Learning to work and working to learn

Learning to work and working to learn

C L Alphonso

When I signed up to be on the working group for Hardie Grant’s ‘Spark Prize’, I did so with the belief that I was going to be getting valuable experience in the publishing industry. That ‘critically assessing manuscripts’ could then appear on my resume. That I would network with people ‘in the industry’—despite now being three semesters into the masters program, I still can’t define who those people are. The industry, I think, is prone to tangents in a way that speaks to me as both a writer and a hopeless procrastinator.

I suppose I did get those things, in essence. But in hindsight I don’t think they were the main takeaways. Being asked to read through the longlist—thirty-odd manuscripts, complete with chapter plans—was daunting enough. Then we had to collaborate on a shortlist, pick one submission to champion, and conduct market research to determine its feasibility as an eventual book. To top it off, we would be demonstrating this work in a meeting with the folks in charge at Hardie Grant. Genuine industry professionals in marketing, editing and publishing.

The project gave me a demonstrable understanding of my own skill set, as measured against other people at my level of education. That isn’t to say that there was a bell-curve against which we were all compared. What I saw was that every one of us approached the task differently. We noticed different things, had different visions for each manuscript we read. The way we assessed, collated and presented what we found was unique across the board, and each way was valid.

More than that, though. Each perspective was valuable in a very real, industry-focused way. In a task where everybody was thinking am I doing this right?, we came away with the realisation that yes, we were. It sounds fairly simple, but once you’ve done a thing, you start to internalise that you can do it, that you have something to offer. You can do it again, if you want. Or you can put it aside as something you know you’re not into.

When it comes down to it, that’s what I get from the Bowen Street Press that I simply wouldn’t get elsewhere. The BSP is an entity, and it has a presence in the publishing industry that would be difficult to emulate as individuals. Professionals engage with this entity and they expect professionalism, expect results. That expectation is met and maintained by a collective.

The BSP exists as proof that we, as students and professionals, are capable of working—of excelling—in a professional context. It takes away the imperative to prove ourselves to the industry, while equipping us with the skills so that, if we ever need to do so, we can.