I before E, except after C?
By Sharla Gorder
I should’ve been born Catholic. So many of the rituals of the faith appeal to me — none more so than the Sacrament of Penance, or the Rite of Confession.
I, for better and for worse, have always been powerfully driven to “confess my sins,” and not just to some nebulous Higher Power, but to a real flesh-and-blood person, or perhaps even to the world at large, depending on the egregiousness of my transgression.
Get ready, World at Large, this one’s a doozy.
Forgive me readers, for I have sinned — well, maybe the word “sin” is not quite right. I mean I didn’t dishonor my father or mother, commit adultery or bear false witness against the Winns next door. In fact, I’m in pretty good compliance with all 10 of God’s biggies.
And no one got hurt or killed, unless of course my own ego counts. If that’s the case, then yes, I’ve come close to committing sin No. 6 on Moses’ Hit Parade of No-Nos. My ego has taken quite a beating, but it’s not dead yet.
But man, does it sting. Still. And it’s been over a month.
Just a few weeks ago, I was rudely awakened at 4 a.m. — not by my husband’s snoring or the garbage trucks at the curb — but by a single word suddenly blaring in my head. I sat bolt upright in my bed, pressed my face into my hands, and whimpered, “Please, no.”
I stumbled downstairs to the office and grabbed the top copy on a stack of signed books on my desk. I opened it to the inscription page — Damn!
My latest book, “Crayon Dawn,” my proudest creative accomplishment to date, was blighted. I felt sick.
I have no idea what I had been dreaming that night that tipped me off, but something in my subconscious couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe my sixth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Brennan, the one who truly despised me for reasons I’ll never know, was making a cameo appearance in a nightmare, wagging her arthritic finger at me and smiling smugly, “And you call yourself a writer. Maybe you should learn to spell.”
Uh, yeah, maybe I should.
I stood gawking at my own, regrettably legible, handwriting on the bright white page of my pretty coffee table book. In bold, confident strokes of my special (indelible) book-signing pen, I had written, “Sieze the Dawn! Love, Sharla Dawn…” times 1,500.
Yes, I had written that sentiment in more than 1,500 books over the last year. I distinctly remember, about 600 books in, while at a signing at Sundog Books at Seaside, looking at the inscription and thinking, "Is that right?"
Then, in my head, the voice of a teacher (probably, Mrs. Brennan, the witch) knowingly replied, “I before ‘e,’ except after ‘c.’” Good, okay then. There is no “c” in seize. Phew.
I am such a good little rule follower, but that “i before e” rule should be stricken from the syllabus of every English teacher on the planet. It applies, in common usage, barely half the time. How was I to know?
My only hope was that each of the hundreds of folks in possession of a blighted book had had a Mrs. Brennan for a teacher.
My first thought, as I stood there in the gloom, was “I must tell no one!” Then, “I must tell someone!” And finally, for reasons I don’t fully understand, “I must tell everyone.”
I started with my husband, then my brother, then a near stranger in the parking lot at Publix.
No relief from my debilitating shame.
Then it occurred to me. I’ll call Laura.
I hope everyone has at least one friend like Laura. She’s the one who could talk even the most determined would-be jumper down from the ledge. She will know exactly what to say. She always makes me feel so good about myself.
There, again in a parking lot, this time my dentist’s, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I made my teary confession. And Laura, being Laura, absolved me — with sound reason, clever humor and genuine love.
I got off the phone with her and felt lighter — and also a little bit sheepish. Laura, at that moment, had a thing or two on her own plate; her elderly mother had just had a stroke, and her son was getting married in a week. She has also fought and won, not one but three battles with cancer.
And here I am wailing, “Help me Laura, I’m in crisis! I misspelled a word!”
She didn’t miss a beat. Love rarely does.
And so, World at Large, there you have it. My confession.
And my apology. Sorry about that. If you are in possession of a blighted book, your best hope is that I become immediately famous and then die tragically. Your book might then be worth even more than the $34.99 you paid for it.
One can only hope.
(Blighted books, as well as untainted ones, available at crayondawn.com. Specify your preference. I’m feeling pretty healthy right now — but you never know.)
