Anonymity Revealed

It feels strange when the cover of anonymity is removed.

As a freelance editor for a local publishing company, I mark up manuscripts without ever meeting the authors. Therefore, each project is impersonal. I don't think about the person who put pen to paper. I don't worry about hurt feelings or big egos; I'm concerned only with the quality of the work to be published. The anonymity feels comfortable to me.

But once a year, I attend the publishing company's annual book signing/open house event. During the event many of the popular authors meet and greet customers, sign books, and chat with the general public. I am the editor employed by the company most frequently, so the publisher likes me to attend, too.

Many of the authors working with this small niche publisher know one another. Some teach together at the university. Some are members of the same societies. Some are just friends who like to write in the same genre. The annual event is a reunion for them. They enjoy socializing with one another, talking about current projects, catching up on news of each others' families.

They know who I am. I'm the one who scarred their beautiful, perfect pages.

But to me, they are a group of faces that are paired with names that I mentally match to the books they wrote in the space of a handshake. Then I try to remember the extent to which I edited their books, their "babies." As the fuzzy images finally become clear, I think "Yes ... this is the skillful writer who could tell an interesting story and who had a fine grasp of the English language!" Or "Uh-oh, this is the one who was enthusiastic about his subject, but who could barely string sentences together, leaving me to practically rewrite the book." Just as I remember their manuscripts, I know they surely remember my markups. And I wonder what they think of me.

I find the whole event a bit eerie. On the one hand, the authors are all strangers to me. On the other, I feel I know them well through the content they write about and the passion they bring to their work. Our lives have intertwined for a moment in time; their published work, though conceived of and written by them, is what it is through the influence of my red pen. But we don't talk about the books. Anything but. I feel ambivalent about our connected past, and about my anonymity revealed.

However, my ambivalence turns to relief as a current first-time author -- whom I imagine must feel resentful toward me for the suggestions I sent her after reviewing her work -- seeks me out to thank me exuberantly for helping her to see her book in a new light! She's revising and likes the new version better than the original.

Maybe it's not so bad to have my anonymity revealed after all.