I have an inner nerd, (along with my outer one) a guy with a white shirt, red tie, and black horned-rimmed glasses. He functions as an editor, one I want to throttle most of the time. Once in awhile, he gets hung on a nail in the woodshed, just to get him out of my hair. He squirms and screams, but I am not deterred.
Somehow he always manages to sneak back into the study at the end of the project. He wants to take out all my best stuff: my quirky turns of language, the brilliant insights—all my jokes.
Funny thing is this: those edits can sneak in from anywheres, fellow writers who want to root out the main themes and the supporting research, the boss who edits in stupidity, error, and bad grammar; the secondary readers who can’t tell a noun from a verb, a subject from a predicate, heaven from hell, or tater tots from crepes with lobster stuffing.
If I keep the editorial git hammered into place, corralled and controlled, he loses interest, slinks back to his nail, then I can write in peace. I might need him later.