The Pain of Disrupted Communication

Editing in the era of COVID-19

I wouldn’t hesitate to call myself a conversationalist. Although the written word is the space in which I work, I have a singular fondness for the art of spoken language. I love the way it moves as a living thing — a fleeting dance between speakers, something so swift that it is over before the conscious mind has begun to register it.

Communication has changed, of course, with COVID-19 and the resulting restrictions. Now it occurs in every way but face-to-face conversation, and I find myself feeling somewhat adrift.

The view from my window. Looking down, I feel far from those on the street, physically close though I may be.

I don’t cope well with change. Everything has become more difficult for me, and editing is no exception.

Editing a photographer for the major project, collaborating to develop and publish a photobook, presented additional problems. Acting as editor for someone so unused to writing in a professional context would be formidable enough pre-pandemic; the demanding nature of this role was undeniably exacerbated by it. Working with and around the visual medium while unable even to see one another or view the piece together provided particular challenges, as well as a nice dose of irony.

Despite such specificities of the visual mode, this experience and its obstacles, in particular the frustration of established patterns being disrupted and diverted, are bound to be applicable to editing under COVID-19 more broadly. There are elements of editing practice that I have long felt cannot take place through words alone, ironic though that may seem. Not easily, at least. There are different stages of the editing process, each requiring different levels of interaction with the writer. These levels are dependent on the editor, of course — their particular preferences and style, the constraints they face in space and time — but I feel that there are certain universalities.

That first discussion is an especially important one, however brief. This is the writer’s chance to say their piece, as it were: to explain their intentions; to point out things they’ve been struggling with, areas for extra attention; to offer apologies for perceived faults, justifications they wish us to keep in mind as we peruse their work. In my experience, both as writer and editor, the latter is an obligatory thing, unavoidable.

This is the moment in which a veritable flood of insecurities come spilling out, a babbling river of words accompanied by flailing arms and sheepish glances. The first task an editor has, then, is to wade into it—to acknowledge the writer’s unease in sharing their work in such a way, and inhabit those anxieties with them. To slow the river’s flow into something soothed, a calm and steady stream.

Reassuring the writer at this stage is essential, but doing so in person is quite different from attempting the same via email. With the latter, the writer must pour the contents of their heart onto a cold keyboard, bereft of the comfort of physical presence; they must choose which words to use, a curated and stilted discussion, rather than rolling with what comes out in the dynamic immediacy of real-life conversation.

Body language is utterly lacking here, no subconscious shifts in stance, no instinctive encouraging facial expressions — even tone can be difficult to get across. These things can be approximated, sure, with emojis or through the creative use of the subtleties of punctuation that has evolved rapidly among my generation. But, at risk of being thought a pessimist, I have to say that it’s never quite the same.

There are compromises to be made, of course, and they have to be made, however stubborn I can be. We work with what we’ve got, in the end, or some similar expression — every cloud has a silver lining?

No, I think that one would be going a bit far.

The tool that I’ve found comes closest to my preferred style of communication is the phone. Email always feels uncomfortably formal to me, and I can struggle to settle on what to say and exactly how to word it. Video chat, too, proves challenging, bringing with it an uncomfortable awareness of my existence in a space and provoking a certain self-conscious tendency to check my hair, fix the fit of my shirt, adjust my posture—and all of it constantly.

Phone calls, then, are my compromise, and I certainly don’t mind them. Hearing another human voice is all too sweet in its recent rarity, and some semblance of the flow of face-to-face conversation can be achieved with the right people. Phone calls used to make me incredibly anxious; they filled me with a fear of silence even more extreme than my usual. Anxieties like this one do linger, but I’ve been pleased, overall, especially with the ability to mimic the frenzy of writer–editor conversation — that frantic tumble of those first few discussions, as both parties fumble to find meanings that are wordless in nature, and, despite this, defiantly feel out ways to express them in words.

Though these calls have served me well enough, something almost approaching the vitality of real-life conversation, there is a loneliness to them. Such a mimicry of the act — quite close, but fated to never be a true facsimile — can become a further reminder of the solitude of COVID-era seclusion. It isn’t always noticeable, but during a long phone call, often towards its end, I sometimes find myself staring at the blank, black screen as I listen through speakerphone. I see only myself there, and barely that. It can feel a little like I’m talking into the void, listening to the reflections it throws back.

I’m not opposed necessarily to doing things by myself, editing included. I do, absolutely, need to spend time alone with the piece. I enjoy going through it line-by-line in green pen, at my own pace; what follows, though, is more important. I like to sit down with the writer and discuss it, working through each detail together.

This is particularly good for the tricky issues, those without clear-cut solutions. When those arise while I’m editing digitally without the chance to go over it together, I tend to overcompensate, leaving lengthy paragraphs and offering various solutions — I often do that, these days, when there are difficult decisions and concepts that I’m not sure how communicate in written language.

When we can talk it through, though, it’s swift and easy, a truly collaborative process. I love the dynamic that exists in these discussions, and the eureka moment that comes once we’ve found the perfect solution. I love feeling the passion seep from someone.

Those things are all possible without real-life contact, sure — to some extent. I’ve felt moments of connection with my writer like I would in face-to-face conversation, and we’ve been able to discuss certain elements in depth. I miss the active collaboration, though — poring over a piece together, moving forward step-by-step. I miss the close, unique dynamic.

As it stands, I only know what my writer even looks like due to self-focused shots from the photobook.

My photographer—we have yet to meet in person. (photograph by Jade Jones)

Jade doesn’t like change—just like me—and has been struggling with COVID-19. (photograph by Jade Jones)

The experience of our working together is almost over, but still I find myself hoping that we’ll meet for real one day. We’ve both been doing the best we can, and it would be great to make that in-person connection that I so cherish.

We both went to the massive Black Lives Matter rally the other day, and I find that weirdly comforting.

My favourite boots, perfect for protesting. Could our paths have crossed while I wore them at that rally?

We shared the same space — we both exist, out in the real world. Who knows: maybe we passed one another at some point, without even realising.

And maybe one day we’ll meet, and get to work together again.