The editor’s iceberg
Teachers of creative writing often use the analogy of an iceberg as an extension of ‘show, don’t tell’: in a good story, the reader sees what is visible on the page, i.e. the tip of the iceberg, but the majority of the writer’s work is beneath the surface. This idea was expressed by Ernest Hemingway in 1932 and became known as the theory of omission or the iceberg principle.
Editors can find themselves in a similar situation when working on a project. Something as simple as fact-checking can lead us down a rabbit hole of research, much of which never makes it to the page. Through the course of verifying names and dates, terminology and lingo, statistics and other references, the editor ends up learning a lot about their author’s topic. The author will leave most of their research underwater, revealing just enough to lend authenticity to the writing. Part of the editor’s job is to ensure that these bits on the surface are accurate, as well as clear for the reader to understand. This is our iceberg: editors need to know enough so that we know what to leave out.
We need to know enough so that we know what to leave out.
I recently collaborated on some photobooks, working with photographers to produce narrative photo essays à la Life magazine. One book followed a young woman, B, as she completed an aviation course to get her recreational pilot licence. A key part of my job was to edit the captions, and I learned a lot about flight training in the process. However, most of what I learned ended up on the bottom of the iceberg.
Checking the weather
In one photo, B checks the weather before her flight. The caption in the first draft described her using the AWIS: Airport Weather Information System. I looked it up — nothing on the AWIS, but I did find the Automatic Terminal Information Service (ATIS), a radio frequency that provides weather information for different airport terminals. I confirmed with the photographer that this was what she’d meant. With a little digging, I learned more about the ATIS: what it was, how it worked, who used it, and where. With my new-found knowledge, I felt confident to describe it in the caption.
But this was not tip-of-the-iceberg material.
The photographer and I picked up on this as we reviewed the book in its final stages. ‘Do you think it looks a bit … busy?’ I said, tilting my head and squinting at the page. ‘I mean, I love that we found the proper terminology and everything, but who’s really going to care about that apart from me?’
As I said it, I realised that this was true. No one would care.
‘Maybe we don’t need it,’ said the photographer diplomatically.
I squinted some more. ‘Should we just take it out?’
‘The whole caption?’
‘This bit about the ATIS. Why don’t we just say that she’s checking the weather?’
So that’s what we did. We removed an entire sentence from the caption, which simplified the description and provided extra white space. Swallowing my editorial pride, I conceded that it didn’t matter if the readers knew everything that we did. What did the caption need to convey for the photo to make sense? That B checks the weather conditions before her flight. Simple.
Flying syllabus
It was the same with other terminology. Captions throughout the book referred to B’s training, but I struggled to keep track of which level she was up to and which test she was practising for. I needed to know more about the program so that I could follow along and make sure that all the captions made sense. Eventually I rang the aviation school and asked for some details about the course.
The person on the other end of the phone must have thought I was a bit odd, but she obligingly forwarded me a copy of the RPL (recreational pilot licence) flying syllabus. Brilliant! I was now in possession of a step-by-step list of everything the students had to do to get their licence. With this handy new resource, not only could I verify the aviation terms, but I could make sure that the order of the photos matched the order of the lesson plan. I felt more confident in my fact-checking authority, and could flag potential discrepancies. I also revisited some of the earlier captions — for example, when B says that she is nervous for a particular test, I now knew what she was talking about and could rephrase the caption for greater clarity.
Less is more
Once again, I was dealing with the underwater part of the iceberg. My research had given me sufficient context to understand and edit the text, but most of the work wasn’t shown. The photographer and I debated about how to caption a particular image of B flying by herself—Which solo flight was this for her? Was it before or after she passed that other test? How far had she come in the training at this point? Did the photo match the timeline of the story? What’s the best way to describe it? — before agreeing that the specifics didn’t matter. It was a fantastic shot. Instead of trying to explain it, we captioned it with a quote from B about how being up in the air made her feel.
As with any book, what we care about most is the journey of the characters. B was a star protagonist, and it was wonderful to see her come to life on the page as the photographs told her story. My research on the project informed my work, but it was more effective for being invisible. Editors, like writers, know more than we let on—we gather as much information as we can, so that just the right amount ends up on top of the iceberg.
Felicity Sutton is a lover of language, punctuation and grammar. She has written for ArtsHub and Editors Victoria, but she’d rather start with another writer’s messy page than her own blank one. Visit felicityediting.com.au to engage her perfectionist services, or find her on Twitter @flicktricity.
