night grocery store produce departments is meant to be an abundance of color and texture.

I wanted to play with words and give the reader unexpected, chewy combinations. Here’s a stanza:

Fruit is piled like promises: pale orbs
of honeydew, mesh bags of limes. The curve
of a cantaloupe cracks like a potter's glaze,
and persimmons burn dim crimson
beside the dignified lumber of plantains.

“Persimmons burn dim crimson”–isn’t that fun to say? And I wanted to describe the pile of brown-streaked plantains beside them . . . But I didn’t know I had a problem.

I couldn’t spell “plantains.”

A bunch of ripe organic bananas
Bananas. Not plantains.

I put the prewriting away. Over the years I’d take it out again, rewrite it, show it to people . . . By my count, the poem went through at least three writing groups. Multiple people proofread this poem. At one point, it even won first place in the Chautauqua Festival Writing Contest, sponsored by the Wythe Arts Council.

Finally I submitted the work to The Anthology of Appalachian Writers published by Shepherd University. They selected the poem, and I was thrilled. Before publication, they sent me the poem to review one last time. That’s when I finally noticed the tiny red wiggle under “plaintains.”

All these years, all those readers, and nobody noticed I couldn’t spell “plantains.”

I added it to the edits, sent it back to the editor, and “Snowdrop” is in the book in all her word-chewing, apple-loving glory. But I learned an important lesson that day: do your best, send out your work when it’s ready, and remember that mistakes will still happen.

So . . . Don’t go bananas.

Store selection of slightly-bruised apples with stickers
Also not plantains, but easier to spell.