What a Good Editor Actually Does (And It's Not What Most People Think)

By Jennifer Hill, Ph.D. | JH Manuscript Editing Services

I spent part of this morning editing a clinical manuscript — a genuinely beautiful piece of work by a therapist who has spent over a decade doing EMDR therapy in remote Indigenous communities. The writing is thoughtful, the framework is original, and the clinical observations are the kind that only come from years of immersive, humble, culturally attuned practice. It's exactly the kind of work I love to edit.

And then I hit the Polyvagal Theory section, and I stopped.

Not because anything was wrong with it. The writing was appropriately hedged, clinically grounded, and careful. But I knew something the author didn't yet know: earlier this year, a group of 39 domain experts published a formal peer critique declaring polyvagal theory neurophysiologically "untenable." Porges published a rebuttal. The debate went at least a little viral in some corners of the clinical world. And any peer reviewer who has been paying attention will notice PVT in a manuscript right now.

So I paused the edit, read both papers, assessed how deeply PVT was woven into the manuscript's structure — abstract, keywords, model framework, a dedicated section, a passing reference in another section — and then I wrote the author a letter laying out what was happening and giving him three options for how to proceed. I told him this is his paper and his call. I told him all three options are defensible. I told him to take his time thinking about it.

Then I went back to editing the other sections.

I'm telling you this story because I think it illustrates something important about what editorial work actually is — and it's not what a lot of people imagine when they hire an editor.

Most people think editing is about catching what's wrong.

They imagine an editor as someone who moves through a document with a fine-toothed comb, fixing grammar, tightening sentences, correcting citations. And yes, that is part of it — an important part. Copy editing matters. APA compliance matters. Sentence-level clarity matters enormously.

But that is not the whole job. Not even close.

What I did this morning had nothing to do with grammar. It had everything to do with knowing the field well enough to recognize a risk the author couldn't see from inside his own manuscript — because he's a clinician, not a literature surveillance system. He was doing his job when he wrote that section. I have to do mine when I read it.

A good editor reads the document and the context the document is entering. Those are two different things, and both matter.

A good editor knows when to stop.

There is a version of my job where I would have just made a small comment in the margin — "note: PVT recently contested, may want to add a caveat" — and moved on. That would have been faster. It would have put the problem back in the author's lap without giving him the tools to solve it.

Instead, I stopped the edit. I went and read the actual papers. I assessed all the places in the manuscript where the theory appeared. I drafted a letter that walked through the situation clearly and gave him real options with real revision instructions — not vague suggestions, but specific guidance for each path. That took time. It was the right use of the time.

Knowing when to pause and consult your client, rather than pushing forward on your own judgment, is one of the most important things an editor can do. It's also one of the easiest things to skip when you're under pressure to turn a file around quickly. I've learned not to skip it.

A good editor doesn't tell you what to do.

Here's the thing about the letter I wrote: I presented three options and I genuinely meant all three. I have my own opinion — I think removing PVT from this particular manuscript is probably the cleanest long-term choice, and I said so — but I also said that keeping it with a single added sentence is fully defensible, and engaging the debate head-on is the most academically robust path. All three are true. The author is the one who knows his publication goals, his timeline, his relationship with the theoretical framework, and his sense of how much he wants to take on.

My job is to make sure he has everything he needs to make a good decision, then get out of the way and let him make it.

This is actually something I borrow from motivational interviewing — a clinical framework I've long admired and have continuing education training in — which holds that people are more likely to commit to a path they've chosen themselves than one that's been chosen for them. Even when I have a clear view of what I think would serve a manuscript best, I try to present it as one option among several, laid out honestly. What I think is not the only thing that matters. The author has to live with the revision.

What this means for you as a writer

If you're working with an editor — or thinking about it — here is what I'd want you to know: a good editorial relationship is not a service transaction where you hand over a document and receive a cleaner version back. It's a collaboration. Your editor should be someone who knows your field well enough to catch things you can't catch from inside your own work, who will tell you the truth even when the truth is inconvenient, and who will ultimately put the decision back in your hands.

You should never feel managed or railroaded by your editor. You should feel informed, supported, and a little more confident about whatever path you choose next.

That's the job. At least, it's my version of it.

Jennifer Hill, Ph.D., is an independent academic editor specializing in dissertations and scholarly manuscripts. She works with doctoral candidates and clinician-scholars at the intersection of rigorous methodology and clear, humane writing.