There are typos, you'll live.

When the creative muse is upon you, who gives a flying foot about typos? You type like a whirlwind, fingers moving like a machine, barely able to keep up with your wonder-spewing mind. Oh yes, you are magnificent...
...and you have no time for typos.

Typos. Even the name points to their being a mistake, an accident brought on by hitting a wrong key or whatnot. Typos don't render your creation any less magnificent - they are the flaws by which your character is revealed. If anything, the reader of your masterpiece should embrace your typos, celebrate them! Let the plebeians revel in the fact that even those bewitched by muses have flaws enough to make error in their work. This train of thought would never survive in the corporate world, I know, but among those who are artists, let typos roam free!

However... that is only in the creation. Come the moment of completion, there begins the stage of editing and my opinions on typos go through a transformation. I become a typo-Nazi. I suddenly forget that typos come about in those hazy moments of creativity wherein nothing but your thoughts matter. I judge the creator based on how many flaws have been made. I mock usage of the wrong "there," I scoff at "effect" and "affect" errors, I scowl every time I see a "d" where an "s" should be, and I crow out about my superiority in grammatical matters. I am a destructive goddess with a red pen, laying all before me to critical waste.

"Atrocity!" I cry out, "Blaspheme!" How can he who pens such butchered work possibly be worth his spit? How dare he write when it is so clear he has no mastery of the language? Who writes "know" when they mean "no?!" It takes more effort to make the mistake! What nonsense! What rubbish! What a calamity!

Imagine my surprise when I take pause to remember it is my own work I am editing.

Ah well, I am a hypocrite, or so it seems. What is to become of me? Allow me to offer you the following link. This is a simple story I wrote around Christmastime last year. Nothing special... BUT it hasn't been edited yet. I grant you permission to mock. Mock, red-pen, edit and scoff...
...as a hypocrite, I bloody well deserve it.
The Story of Barry Blimpkin