In the winter of 2009 I sat in my apartment, a package ripped open in front of me, literally sweating with pride.  My brand-new book was in-hand, freshly shipped from my publisher. It was a moment I had waited my entire adult life for — to be published, and to have the book, real and tactile and an undeniable manifestation of my hard work, in my hands. It was physical proof of the ten years of sacrifice and belief in myself, against the hundreds of rejections I’d received and doubt (mine and others) I’d endured. I ran my hand over the cover, delicately.

Then I saw it, and that pride and feeling of accomplishment imploded. I stared at one ugly letter that stood out across the cover of the book, glaring at me like a broken tooth. U.  Ken Wilbur. As in, Ken Wilber. (Clicking on the image, above, will show you the actual book cover I saw that day.)

I could not believe my eyes. I thought: Am I always to be the punch line of the universe? What have I done to be denied a singular victory of perseverance and self-belief?  And then, somewhat less profoundly, You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…  There were copyeditors, editors, assistant editors, designers, all supposed to catch this sort of thing. How could this happen? And the image I approved, and the one still currently on Amazon, had the correct spelling. I balked. I complained. The publisher shrugged, said they had no intention of eating the cost of their first run, and that my contract was clear: I had the final word. They had sent me their final draft, where someone had “corrected” Ken’s name, and I’d missed it. “Sell out the first printing,” they said, “And we’ll fix it on the next run.”

Now anyone who appreciates fine automobiles knows how luxurious and spectacular an Aston Martin can be. When painted a sleek silver, the car looks like something straight out of a James Bond movie (where they are, in fact, often featured). Getting my first book published was like earning a car this magnificent after a decade of toil, having it be delivered to my driveway, and then noticing that it had a bright yellow door.

The typo wasn’t just anywhere on the book, like the title (where I might be able to, with some convincing, claim artistic license). No, the typo was at the top, center, and of the name of the most notable endorser I had gotten for the book (Ken, I might add, never received a copy in thanks, for obvious reasons).

In the months afterwards, every time the book was mentioned or I was talking about it, I always felt like I had an Aston Martin with a yellow door. “But it’s a beautiful car,” I could hear someone saying, “Fast, sleek, amazingly well made — a true work of art. You’re so blessed to have it. You should be proud.” But all I would see was that damn yellow door, and grit my teeth in frustration.

Now, almost three years later, I’m still on that first printing of The Mysterious Divination of Tea Leaves, which means that yellow door is still with me, to this day. But I have come to appreciate the book, and its flaws. I have come to be proud of it after all, the letter u be damned, for it serves as an important reminder that I probably shouldn’t judge my own book by its cover. But just for the record, here’s the cover I did approve, wonderfully typo-free (go ahead, click on it, and notice that gorgeous letter “e”, right where it’s supposed to be):