When a friend pointed out that I had typed foreward instead of foreword (as in an introduction to a book), I became a bit miffed.
“I do know the difference,” I petulantly protested.
“Whatever.”
“It’s just a typo,” I further explained, somewhat lamely. But later I realized that perhaps it was a tad more than that.
You see, Microsoft Word 2003—the word processing program I use—has a diabolical feature called AutoCorrect.
AutoCorrect is supposed to save time and turn lousy typists into superior ones by automatically correcting misspelled words. For example, with the AutoCorrect feature turned on, you can type recieve and go merrily on your way, safe in the knowledge that the computer will correct the spelling to receive.
When I think about how AutoCorrect works—following behind your typing to clean up your messes—I’m reminded of the guy trotting along at the end of the circus parade cleaning up after the elephants.
One time the elephants drank some brackish water and all came down with a serious case of diarrhea. When the elephant porter complained about how bad it was that day, how much he hated cleaning up after the elephants when they were sick, he was asked, “Well, why don’t you quit and get another job?”
To which he responded angrily, “Whaaat? And leave show business?”
But I digress.
AutoCorrect doesn’t always work the way it should. In the above example, you might wind up with the word deceive or perceive instead of receive. Apparently the artificial intelligence (an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one!) senses you typed the word incorrectly and replaces it with a correctly spelled word that may have an entirely different meaning.
Knowing this, I always make sure AutoCorrect is turned off on my computer. Regardless, sometimes my computer defiantly acts as if AutoCorrect is turned on.
For example: I keep a “to do” list of appointments, chores, and more, which I update daily. Every six weeks or so I have an appointment scheduled with a podiatrist, Dr. Gubler. For several months I discovered that the name Gubler automatically changed to Gobbler—and it wasn’t even close to Thanksgiving!
I recently typed a recipe that required a number of vegetables—carrots, celery, and onions—to be finely chopped. Everything was okay until I came to the onions. Though I was sure I typed the word finely, when I proofread the recipe it said finally chopped onions. Yes, the onions were the last veggies on the list to be chopped—but how did my computer know that?
A friend who is engaged in a major legal battle encountered a similar situation. Two words on a critical document should have read Ner Tamid, which is a Hebrew phrase that’s generally translated as Eternal Flame or Eternal Light. Well, actually, a closer literal translation would be Always Candle, but that doesn’t sound nearly as good.
But on the legal document, the phrase was typed New Tamid—which doesn’t make any sense at all. The opposing lawyer made a ganse megillah (entire story—or, in the vernacular, big friggin deal) of the error. I suspect the substitution of w for r was not a typographical error, but a covert AutoCorrect action.
The same thing appears to have happened when I typed foreword. My computer changed what I’d intended to be the heading of an introduction to a book to foreward.
The word foreward was apparently used only once in recorded history, by none other than William Shakespeare, in Richard III. No one is sure what the word meant, and in fact The Bard might have wanted to use another word altogether. As talented as the man was, he couldn’t spell, punctuate, or capitalize worth a damn:
“My foreward shall be drawn out all in length, Consisting equally of horse and foot.” Much as I’ve tried, I can’t picture any of that in my mind, but somehow it seems to smack of bestiality.
The problem of word substitution (with AutoCorrect supposedly turned off) has become more acute recently. At first I attributed it to my typing, but now I’m not so sure.
Every longtime touch typist will tell you that we don’t type individual letters, we type words. Just as we would not say to someone that we have a dee oh gee (unless we don’t want nearby small children to know what we’re talking about), we do not type the letters one at a time, d-o-g. Our brain thinks dog, and our fingers type the three required letters in proper sequence, without further ado.
I’ve been wondering if perhaps my brain isn’t sending wrong signals to my fingers. A few seconds ago, when I tried to type the word brain, it came out as brine. Just as I know the difference between afterward and afterword, I know the difference between brain and brine. The former is a favorite food of Anthony Hopkins, the latter is what I use to make dill pickles.
For a while I thought perhaps the problem might be caused by my aging computer keyboard. Sometimes a letter will double enter, as if the key I’ve pressed hiccups. At other times, in addition to the key I’ve pressed, the letter for the key next to it will also be entered. No, I don’t have fat fingers, and I’m absolutely certain I’ve pressed only one key.
There are only two other possible explanations. First, there could be a gremlin inside my computer. Some folk have told me there are gremlins inside every Microsoft operating system and program. I don’t believe Bill Gates would condone that sort of thing, but I could be wrong.
On the other hand, there’s a strong chance a spirit from another dimension is trying to send me a cryptic message. Can my computer be a New Age Ouija board? If so, why would someone want to tell me that my podiatrist is a turkey or my brain has turned to brine?
And finely, I just don’t understand how a foreward can consist of both horse and foot, equally. Shakespeare be hanged, that doesn’t make any sense at all.