This week finds me editing submissions in the shade of the wisteria that runs wild across the terrasse of my grandparents’ house in the Ardeche region of France. Behind me, Ben, the black Labrador, is my sleepy supervisor, snuffling along the hedgeline and reminding me to keep at it. Despite his insistence, I occasionally allow myself respite from the eradication of comma splices and erroneous apostrophes with a refreshing dip in the 26 degree pool, or a literary dip into 18th century Paris.
There are worse jobs in the world. To fund my undergraduate degree I spent my summers, amongst other things, cleaning at a chicken farm. Such is the true price of higher education. That delicate scent of chicken poop and disinfectant may be the one presiding memory that has stuck with me since my student days.
In the few short years between undergraduate and postgraduate study, I turned my hand to wedding planning, fine wines, facilitation and fostering. Through every one of these roles, I found myself drawn back to working with writers and writing, and finally summoned up the courage (and the several thousand pounds), to take the publishing plunge: initially interning at a literary agency, and then completing my Masters.
The journey over the last two years from wannabe publisher to fully-fledged editor has been a bumpy one, and I still struggle to believe that I’m finally here. To have the privilege of working with such talented writers and esteemed academics is the realisation of a long-standing dream. To play such a part in the exploration and expansion of publishing boundaries through the new digital medium is beyond my wildest.
Today, I am copy-editing short stories and poetry from the comfort of a French villa. The cigales are singing in the background as I immerse myself in rural Luxemburg, remote Shetland, and central Glasgow. And Nana has just brought me a kir. Santé!