One of the joys of editing ...
By that I mean that it’s just tedious to slog through badly written, badly edited prose that you are nonetheless required to read for some bureaucratic or civic reason but that you have no control over.
And there is surely a sense of pride in turning a sow’s ear of a manuscript into a silk purse of a finished book.
But there is real glee, for me at least, in finally, after a long and busy week, stealing a few minutes with The New Yorker—certainly one of the best edited weeklies around—and coming to this sentence in a piece by Malcom Gladwell: “A woman has fled an abusive relationship with her infant son and is now living in a port town.” (He’s describing a film plot; these are not real people. Relax.)
Well, I’m easily amused, I guess. Correcting the above sentence is left as an exercise for the reader.