What’s involved in editing a literary magazine? The job is repetitive but unpredictable, occasionally frustrating, tough but also exhilarating and, ultimately, rewarding. Add creative risk, essential state and federal funding, an ever-shifting national network of supporters – subscribers, retail purchasers – and it should be clear that such editors seldom have time for dull thoughts. As Island approaches its 100th issue a look behind the scenes is timely. How was this one put together?

Planning began in 2003 once it had been decided to theme each issue as a response to 2004 being the official bicentenary of European settlement in Tasmania. Island 96 reflects upon our relationship with the natural world and the related meaning of sense of place. Senator Bob Brown was approached with an offer of a commission to write the lead feature. This being an election year, however, he couldn't commit to the time that would involve. An interview was arranged instead and, after a bout of travel-related rescheduling, it took place in February. Bob Brown needs to no introduction (no bio note either!); Australia is fortunate in having a federal politician of his integrity – especially in these times.

Wilderness photography also needs no introduction. It’s ubiquitous, from postcards to calendars to being in large glass frames on the walls of plush government corridors. A conservative art? That’s in the eye of the beholder; or, in the case of Peter Timms’s article, the reader. Timms sent the article to Island in the second half of 2003. It fitted the-then flexible concept of this issue perfectly well. Leading nonfiction tends to be commissioned; here, however, was a fine piece of analytical writing on a subject markedly local, the Tasmanian wilderness, but with universal applicability. Also, surprisingly, wilderness photography hasn’t been extensively written about.

Timms pointed out that ‘Love, Death and Wilderness Photography’ would be appearing in the December 2003 issue of Art Monthly. Editors are cautious with published material, because some readers will know it. Very few, in this case; certainly not enough to justify a turndown.

When is an article not an article? When it’s an essay. The latter is more obviously subjective, personal and as a result tends less towards endnotes, a key feature of an article, particularly in refereed journals. Three essays came together serendipitously well here. First person, written from the heart and for a specific place, each was read, re-read, put to one side, considered again; and in one case reworked, over a period of months, a process involving a sustained electronic dialogue and a satisfying outcome. What are the odds of Recherche Bay, Ku- Ring-Gai National Park and the Mahogany Walk ever again sharing close literary space? Nil. That's rewarding.

And yet... so much for theme, however broadly the term is interpreted. And it needs to be broad. Too narrow a focus and the danger of losing reader interest becomes real. Furthermore, half of this issue, of any issue, defies the concept. Each year Island receives many, many hundreds of short fiction and poetry submissions, in every conceivable style and subject area. Attempting to select by theme would be both unwise and unfair. Submissions are at the core of the business. Much work deserving of national publication has to be rejected. Writing rejections (Island handwrites comments wherever possible) is a hard business, since they must fuse critical honesty with requisite decency and, where appropriate, encouragement. The work continues to roll in, and that too is rewarding.

Suddenly the tempo speeds up, into pre-production and then production: subediting, setting into house style, layout, first proofreading, back to layout, second proofreading, on to design, third proofreading, back to design, fourth proofreading, to printer – a final fingers-crossed bromide check – and two weeks later sealed boxes upon boxes upon boxes arrive at the campus office.

The first draft of this editorial was written on a beach south of Hobart early in the morning on Sunday June 20. Mount Wellington was white with snow, by far the heaviest fall of the year. A bodyboarder and two surfers – black-clad, diminutive – worked heavy winter waves. A few hours earlier Jim Bacon had died, having lost his battle with cancer. When first elected Premier of Tasmania in 1998, he promised to bring the arts in from the periphery of government business. Unlike many political promises, this one wasn’t counterfeit. As Minister for the Arts, Bacon was both innovative and generous. He recognised the cultural values that many of us hold dear and in so doing helped enrich us.