It seems most writers are enamored of their own written word. I had heard the horror stories of slash, chop, and pillage by editors but remained convinced in that curious egocentric way of most writers, (particularly those with as little book experience as I), that my prose was different, exceptional, and would no doubt elicit just a miniscule of editorial comment. Matter of fact, I was quite convinced my submission to the highly recommended private editor for comments prior to portions of the manuscript heading out to the publisher would reaffirm my lofty notions of my writing talent.
My first glimpse of my copy, edited, brought a startled “what the . . . .”. I threw the manuscript to the side and headed out the door to get some ranch chores done with an air of disgust.
Later, I sat down and read carefully the cross out, scribbles, comments, and suggestions which more or less obliterated the printed portions of virtually every page. After my review I slowly laid the manuscript down, leaned back in my chair, grinned in startled surprise and enjoyed the epiphany. 99.9% of the comments were better than good. They were terrific. Long live the editor!