Eat it. Perhaps the most demoralizing moment in the process of publishing a book is finding a mistake in the final version. After all those jittery man-hours spent scouring the manuscript, your stomach perpetually sinking, your neck seizing up, an error has somehow slipped through the goalposts and there’s nothing you can do about it. T.J. Stiles, in a recent post on his excellent blog, offers some advice: I often pronounce with godlike certainty, only to find later that I was simply wrong. Example: I wrote in The First Tycoon that Commodore Vanderbilt’s youngest son, George Washington Vanderbilt, never saw a battlefield in the Civil War. Wrong: Though contemporary newspapers and the (purportedly) definitive guide to the careers of West Point graduates told me he never served anywhere near combat, I recently discovered otherwise. In conducting research on George Armstrong Custer in the National Archives, I casually glanced at the primary sources there on G.W. Vanderbilt’s military record. The file included some correspondence noting that the aforementioned definitive guide was wrong, and evidence that he transferred to the staff of a general who took part in the Corinth campaign. I doubt young Vanderbilt took a shot at anyone, but he definitely went to the front. I was wrong. A nonfiction writer can have what seem to be absolutely solid sources, and still make a mistake. It might be because you didn’t take that one extra step (as in this example), or because there’s a source out there that you haven’t heard of, but is waiting to be discovered. In either case, you have to present your findings with humility, and be ready to admit when facts contradict you. And be afraid, because fear of blowing it will motivate you to work harder…. And yet, you have to write with confidence. If you’re sure about something, don’t equivocate. If you are not sure, don’t pretend otherwise—present the uncertainty honestly. Ironically, if you accept that you just won’t get everything right, and are willing to frankly admit errors or unknowns, then your work will seem more surehanded. And surehanded is good; weak writing is, well, weak.

Eat it.

Perhaps the most demoralizing moment in the process of publishing a book is finding a mistake in the final version. After all those jittery man-hours spent scouring the manuscript, your stomach perpetually sinking, your neck seizing up, an error has somehow slipped through the goalposts and there’s nothing you can do about it. T.J. Stiles, in a recent post on his excellent blog, offers some advice:

I often pronounce with godlike certainty, only to find later that I was simply wrong. Example: I wrote in The First Tycoon that Commodore Vanderbilt’s youngest son, George Washington Vanderbilt, never saw a battlefield in the Civil War. Wrong: Though contemporary newspapers and the (purportedly) definitive guide to the careers of West Point graduates told me he never served anywhere near combat, I recently discovered otherwise. In conducting research on George Armstrong Custer in the National Archives, I casually glanced at the primary sources there on G.W. Vanderbilt’s military record. The file included some correspondence noting that the aforementioned definitive guide was wrong, and evidence that he transferred to the staff of a general who took part in the Corinth campaign. I doubt young Vanderbilt took a shot at anyone, but he definitely went to the front. I was wrong.

A nonfiction writer can have what seem to be absolutely solid sources, and still make a mistake. It might be because you didn’t take that one extra step (as in this example), or because there’s a source out there that you haven’t heard of, but is waiting to be discovered. In either case, you have to present your findings with humility, and be ready to admit when facts contradict you. And be afraid, because fear of blowing it will motivate you to work harder….

And yet, you have to write with confidence. If you’re sure about something, don’t equivocate. If you are not sure, don’t pretend otherwise—present the uncertainty honestly. Ironically, if you accept that you just won’t get everything right, and are willing to frankly admit errors or unknowns, then your work will seem more surehanded. And surehanded is good; weak writing is, well, weak.