John Ruskin made the point making a pin was a worthwhile thing, but polishing the head of a pin, as was done in by hand in nineteenth century factories, was a soul-destroying task.
As he says, the shine on the head of a pin is created by fine sand made of “human soul.”
I’m using that as an excuse to say that, being an independent writer means that my work is not glossy, it doesn’t enjoy the warm glow of attention from a copywriter. Metaphorically, the pins I produce are not polished.
Simply put, my books contain typos. It’s the price I pay for being a privateer.