Earlier this month, I attended PENCON, a conference for Christian editors, and was struck by a recurring theme in many of the attendees’ questions: How do I tell new authors that the books they’ve poured their hearts into are not very good? How should a developmental editor interact with the copyeditors and proofreaders as the book goes down the production line? How do authors work with a publisher’s expectations but still maintain their own visions? Again and again, their questions centered on the horrible, wonderful, tricky business of artistic relationships.
Work relationships are hard enough, but when you add in art—where the identity of artist and artifact often merge—we struggle to know where to start. The speakers at PENCON gave sage advice, reminding me of other wisdom I’ve heard along the way. Healthy artistic relationships require us to know ourselves, respect one another’s agenda, and trust each other’s intuition.
Know—and Manage—Thyself
Surprisingly (or perhaps not surprising to you psychoanalytical types), the first element of healthy relationship is to know yourself. Before I enter into relationship with a client, a publisher, or a muralist, I need to know myself well enough to regulate myself. PENCON keynote speaker Amy Simpson works as an editor and coach, and she said the skill sets overlap considerably. Simpson explained her need as an editor to manage her own preferences and even her desire for ownership of the project: “I’m in a relationship to serve my client, not myself.”[1] She regulates the impulse to change something based on personal preference, and she cultivates the self-awareness required to notice such impulses.
I find it all too easy to foist my assumptions and preferences on other people’s art. I would like this character more if his hair was brown, I would like the worship set better if the musicians didn’t use the snare drum quite so much, and I would like the piano centered under the light fixture, thank you very much. Obviously my preference is law. Right?
Until I recognize these insertions of myself for what they are—misguided attempts to control art based on my own whims—they will undermine any chance I have at providing real help. What author will listen to my pleas for thematic art when I have arbitrarily changed their character’s hair color to suit myself? The vulnerable nature of artistic relationships demands trust, and I take the first step when I recognize my stumbling blocks and soapboxes and choose to set them aside for the betterment of your art.
Respect the Other’s Agenda
Simpson also emphasized honoring the other’s agenda and putting your own agenda in second place. In a sense, this “second place” is an invitation to get over ourselves. Famous conductor Benjamin Zander calls this idea Rule Number 6,[2] a concept bowdlerized at my undergraduate institution to “Don’t take yourself so bleep bleep seriously.” He also describes a conflict between what he calls the calculating self and the central self.[3] The calculating self exists in survival mode, believing that there will never be enough, that something is bound to go wrong, and that I have to keep it together. The central self merely asks, “What is possible here?”
When it comes to art, balancing my agenda with your agenda feels like a razor-wire tightrope, especially when agendas conflict. At PENCON, many editors raised the concern, “What if I’m editing a book, and the author and I have conflicting theology or I disagree with their premise?” We discussed two sides to the answer, suggesting a balance of professional commitment with moral conscience. Some editors leaned toward respecting the contract and carrying through with the project; others leaned toward graciously bowing out of projects they disagreed with. I would suggest a third angle for these sticky situations: the delicate art of agenda balancing.
If I look at this suspect book through my calculating self, I see a book that is wrong and bad and not worth my time. But if I take Rule Number 6 into account and look through my central self, I ask what else is possible. I don’t have to agree with an author’s agenda to help them hone their writing, and excellence in art is always valuable. Even when it purports a religion or theory I disagree with, a well written book is better than a poorly written one.
Removed from the editing world, this principle seems hazier, since many people aren’t in legally binding contracts with the artists they interact with. But artistic relationships require just as much delicacy and respect as any legal contract. When the reviews of your art display completely misinterpret your work, when that uncle gives his yearly speech about “artsy fartsy kids who won’t get real jobs,” and when your neighbor’s garage band plays only death metal songs, you have a choice. You could push your agenda, or you could stop taking yourself so bleep bleep seriously, take a second chair, and listen to the other’s agenda. When we open ourselves to hearing the other side, we affirm the dignity and personhood of the other and encourage an environment where respect is cheerfully granted.
Trust Your Intuitions
The linchpin to a healthy, collaborative artistic relationship is trust. Authors, actors, and musicians must trust their editors, directors, and conductors. And conversely, those editors, directors, and conductors must trust the people they lead. Simpson urged us as editors to “assume others are creative and resourceful.”[4]
In another session at PENCON, author Aaron Gansky and his editor Bethany Kaczmarek walked through a back and forth of their editing relationship, one that flourishes because both assume creativity in the other. Gansky noted that Kaczmarek often attributes more forethought to him than is accurate. But because she addresses his work with the expectation that he knows what he is doing, he doesn’t have to spend time defending his ideas and can move forward into greater creativity.[5]
Zander applies this same principle to his work in music. He says a conductor confronted with listless musicians can despair over them being lazy and uninterested, or he can see musicians who are weighed down and merely waiting to be recognized as true artists. “A monumental question for leaders in any organization to consider is: How much greatness are we willing to grant people?”[6]
In the work of trusting, Simpson called up a notion not all of us are comfortable with: intuition. She defined intuition as “a way of knowing . . . [where] instincts are honed by experience.”[7] Intuition is our subconscious saying, “This is the way we understand the world to be, based on years of pattern-based knowing.”
The value of intuition is not that it always presents gospel truth, but that it always points back to authentic human experience—the core of art and storytelling. Since our intuition is based solely on personal experience, it has plentiful blind spots, but even faulty guesses can point us in the direction of truth. I recently reviewed an author’s short story in progress that just wasn’t working for me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something felt contrived. I thought about brushing off the concern and saying, “probably just me,” but I decided to sit with my intuition and try to pin down what it was saying. The story problem, for me, was that the plot hinged on how a young woman in a rural setting was treated—she was treated with a deference that I, a young woman raised in a rural setting, had never felt or seen extended to anyone else. To my pattern-brain intuition, the story rang false.
And here the interplay of intuition, like agenda, gets tricky. I had to the trust the author’s intuition, too. His intuition told him that since he is a man who respects the skills of women, other men are like that. To his intuition, the story is true; to my intuition the story is false. And yet both of our intuitions are “right” in the sense that they accurately reflect our personal experiences.
Director William Ball’s approaches director/actor relationships saying, “I will use your creative thoughts no matter what they are.”[8] Maybe those thoughts are good, maybe they’re bad. Maybe they work, maybe they don’t. But I choose to trust your intuition and give them a shot. This vulnerable exchange of creativity not only opens the door for better art, but for a greater wholeness in our understanding of humanity.
The We Story
The knowledge, respect, and trust outlined here boil down to a simple purpose: putting in the work to help others flourish. Zander calls this “telling the we story.”[9] When we get out of our calculating mind and see the way our lives are inextricably tied, it is no longer my art or your art; it is ours. Simpson said, “The more you inspire others to draw on their own creativity and other resources, the better you will all be.”[10] The dicey realm of artistic relationship is collaboration instead of compromise; instead of give and take, there is only giving. And with knowledge, respect, and trust, our art becomes the story of us.
[1] Amy Simpson, “7 Editing Tips from the Coaching World” (lecture presented at PENCON, virtual conference, May 12, 2021).
[2] Rosamund Stone Zander and Benjamin Zander, The Art of Possibility, (New York: Penguin Books, 2002), 79.
[3] Zander, Art, 108–109.
[4] Simpson, “7 Editing Tips.”
[5] Aaron Gansky and Bethany Kaczmarek, “Team Building.” (lecture presented at PENCON, virtual conference, May 12, 2021).
[6] Zander, Art, 73.
[7] Simpson, “7 Editing Tips.”
[8] William Ball, A Sense of Direction: Some Observations on the Art of Directing, (New York: Drama Publishers, 1984), 14–15.
[9] Zander, Art, 183–184.
[10] Simpson, “7 Editing Tips.”
Callie Johnson works as Editorial Assistant at Kelli Sallman Writing and Editing with a bachelor’s degree in Theatre Arts and Creative Writing from Calvary University. She previously interned with Kelli for two years, working as proofreader and copyeditor on several manuscripts. Her strange obsessions include kerning, East Coker, and the sound of cows chewing.