Last year was the first of my three as editor of New Writing Scotland. Moira Burgess, on her second, showed me the ropes. Half the submission arrives in spring disguised as a cardboard box, large. Divided by weight, the other half simultaneously chaps the co-editor’s door. It’s a daunting guest, settled heavily on thick haunches in the hall. The desire to read packs and leaves town. I prowl around it, taking weeks of deep breaths. Then I pounce and the marathon starts. Piles of Nos, maybes, ehms, and Yesses sprout on coffee table, carpet, floor. The yesses grow slowly, as do the nos. It takes at least two culls to produce the required long list. Now, the swop.