During the midst of those seemingly endless January days, I began my work placement at the informatively titled Journal of Scottish Yarns. The opportunity had first appeared to me in an email, which was then followed by a furtive confession of interest, a nervy interview and finally an encouraging acceptance. The Journal of Scottish Yarns is run by the one-woman-army that is Susan Anderson, whose startling work ethic and infectious passion make her role as the publication editor seem closer to that of a yarn-enthused commander-in-chief. After a flurry of carefully worded and uber-polite emails, I began to get a sense for just how much work goes in to creating even a single issue of this small-but-mighty craft journal. A key part of the creative process comes in the form of commissioning work and it was here that I found my first major task, as commissioned (unpaid of course) rather than commissioner. 

I was tasked with writing a piece on Bearford Originals, a local yarn vendor which is a collaboration between an East Lothian farm with a flock of sheep and alpacas and Woolly Originals, a one-person design project that makes small yarn-based products for other crafters and hobbyists. This assignment suited me fine as writing has always been a relatively comfortable pastime for me. Yet, as I began to look over the notes and the recorded interview that were to be the primary raw materials of my soon-to-be-written piece, the sense of something looming eerily in the distance came upon me. Editing. It doesn’t look so scary written down, even with an imposing capital ‘E’, but the thought of having my work dissected, probed and pored over by people with vastly more experience than myself (the publishing editor, the subject of the article itself and even a professional editor would all have a go before anything I’d written saw the light of day) seemed too tough to bear. 

Such arrogance, you must think. Such hubris to believe that I could produce a first draft so perfect that professionals need not even bother to provide so much as a suggestion for grammatical improvement. It’s not that, I promise. Rather, it’s simply the good old-fashioned fear of failure. In the past, during my undergraduate degree, I had been the sole creator, editor and submitter of my work. This sort of vertical integration leads to a level of protectiveness over one’s written output that is simply not sustainable in the world of work. Enter the placement module. On my placement, I quickly found myself very much in the world of work and faced with the reality of creating something that would need to be edited, and thoroughly edited at that. And so, with my laptop in one hand and the fleece of my newly shedded ego in the other, I began to write. 

Once interviews had been transcribed, clauses constructed and paragraphs suitably indented, I clicked the sacred send button to launch an email containing my first draft out of my hands and into the inbox of those who know better, in this case the publishing editor. I waited with an unbecoming nervousness for the return of a Word document in which tracked changes would, one by one, pick apart and ultimately squash any notions I had about my middling-to-fair writing abilities. A few days later it arrived, comments and all. My first read-through was tough, with each criticism of my work landing like a blow from a heavyweight boxing champion. Yet as I read on, I began to steel myself before I came to the (rather obvious) realisation that these comments were indeed criticisms of my work, no more and no less. I remembered that publishing is a collaborative practice, and that the article I had written had to be fair, accurate and respectful towards those whom it concerned (Bearford Originals) and those whose publication it would feature in (Susan). That’s not to mention the audience that, thanks to Susan, will soon read my highly collaborative piece of work with my own name attached proudly to it. 

For example, if it weren’t for the first stage of editing, both the subject of the article and any prospective readers would have encountered a piece of writing that consistently spelled the word ‘woolly’ wrong (apparently it has two ‘L’s now – I wish someone had told me earlier) which is far from ideal in a journal dedicated to yarn. I dutifully made the necessary adjustments and corrections requested of me by the blood-red words written in the right-hand margin of the Word document and then it was on to the next stage. This time, my article would be read and commented on by the very people it concerned: Fu, who keeps the Bearford flock and Sarah, the Edinburgh-based textile designer behind Woolly Originals. This was an entirely new proposition. It’s one thing to write about long-dead gothic authors or reclusive Hollywood directors as I had done in my undergraduate, but it is another to write about a pair of living and local individuals whose business could get a real material boost dependent on the content of my article. The day came, the Zoom call loaded and the now-ubiquitous shouts of “can you hear me alright?” rang out as I prepared to face the music. Mercifully, my subjects were as gracious and open as I’d dreamed they’d be. Their criticism was firm but fair, focusing primarily on my errors when attributing quotes to each member of the pair; I’m clearly no expert in transcribing audio-interviews. We finished the meeting on fine terms and their feedback proved invaluable. With the subjects happy, I felt a warm mental wave wash over me – could a renewed confidence in my writing be returning?

The answer is: we’ll have to wait and see. If working alongside Susan at the Journal of Scottish Yarns has taught me anything (and it has taught me a lot, probably enough to fill a substantial reflective essay in fact!) it’s that the audience is the ultimate critic. They speak with their wallets, purses and now phones, making clear their opinion on the product through their choice – or lack thereof – to part with their cash. In one sense, the audience is the hardest of all to please, and they are certainly the most important, if you intend to turn a profit that is. However, it is those in the editing process that truly shape the writing and without their help there would be nothing to offer the audience at all. My writing will form part of a wonderfully curated whole, much like (and you’ll forgive me the on-the-nose analogy) a thread in a carefully knitted scarf and it is the editing process where the creases are ironed out or, in my case, the ‘L’s are put in. Confidence remains key but so does humility and an understanding that those who know better can serve you well. Not everyone will like what I do, sure, but the editing has made certain they’ll be able to read it, trust it and – hopefully – enjoy it.

Featured Image: User 3844328 on Pixabay, 2016 | https://pixabay.com/photos/correcting-proof-paper-correction-1870721/
[Accessed on 20th March 2023]