New editor nerves: Navigating the first author–editor meeting
For me, the scariest part of editing is having to present as if I know what I’m doing.
I’m in my second year of RMIT’s Professional Writing and Editing program so, to some extent, I do know what I’m doing. I’ve been editing and workshopping my own work for a while now. I’ve been taught all of the best practices for editing someone else’s work: first reads, queries, style sheets, sensitive communication. But this year I had to put that theory into practice to edit a photobook as part of RMIT’s photobook project. This time, something I’d edited was actually going to be published.
I was confident in my ability to edit the work. Grammar, punctuation, structural feedback — no problem. I just had no clue how to interact with my photographer. Our teacher, Mel, stressed the importance of meeting them before we jumped into the work. The point of the first meeting, she explained, was to build a relationship with them. Editing another person’s work is deeply personal and, possibly, deeply frightening for the person being edited. A face-to-face meeting is the editor’s chance to humanise their photographer. It’s also a chance to let them humanise us.
They’re more scared of you than you are of them
Mel heard from the photography teacher that a lot of the photographers were nervous. Fair enough. I wanted to show my photographer that they were in good hands. But I was nervous, too. How could I make someone else feel at ease if I didn’t feel that way myself?
In this instance, I needed to be both warm and professional, which seemed like a tall order. I was nervous that I might tip too far in one direction, coming off as either all business or not business enough. I find the idea of professionalism intimidating. To me, it connotes competence and certainty— the kind that comes with experience. As a fledgling editor, I didn’t feel like I could pull that off just yet.
For this year’s project, most of the editors worked in pairs. My editing partner, Taysh, and I were assigned a photographer named Katrina, who was documenting the behind-the-scenes process of preparing for a wedding day at a venue in Abbotsford. Taysh and I had never met each other, so we arranged a quick one-on-one video call. We chatted a bit about ourselves, our assignments, how tedious studying online had become since 2020. And, of course, about the project itself. It was a relief to realise that we were both a bit nervous about the meeting with Katrina.
I think verbalising my nerves gave me some perspective. Of course I was nervous! I don’t have a tonne of editing experience, I’m still a student and I’m riddled with social anxiety in even the most low-stakes situations. Not only was I going to be guiding someone through the process of creating something, but I was also going to be meeting someone new. In the interest of authenticity, I thought, maybe Katrina would feel less nervous if she knew that I was, as well.
A face to a name
When we met Katrina, I liked her right away. She was friendly, soft-spoken and a bit goofy. Throughout the entire meeting, her AirPods kept falling out of her ears. We chatted about how we were all feeling and she readily shared that she’d been a bit nervous, too. We asked Katrina what she needed from us, where we could help, in what areas she felt she was weak. She was quick to mention that she was not a strong writer. On top of some broad structural feedback, she basically just wanted us to make her writing … better.
The three of us made a group chat after that. We spoke nearly every day — Katrina kept us updated as she drafted and redrafted, incorporating our feedback and admitting when she truly had no idea what we were suggesting.
I think I understand the importance of that first meeting. Humanising each other is the first step in opening up a dialogue of any kind. Allowing ourselves and each other the space to admit where we were at lay the foundation for what turned out to be a minimally stressful (kind of fun?) experience.
I’m not hubristic enough to think that my decision to bring my nerves into that meeting was the key to our success. Katrina was a dream to work with: humble, prepared and eager for feedback. Taysh and I got lucky in that regard. But on a personal level, starting from a place of uncertainty was enormously useful.
It seems blatantly obvious now, but I suppose a good author-editor relationship requires a certain degree of vulnerability. Just like any other relationship, really.
