Undergraduates of all political orientations are often eager to become student journalists, whether it be an extracurricular hobby or in pursuit of a career. Some students want to contribute to a broader conversation, while others crave the minimally impressive line on a resume. Seeing your name published is inordinately gratifying, despite the gnawing anxiousness that you might get flogged on Twitter by a mysterious anonymous account (or worse, your peers). The first experience of being published can be an emotional rollercoaster, both exhilarating and terrifying. Eventually, the rollercoaster halts, and you might attempt to replicate that thrill by writing yet another article, and thus the cycle begins anew.
Since I am now working for National Review, students might expect me to encourage undergraduates to take up the pen, whether it be for a campus newspaper or a professional publication. After all, anyone can draft an essay and, with a bit of courage, email it to prestigious outlets for consideration. But before bright-eyed freshmen begin writing their first opinion article, perhaps they should first learn to edit.
I joined The Princeton Tory my freshman fall. I had little interest in journalism, but I did want a conservative social community (and free snacks). Initially, I didn’t write. I only had a vague sense of my political inclinations, and I hadn’t interrogated any of my views well enough to commit any to print. I was acutely aware that articles are like ghosts: if you take one “bad” stance, even if you repeatedly denounce it for the rest of your career, it will haunt you forever. My debilitating fear of publishing all but confined me to the position of a copy editor. But learning to edit was how I learned to write.
People tend to oversimplify the role of an editor by assuming the only responsibility is to correct grammatical errors. But editors must memorize a publication’s entire style guide – complete with nuances for hyphenation, capitalization, and spelling – to supplement their understanding of grammar. Learning a publication’s unique style guide is a bit like studying a foreign language: you must learn the rules for italicizing, just as you study conjugation. Should book titles be in italics or quotation marks? Should numbers be conveyed with words or symbols? Should em dashes have spaces on both sides? Should it be antisemitism, anti-semitism, or anti-Semitism? Each publication has a different – and somewhat arbitrary – answer to each question, and it is the duty of an editor to know each answer.
I can imagine the objections: no reader cares if the title of a book is in italics or quotation marks. But clean copy editing does make reading an article – even a bad one – slightly more enjoyable by removing distractions. Certainly, most readers have no idea if a publication’s style guide prescribes “US” or “U.S.” However, readers do know that including “US” and “U.S.” in the same article is a careless mistake indicating laziness, or worse, ineptitude.
Thorough copy editing makes an article better, but that doesn’t make an article good. After all, the article could have factual errors, illogical arguments, and poor style. The next step – in my process, at least – is structural editing, in which the content might be rearranged to assist the development of the thesis. Structural editing demands evaluating arguments for coherence, which prompts you to consider alternative perspectives. If you agree with the author, it is important to adopt the position of someone who disagrees to present counter-arguments which may have not been considered. Someone who disagrees will read the published article (which is particularly true for The Princeton Tory, given the political inclinations of the broader campus).
There have been many instances in editing when I postured as a liberal reader, and unfortunately, my harsh criticisms in the Google Docs comments were often misinterpreted by Tory writers. Some thought I was unreasonably spiteful, others that I was needlessly meticulous. But an editor should not be not a cheerleader who encourages writers to hastily hit the “Publish” button. Instead, editors must attempt to propose every possible criticism or counterargument. Editing is a form of debate: the writer must be challenged, not applauded. The objections an editor raises are intended to improve the piece. Although it may feel demoralizing to see so many corrections to your work, it is certainly a preferable alternative to seeing a feisty Op-Ed response or a harsh Twitter thread that highlights errors which could have been avoided.
Writers need courage and confidence, while editors need humility. Being an editor is intellectually and emotionally challenging: if the article is impressive, the writer gets the credit, but if the article has mistakes, the editor is blamed by the publication for negligence. Editing allows us to practice selflessness. We dedicate time, effort, and care to a work that does not bear our own name, thereby denying ourselves opportunity for public praise and admiration. It is an altruistic service through which we assist others and, in return, receive little appreciation – and sometimes none at all – in return.
Of course, I understand the impulse to write – and perhaps unfortunately, I can no longer resist it. But nobody will teach you how to write, and as every Princetonian knows, the mandatory freshman writing seminar is a spectacular waste of time. Practice being a careful editor for others, which (hopefully) will help you develop the critical skills to judge and improve your own work. I was an editor before I was a writer – and still, none of my work satisfies my own standards.
Abigail Anthony graduated from Princeton in 2023 and now studies at Oxford University.
The above is a guest contribution and reflects the author’s views alone. For information on how to submit a guest contribution, email .
(photo courtesy of Flickr/Nic McPhee)
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