I’ve often mentioned that John D. McDonald was a favorite author of mine in my late teens, twenties, and thirties. I liked him enough that I collected all of them, including The Girl, The Gold Watch, and Everything. I lost that collection in my divorce. I got the kids; my first husband got John D. McDonald. Luckily, my second husband, with the help of the folks at the Seattle Mystery Bookshop, replaced them all.

So I liked John D. McDonald. I loved Travis Magee. I read all of the books. One day, reading along in one of his books, he had a fictional character in Phoenix meet up with someone at the corner of First Avenue and Central. There’s only one problem with that. In Phoenix the numbered Streets are on the east side of Central, the numbered avenues are on the west side of Central, and never the twain shall meet.

This was a very long time ago, long before computers and e-mail. Long before being able to Google a city and looks at a satellite view of a city street. In fact, I believe I made a reference to that interesting part of Phoenix geography in a recent Ali book. I read the passage in John D. McDonald’s and realized it was wrong. What did I do about that? Did I haul out my typewriter and stationery and fire off a snail-mail letter to John D. McDonald telling him he was full of it? No, I did not. I decided that, in this instance, I knew more about Phoenix than he did. I finished reading the book and enjoyed it.

In one of my books, I made up what I thought was a fictional organization, a religious sect. For reasons that will soon become obvious, I will not mention the name here. The problem is, there really IS a group that goes by that name and their ideas are diametrically opposed to the ones I gave my fictional group. They must have a committee of people whose job it is to shut down anything they consider to be bad press. The reason I say it’s a committee effort, is that periodically I’ll receive a flurry of e-mails denouncing my fictional use of my fictional group. There is one trait all the members of the REAL group seem to have in common, based on what’s called “anecdotal evidence” from their correspondence with me: THEY HAVE NO SENSE OF HUMOR!!! AT ALL!!

I have a new book coming out this week, Second Watch. Someone has already pointed out that there’s a mistake in the name of one of the characters who had one name in previous books and whose name is different in this one. (I’m not going to specify. Some of you will notice. For others, it’ll go right over your heads, just like it did mine.)

Let me point out that the twenty-one Beaumont books have been written over a period of more than thirty years with more twice that many books featuring other characters written during that same period of time. I’m sure as old readers and, hopefully, new ones go through the Beaumont “canon,” they will discover a dropped stitch or two. A remark about a character, said in passing in one of the books, may not register in my head when I’m writing another book fifteen years or so down the line. If you find one of those errors, give yourself a pat on the back and tell yourself that you’re smarter than the average author. You’re welcome to fire off an irate e-mail if that’s what floats your boat, but remember, I’ve been writing for a long time, and I’ve received a lot of letters like that. It turns out, my authorial errors fill volumes. (Those of you who have written to me regarding helicopters and appaloosa horses, know who you are!)

Some of you already know that I spent five years as a K-12 librarian on the Tohono O’odham Reservation in Arizona. One of my friends there, Loretta Ramon Hawk, did beadwork. I still have the bracelet she gave me. It’s a treasure. She told me that in Native American artistry–basket weaving, pottery making, and beadwork, there always has to be at least one mistake because only the Great Spirit is perfect.

Apparently books shouldn’t be perfect, either.