Most people have a good idea about what writers do, namely that they write.

There are different kinds of writers, but when folks hear the word, they probably think of either novelists, nonfiction writers and journalists. And they also probably think of them in the following ways.

Novelists barricade themselves in a room with nothing but a desk a lamp and a typewriter, a few gallons of coffee and a carton of cigarettes, and they sit there pounding away on the ole Smith Corona. Then, a decade or so later, when they’ve finished their oeuvre, they retire comfortably for the rest of their days on the the moolah from the book, their TV appearances and pithy speeches at college graduations.

The nonfiction writers spend almost all their time in libraries and archives digging through diaries, letters and other primary sources. While drudges like the novelists, they aren’t as colorful, unstable or dipsomaniacal; thus, they rarely appear on talk shows and the like.

Journalists are easily recognized by their pin-striped suits, snap-brim fedoras, reporter’s notebooks and brazen intrusive manner. They generally are as big a bunch of boozers as the novelists, but like the nonfiction types, they lack that certain je ne sais quoi beloved by TV hosts and audiences.

So I just told you what you already knew about writers, but what about those other vital characters in the publishing game — the editors? What do they do?

Of course, that depends on what KIND of editors we’re talking about.

Probably the most famous editor in U.S. history is Maxwell Perkins.

He started out as a reporter, then became a publishing exec for Charles Scribner’s in 1910, and then became a Scribner’s editor in 1920, a job he held till his death in 1942.

So what made him famous? Just this: Perkins “discovered” and helped get into print some of the biggest names in 20th-century American fiction. Among the writers no one had heard of till Perkins took them under his wing are F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Erskine Caldwell, James Jones and Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings. It was Perkins’ keen eye and sage advice that made those people household names.

Perkins’ greatest professional challenge was working with Thomas Wolfe. Wolfe was a creature of dreaded excess in all realms — reading, drinking, eating and especially writing. When it came to his writing, he hated deleting even one of his precious words — even though he overwrote crazily. But Perkins, who also was renowned for his gentle, courtly manner, managed to get Wolfe to delete 60,000 words from his first novel, “Look Homeward, Angel,” so it could be published. Even then, it was a long, rambling work, but it also became a huge literary success — something it never would’ve been without Perkins and his priceless, and persistent, input.

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A baseball analogy …

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So much for The Big Time, but what about editing in bush leagues, specifically in My Home Town, most specifically with me and the Enterprise?

Well, my relationship with my editor is hardly the same as the novelists’ with Maxwell Perkins. For one thing, there’s not as much editing to be done, with my columns running around 1,000, compared to the 228,810 words in “Look Homeward, Angel” — AFTER Perkins hacked away at it. For another thing, I’m fairly decent at doing my own editing. Then again, I should be: As a writing teacher, while I studied the art of writing endlessly, correcting student essays was the lion’s share of my job. Yeah, sure, in class I went over all sorts of things about writing, but the real nitty-gritty took place at home, poring each student’s paper and then trying to figure out how, exactly, to strengthen it. By my reckoning, I corrected about 75,000 papers, so it stands to reason I HAD to learn a lot about how to revise writing. I also learned why so many teachers love true-false, fill-in-the blank, and multiple-guess testing — in fact, I think I learned all I needed to know about that after struggling through my first set of papers.

So if I have all that experience with writing, I shouldn’t need an editor, right?

Wrong.

In the pedagogical manner I find impossible to escape, let me give you an analogy.

One of my besties is a guy I was in the service with — Dale Piirainen. To say Dale is a man of few words is world-class understatement. In addition, he has all the facial expressions of a figure in a wax museum. And beyond that, he never hurries or wastes any body motions. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he was lazy, which he isn’t, since he always gets done what he needs to, and does it well.

Before he’d enlisted, he’d gone to Iowa State on a baseball scholarship, which is no small deal since Iowa State is a Division 1 school. Knowing nothing about baseball, I one day asked him what position he played.

“The perfect one for me,” he said. “Third base.”

“Why was that perfect?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, “the third baseman really doesn’t do much in a game. Matter of fact, he does darn little.”

He paused for effect, and then went on.

“But when you need him,” he said, “you REALLY need him.”

And that’s what an editor is to me: Someone who I rarely need for advice or proofreading or fact-checking, but when I DO need him, I need him in the worst way.

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… versus dropping the ball

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I’d say an editor is like a psychologist, dermatologist or even proctologist; that is, someone who sees things you don’t see … or don’t want to see. Let’s face it: We’re all blind to our faults, whether in our psyches or our scribblings. And when I drop the ball, which I’m sure to do, I want my editor to catch it before it hits the ground — or in this case, before it hits page 5. And props be given to Peter Crowley, because that’s exactly what he’s done as long as he’s edited my stuff.

A perfect example took place a month ago.

I’d written about my brother having the Iliad as required reading in a high school class. Then, referring to something that went wrong in the class, I said the students were as confused as the Cyclops when he woke up blind. After I’d sent the column in, I got a call from Peter.

“Hey,” he said, “in your column you’ve got a reference to the Cyclops.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Why?”

“Well, you wrote about the Iliad, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“But the Cyclops was in the Odyssey,” he said, “not the ‘Iliad.'”

It was like a direct hit amidships. He was absolutely right … and conversely, I’d been completely wrong. I’d read both the Iliad and the Odyssey a bunch of times, so I knew the Cyclops wasn’t in the Iliad. Yet, sure enough, I’d put in my column, for all to see, and for many to get a laugh out of … at my expense.

But how on earth did that happen?

And there’s the beauty of a good editor: It doesn’t matter how or why it happened. It only matters that he spotted it, and then had the decency to let me know he was going to change it before he did.

And now Peter, my editor — and pal — is leaving the Enterprise. As a matter of fact, by the time you read this column, he’s on his last day.

He’s taking on a complete career change, going back to school to become a high school English teacher. In short, he’ll be trading in his blue pencil for a red one.

So do I feel about it? Unsettled, to say the least.

I’m not a fan of change for change’s sake, and if I had a motto, it’d be that old saw: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. I liked Peter as my editor, and I’d be delighted if he STAYED my editor. But that’s not gonna happen.

So what will I do about it?

I’ll do the only thing I should do: Wish him great success in his new adventure … and remind him not to stay a stranger.