IPEd 2025: Editors as changemakers

Books+Publishing publishing director Kate Cuthbert joined us at the 12th IPEd Conference. We’re delighted to be able to share Kate’s reflections on the conference.

Books+Publishing publishing director Kate Cuthbert was an invited guest to this year’s Institute of Professional Editors (IPEd) conference, held 23–25 July 2025 in Adelaide.

During the conference, she was one of the conference’s MCs and participated in the hypothetical panel.

As a professional editor attending her professional association’s conference, she performed a dual role: both a learner and an observer. She shares her experience here.

The 2025 IPEd conference theme was “Editors as Changemakers”, a provocation that invites not only reflection but also action. And I certainly came away from this year’s event energised, revitalised and positive.

It is clear the profession still has immense challenges, but throughout the panels, conversations and presentations, it also became apparent that there is immense reason to be optimistic – as long as we work together.

The program is still available online, and it provides a useful record of the conference’s topics, papers and presenters. But here, I want to share the reflections I walked away with after spending a rainy two days on the University of South Australia campus in downtown Adelaide.

A collegiate (and rainy) atmosphere

In this first face-to-face IPEd conference since the pandemic, a palpably collegiate atmosphere formed in the stairwells and corridors of the Uni SA campus, a contrast to the sterile functionality of our building.

The semester break kept the campus reasonably clear (though, upon sharing a place in the coffee queue, someone did ask me what I was studying – this was by far the highlight of the whole event for me). This timing meant conference attendees were able to develop a little bubble, a universe unto ourselves.

Being able to build on the ideas posited in sessions, comment on the posters set up in the foyer or just share work challenges over lunch made for an intellectually robust experience – and reinforced networks and support groups within the profession.

The weather helped – with low temperatures, frequent rainstorms and aggressive wind, staying inside became an imperative rather than a choice. Only the bravest ventured out for coffee or a quick walk. But realistically, editors are primarily indoors people, anyway.

What writing (and editing) can do

Huddled in these sessions, we were provoked to think about the theme from the conference’s very outset.

Delegates were welcomed to Kaurna land by Aunty Rosalind Coleman, who spoke of the importance of not only standing on the shoulders of those who came before but also being the shoulders for those coming after. As we emerged from years of isolation – even more than that usually found among a largely introverted profession that is increasingly freelancing from home – thinking of generational throughlines was an inspiring place to start. Continuity and change are frequently positioned as opposites, but in this context, they also work together.

Coleman spoke out strongly against following inspiration without integrity, and this struck me quite deeply. Editorial readers of this article will know that the guiding principle of good editing is invisibility. We make room for writers to express themselves effectively, and in the process, we seldom have cause to draw attention to ourselves.

As a behind-the-scenes profession, then, how do editors behave with integrity? What power do we have to push back, and how can this sit alongside our usually quiet role?

Eugen Bacon gave the opening address, where she spoke to the importance of inclusion at all levels and in all areas of the book industry through the lens of her own experiences as a writer, as an editor, and of being edited. Her intimate and considerate keynote returned consistently to the idea of narrative being radical: it changes as we change it, but we are changed in return. Engaging with the words of someone else can’t help but be profound. And editors do this every day.

Sharing a perspective that would resonate throughout the days ahead, Bacon also asserted that writing cannot solve all the world’s problems, but seeking a solution is not always, or entirely, the point of literature. The act of writing issues can be the point. In other words, naming something is a power in and of itself.

Change can dwell in the space between writer and reader. And this is where editors tend to spend their days. Collectively, the literary community makes choices about where we turn our attention – and editors often act as directors of this attention, whether we are commissioning work, suggesting structural edits or consultations, or even simply adding a comma (and thus asking readers to pause longer with something).

This, in and of itself, can open doors to change.

Communication beyond the page

Permeating all aspects of the conference was an underlying anxiety about how we communicate, and how we can communicate better, including with non-editorial colleagues in our professional worlds.

As we gathered for this first face-to-face conference in six years, Roland (Roly) Sussex put this in interesting terms. In his conversation with Kerry Davies, Sussex noted that our lives now involve so much more writing to each other. Where we might once have shared our ideas over the water cooler or met for afterwork drinks, we are often now emailing or texting, commenting or sharing in a group chat.

Though Sussex or Davies didn’t go this far, I realised that this is a site where editors can truly show their value – so many of us have become writers in our day jobs, but far fewer of us have become effective self-editors.

Take, for example, a point Sussex made about how written communication can take away from the personal. Our experiences can sometimes slip out of the written form, particularly as we shift from sharing with each other to ‘creating content’. If we don’t take care, connections can be lost here in this gap; we can find ourselves talking to each other but not with each other.

Editors will understand that, often, in terms of good communication, less is more. Sussex reflected on how we process (or don’t process) information. In our screen-based working situations, we are sharing with each other constantly, often in great volumes. But, as Sussex pointed out, anyone who has sat in a PowerPoint presentation featuring slides with 10-point font will know that information overwhelm can lead us to take in less. Immersion in information can make us passive. Judicious cuts can help – but so can a genuine desire to connect.

I saw a great example of interdisciplinary communication at a later session. The plenary featured Melanie Dankel (IPEd deputy chair and Editors SA board member) and Justine Dixon (Editors NSW board member) who placed us into groups, inviting editors across disciplines, experience levels and geography to share our biggest concerns, best suggestions, and blue-sky wishlists for IPEd as a representative body.

A key challenge – and one many editors will already be familiar with – is the rise of new job titles, such as user experience designer and content programmer, that masks the editorial role. There are editors who don’t think (or know!) they are editors – many of whom are performing that role of helping us to deal with our information overload. In this context, it was interesting to hear discussing on how we might disrupt existing narratives about what an editor is and what we do.

Other issues were more perennial, such as succession planning and the possibility of unionising. While these issues might seem quite divergent from one another, there is a  connection: these topics can all speak to the larger issue of the devaluation of editorial work. Editorial skills can be underrated, unnoticed. And there are interests that involve quashing attempts to see ourselves in a collective light.

In terms of things we can control in this difficult context, communication came out on top. Looking at Bacon’s comments in this very different light, we might not be able to directly solve some of the broader problems we are working with, but we can learn to advocate for ourselves and our skills – and name the value we bring to this information-saturated, screen-heavy world.

Generative AI’s long (and unspecific) shadow

Advocating for ourselves, our careers, and our profession feels more urgent than ever as large language models threaten to dominate across all methods of communication. Most conference sessions attempted to address the AI issue in one way or another.

Unsurprising, there was a session overtly about this. ASA CEO Lucy Hayward, APA head of policy Stuart Glover and Copyright Agency director policy, government and member relations Libby Baulch appeared together to address the impact of generative AI on the book industry.

This panel took place prior to the productivity commission’s report on AI, but the panellists’ points-of-view are still relevant. Hayward noted that, in their objections to the current situation, authors are making clear, reasonable requests – information on the status of older contracts, direct consent to use their work, and fair terms. Glover added that the lack of clarity around regulation and best practice creates ongoing concern, including downstream usage – that is, not just how the initial text is generated and used, but also the quality of the output. Meanwhile, Baulch argued that the Australian copyright system is fit for purpose, but the biggest challenge is the conflation of publicly available and freely available.

Glover acknowledged the arguments for productivity and so on but noted that other countries have not necessarily benefited financially from any kind of tech exemption to copyright. As Hayward observed, companies have been willing to pay for other kinds of inputs as they develop new technologies, and in this light, the expectation that written content can be taken without due payment and acknowledgment is unfair. Hayward added, “AI is an engine, and it’s hungry for good food”. As an underpaid profession in a cost-of-living crisis, we all know that good food costs money.

Out of this dialogue emerges another aspect of the changemaking theme. The panel encouraged us – as members of the creative industries – to continue to speak out and advocate for fair terms. These are calls to action that we have heard before – and ones worth heeding – though I must admit (and I know I am not alone) I am wearied by the constant need for those of us most affected to be the ones advocating. Still, again, this comes back to the question of what we can control.

Elsewhere, panelists examined generative AI in a more granular manner. Two sessions presented papers directly comparing human editing and AI-based editing; both found generative AI severely lacking, in findings likely unsurprising to those of us with editorial knowhow. However, both presenters also noted that these tools – primarily ChatGPT in these specific cases – are still exceptionally young. It’s not unreasonable to imagine that the tools will continue to improve beyond what we see today, and we can benefit from keeping an eye on how they might become more useful.

In her presentation, University of Melbourne senior tutor Sharon Mullins shared an experiment completed on a speculative fiction short story written by her research partner Rose Michael – the results of which were previously shared in the Conversation and republished in Books+Publishing.

Here, Mullins and Michael – alongside colleagues Katherine Day and Renée Otmar – asked ChatGPT to edit the short story while simultaneously having it edited by a human. They compared the results across three stages, with the human edited story eventually accepted for publication in a literary journal and shortlisted for a writing prize.

Mullins reported marked differences in editorial quality. ChatGPT’s suggestions were superficial and generalised, rather than concrete. For example, the advice misconstrued time shifts, leading to erroneous queries about tenses, and it misunderstood the story’s nuanced imagery to the point of replacing a speculative water creature element with a large fish. Further, the machine never considered the work ‘finished’ but would continually recycle previous advice rather than complete the critique.

Unsurprisingly, then, Mullins also noted that extensive time was needed to interpret and then attempt to tidy up the AI-provided edits, demonstrating how ineffective it would be if publishing companies adopted such a process, asking human editors to check AI-generated output, rather than simply editing themselves. Mullins said, “editors don’t need prompts; they come pre-loaded”.

So, then, here is a key point arising from this research, with which we can speak to ongoing discussions around generative AI and editorial work: Mullins raised concerns about users’ experience levels with this technology. As professional editors and writers, Mullins and her research partners were able to see shortcomings in the generated editorial advice, and they had the confidence to discard it. However, users with less experience and confidence may not be able to recognise these limitations. Those invisible contributions that human editors make could then be quietly lost – especially when those users are those with decision-making capacities in publishing houses.

On a related note, PhD candidate Sathsara Radaliyagoda presented her research focusing on romance fiction editing. As she noted, this genre is considered formulaic and, therefore, writers and editors are more vulnerable to being considered replaceable by generative AI in cost-cutting measures, when compared, for instance, to those working with literary fiction or poetry. However, as Radaliyagoda said, the editorial role has not changed that dramatically in relation to genre fiction, even as the technologies have evolved, for reasons that felt clear after Mullins’ presentation. Even beyond the shortcomings of the technology in relation to the mechanics of language, diminishing the work of editors to the line level is to in any case misunderstand the role and its embeddedness in relationships and creativity.

Mirroring Mullins’ findings, when Radaliyagoda looked at the specific output that ChatGPT provided around editing, she found that the application could provide perfunctory advice but had no ability to personalise an edit to the work provided. ChatGPT detected romance tropes but could not evaluate when they were used effectively, nor could it provide any specific advice on building emotional resonance or connection to the overall manuscript in how these were applied. Human editors used in the study raised queries around not only writing conventions but also characters’ physicality and motivations, and provided richer, more nuanced support. ChatGPT offered bland platitudes.

Radaliyagoda’s presentation also demonstrated more fully the obsequious nature of ChatGPT: it leaned towards providing a pleasant experience over being helpful, while human editors know how important it can be to provide difficult but honest suggestions to writers looking to refine their work.

No conversation about generative AI’s limitations would be complete without also considering bias and harm. Both Mullins and Radaliyagoda noted that, while humans are also biased, they can reflect on their own viewpoints, and this is one clear place where editors can and should feel they contribute something that cannot be replaced by AI applications, even if they can sometimes help writers avoid a dangling modifier.

Tracking changes in our field

Returning to the broader theme, changemaking kept resonating – including in panels about sensitivity reading and running small publishing houses.

Sensitivity reading is one of those areas that might not first come to mind for those outside the editorial field, but it is a clear place where editors can contribute to change in line with Coleman’s and Bacon’s powerful opening comments.

In a panel on this topic, Jason Fischer, Kylie Maslen, Cameron Rutherford, and Jared Thomas discussed their work as sensitivity readers, tracing the development of this role from afterthought to accepted industry practice. They emphasised that a successful sensitivity edit requires integration from the very beginning – or at least, for those working in house, who often see a manuscript only after it’s been drafted, as soon as possible.

An audience member brought a question about “own voices”, asking about the implications of this movement in terms of how much writers are expected to share about their identities. Being open in public about different kinds of lived experience can be validating for writers but can also come with consequences – not just from bad actors but also from those who are well-meaning but unaware. This is a place where editors can have a duty of care in applying their experience to help writers think through their decisions about what they share, what they withhold, and how they prepare for publication.

In an incredibly relatable moment, on receiving this question, every panellist laughed a bit breathlessly and sighed. Speaking to the range of situations in which this issue arises, no one had a straightforward answer. But recognising this friction has led to better discussions and more nuanced approaches.

Bringing the conversation back to circumstances involving sensitivity readers, panellists discussed how this area highlights the need for excellent briefing practices. Sensitivity readers need to know the degree of significance the character or theme has to the story; and they need a detailed synopsis with an eye to the areas of particular note, the projected audience demographic, if there is use of any violence, slurs, or other distressing content and any work the author has already done. At all levels, there needs to be an acknowledgement that misrepresentation has real life consequences; this is not something that can be delegated to a single person or point in the process.

Meanwhile, in another, very different gesture of changemaking, Pink Shorts Press founders Emily Hart and Margot Lloyd discussed their journey to starting a small publishing house. Both worked in traditional editorial roles before founding the company. Among their motivating factors, they spoke of the difficult working conditions as editors in house, noting the implications of this for author care, as well as (a lack of) space for strategic and thoughtful work.

Hart also made note of the “white male crust” of Australian publishing – more women work in publishing, but the directors are primarily men. While undoubtedly a path with its own challenges, starting your own publishing house is definitely one way to break this crusty, dusty ceiling.

As longtime publishing workers, Hart and Lloyd went into their new venture with clear ideas of what they wanted to do differently with Pink Shorts. Noting that publishing is an industry with cashflow problems, they’ve chosen to publish only twice a year. This allows them to pool resources, doing publicity and marketing for several books at a time, turning their launch events into mini festivals. Also, their first book is a re-release, meaning their press launches with an immediate backlist. Their entire business around sustainability: financial, environmental and psychological.

Even while speaking to it, Hart and Lloyd resisted the conference theme. It’s a timely one, they noted, but not entirely apt. Editors have always been changemakers, advocating for good communication, changing language, improving standards and accessibility, all while supporting both clients and readers. This is a relational occupation.

Editors as changemakers

In the aftermath of the conference, I’ve been thinking a lot more about the theme and why it resonated so strongly with me – not just as an editor but also as a reader, a writer, a certified book person, and simply a person in the world.

I think it’s for two reasons. First, there’s the legacy of those editing principles – the invisibility of the craft, the emphasis on leaving no fingerprints on those pristine pages. Even while we continue to value supporting others, this approach has hurt the perceived legitimacy of what it is that editors do and why we are important. This has always felt like injustice to me. I love what I do, and I’m incredibly proud of it. I’m proud of my colleagues, and I genuinely believe in the power of writing and words to excite, to inspire and to enact change. I want to yell this from the rooftops, even while preserving the voice of any writer whose work I revise, so they can do their own yelling. (And there’s plenty to yell about.)

I’m not alone in this passion; I’ve never met another editor who doesn’t feel very strongly about their work. Every editor I know has a hill they’d die on. Sometimes that hill is shaped like a certain controversial punctuation mark, but more often it’s a cause – accessibility, intersectionality, literacy, or in my case, challenging literary hierarchies. (All reading has value! Reading for pleasure and fun is important!).

This is all to say, editors are already changemakers in our own little corners of the world. We need to say it out loud, as Bacon called for us to do. Naming our value. Shouting our skills. Opening the door for new colleagues – and also wedging it for established (and tired) friends and colleagues.

Because the second reason is grammatical – the theme is plural: editors as changemakers.

It’s time for editors to speak collectively. From the outside, it can seem that we’re constantly at each other about queries and quibbles, compare em vs en dashes (spaced ens); the Oxford comma (very pro). This might be true (and fun), but we also need to be on message about the core of our work, our skills, and the irreplaceable value we bring to communication.

To strengthen our role as changemakers, we need to be able to articulate not only our value, but also our values. We have to be courageous in looking at the changes we need to make internally – to our biases, to our processes, and to our professional organisation. And we have to be courageous in standing up against the tyranny of fake news, ‘alternate facts’, AI-generated dishonesty and discordance, and the devaluation of integrity in communication.

These things matter to me, and they matter to us. If we are to continue to be editors in the face of ‘productivity’ challenges and changemakers in the face of hypocrisy and self-interest, then we will need to do so together.

All work and no play

As we reach the end of this long story, it would be remiss of me not to mention the social elements of the conference, including the awards night in the beautiful Adelaide Pavillion’s round room, where Emma Rafferty was announced the winner of this year’s Rosanne Fitzgibbon Editorial Award and previously announced IPEd prize winners Julie Ganner AE (Janet McKenzie Medal) and Portia Abbott (IPEd Student Prize) received their awards.

Finally, this recap would not be complete without a nod to a true highlight: the delightful South Australian distillery Fiction Distilling, who set up in the foyer and provided us with tastings from their various gins named for banned books. As a certified non-gin lover, I highly recommend The Great Gatsby, but you can also find 1984 and Pride and Prejudice among their offerings.

Here’s to change, continuity and conversations.