Danae Marcelline Brooks

Other Prosematter Editors

Explore other Prosematter editors, each with their own distinct lens, background, and editorial philosophy. Whether you're shaping fiction, polishing research, or refining narrative nonfiction, there's a voice here that aligns with your story's needs.

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  Callum Rhys Mahoney

  Developmental Fiction Editor and Manuscript Coach

  I grew up between Wagga and my aunt’s place out near Narrandera, in a family that could argue for sport and then feed you like nothing happened. Books were around, but not in a precious way. My old man liked stories where people did what they said they’d do, even if it cost them. I still hear that voice when a character “can’t” make a decision because the plot needs another chapter. I didn’t set out to be an editor. I studied teaching, worked a few rough years in classrooms, and then left after a run of short contracts and one admin reshuffle that made it clear I was replaceable. A mate pulled me into doing learning materials and assessments because I could spot where people were gaming the question. That work taught me to watch for what the text rewards versus what it claims to reward - which is the same problem in a lot of manuscripts. I also spent a couple of seasons doing night shifts at a servo when money got tight. I kept a notebook behind the counter and wrote scenes between customers, mostly to stay awake. I remember one bloke coming in every Thursday, buying the same pie, and telling me the same story about a dog he swore was smarter than his ex. I don’t know why I remember that, but I do. Editing started as favour-work. People in town found out I’d read their drafts and I’d send back long emails with scene-by-scene notes. Somewhere along the line it became my paid work, mostly because I was consistent and because I’m not afraid to say, “This turn doesn’t belong to your protagonist.” I’m biased toward decisive characters and I don’t plan to cure myself of it; I’d rather a story risk an ugly choice than drift into polite inevitability.

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  Wiremu James Raukura

  Copy Editor and Fiction Proofreader

  I grew up with two kinds of English in my house: the careful school kind and the fast kitchen-table kind. My koro liked the newspaper folded into sharp quarters, and he’d tap a headline like it had manners. I started copying words to make them sit still. I still catch myself thinking there’s a “proper” way a sentence should stand, even when I’m actively choosing not to enforce it. At nineteen I stacked shelves at a supermarket and played social league rugby until my shoulder got ugly. There was a year I got into bonsai for no good reason and killed three junipers through overwatering. I kept the dead ones on the windowsill longer than I should have. It didn’t make me a better editor. It just made me someone who doesn’t throw things out quickly, even when they’re done. I didn’t plan a publishing life. A mate worked admin at a local printer and needed someone to proof a community history before it went to press because the regular person was off sick. I said yes because I needed the cash and because it was indoors. I liked the feeling of saving people from their own tired eyes, and I liked that the work didn’t care if I was shy that week. Fiction came later when a small press sent me a crime manuscript “just for a quick tidy,” and I saw how a single wrong word can turn a threat into a joke. Now I mostly copy edit fiction, and I stay in my lane on purpose. I’m not your developmental guy. If your plot has holes I’ll notice, but I won’t rebuild it with you. My bias is simple and I don’t correct it: I have more patience for clean, controlled voices than for deliberately chaotic ones, and I will push hard on clarity even when confusion is part of the vibe. If you want a first reader who protects the dream of the scene by fixing what trips the eye, that’s me.

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  Marceline Ducharme

  Generalist Fiction Editor and Writing Coach

  I grew up between a duplex and my grandmother’s kitchen table in Trois-Rivières, where people told stories the way they cooked - by feel, by habit, and with hard opinions. My French was home-French, my English was school-English, and I learned early that the same moment can sound like two different truths depending on the mouth that says it. I was the kid who copied sentences I liked into a notebook, then got embarrassed and hid the notebook under a stack of flyers. I worked summers in a thrift store sorting donations, which mostly taught me what people keep when they move and what they pretend they never owned. I also played on a rec softball team for exactly one season and quit after I took a foul ball off my shin and acted like it didn’t hurt. I still think about how proud I felt walking it off, and I don’t really endorse that part of me, but it shows up anyway when I’m tired and someone wants reassurance. I didn’t plan on editing. I took a practical admin program, then a friend asked me to proof her workshop pages because her instructor “hated commas.” I was fast, so more people asked. Then I got laid off from a steady office job when the place merged, and I said yes to a part-time contract at a small educational publisher because rent doesn’t care about dreams. What stuck was the reading: not just the sentences, but the moment where a piece of writing asks the reader to believe something. I’m a Generalist now because I don’t trust one-layer fixes; I want the whole machine running, even if it’s loud. These days I’m the editor writers come to when they want the truth without the theatre. I care about feeling, but I’m not precious about it. I’ll flag where I’m biased: I have a low tolerance for “vibes-only” fiction where nobody chooses anything and the prose tries to hypnotize me into forgiving it. I can admire that style, but I won’t chase it. I’d rather be the reader who says, plainly, “I can’t follow your character’s hand on the wheel,” and make you decide if you want to steer harder.

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  Kirra Mae Donnelly

  Nonfiction Manuscript Editor and Writing Coach

  I grew up between the coast and the bus route, in a house where people finished sentences for each other. My nan kept folders of newspaper clippings like they were proof she’d been right all along. I learned early that “true” and “convincing” aren’t the same thing, and that families confuse the two on purpose. I didn’t plan on editing. I took whatever work fit around rent and my kid’s school times: front desk, payroll, rosters, then a long stretch in a community legal centre answering phones and rewriting intake notes so they didn’t sound like a trap. For a while I also played social netball with a team that never practised and still took it personally when we lost. I still think about the way we’d blame the umpire, even when we’d missed the pass. A manager asked me to “tidy” a funding report because the board didn’t like the tone. That was the first time I saw how easily a story can be made harmless. Later I did comms work for a health service, then contract editing for training manuals and memoir submissions that came through a local festival. I kept getting handed the messy drafts because I didn’t flinch at them. I also have a stubborn soft spot for writers who insist they’re not writers. Now I do generalist manuscript editing for nonfiction, and I’m honest about what I’m listening for: the point where the draft stops choosing and starts coasting. I’m not the editor who will praise a pretty paragraph that dodges the hard bit. I know I have a bias for pragmatic structure and I don’t try to cure it; I like a spine you can feel. And there’s a belief I still carry around like an old coin - that if you just sound calm enough, people will treat you fairly. I don’t fully buy it, but I catch myself polishing sentences like they’re armour.

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  Safiya Mair

  Line Editor and Fiction Writing Coach

  I grew up in Bradford in a house where people talked over each other and still understood, which taught me early that tone is the message. My mum kept a drawer of letters from relatives back home, tied with ribbon, and I’d read them when she was out because I liked how the same person could sound brave on paper and tired in the next room. At school I was the kid who got asked to “have a look” at personal statements, then got told off for changing too much. I didn’t plan to work with books. I worked weekends at a wedding hall, then did a stretch at a call centre where you had to sound friendly while being timed, and that stays in my ear more than I’d like. I also once got obsessed with speed-stacking cups for about three months and kept a timer in my pocket. It didn’t make me better at anything important. It just made me annoying at family gatherings. I fell into editing because of convenience and mild shame. A friend on a community theatre committee needed someone to fix programme copy, and I did it fast, and suddenly I was “the one who can make things read.” Later I took any freelance job that came in because I had rent and I liked the quiet of it. The first full manuscript I line-edited was a mess I couldn’t stop thinking about; the story had a pulse, but the sentences kept tripping it, and I remember rewriting one paragraph five ways before admitting the writer needed their own rhythm back, not mine. Now I’m the person writers send early drafts to when they want honesty without ceremony. I keep a stubborn belief in my pocket that short sentences are always braver; I don’t fully stand by it, but you’ll see me reach for the full stop when I’m stressed. I know I’m biased toward clean, declarative prose and I don’t try to cure myself of it. If your style is lush and sprawling, I can work with it, but I will keep asking you to earn each extra beat.

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  Darius Michael Ngata

  Developmental Writing Coach (Nonfiction)

  I grew up between a loud kitchen and a quiet lounge room. Mum’s side had the stories, the aunties, the teasing. Dad’s side had the rules and the ledger habits. At school I was the kid who could explain the assignment better than the teacher, but I didn’t always hand mine in. I still keep a notebook where I tally tiny things, like how many times I interrupted someone in a meeting, and I hate that I do it. After year twelve I stacked shelves, played footy, and did a stint on a prawn boat because a mate needed crew and the pay was cash. I got sunburnt in places I didn’t know could burn. I learned to sleep through noise and wake up fast. None of that made me an editor, but I still miss the bluntness of that life, where a mistake had a weight you could measure. I also still catch myself thinking some people “just aren’t readers,” which is a nasty little belief I don’t defend, but it turns up in my head at the worst times. I didn’t plan publishing. I took a comms job because I needed something that wasn’t shift work, and I was sick of being broke. The first thing they handed me was a messy internal report with big conclusions and no trail. I rewrote it, got praised, got given more. Later I moved into policy-adjacent work and then into mentoring grads, mostly because no one else wanted to do the boring part: making the logic hold. Writers started slipping me drafts “just to look at,” and that turned into a real pattern. Now I work with Non fiction writers who want the piece to land, not just sound smart. My taste runs toward clean causality and clear agency, and I know I’m stubborn about it. I’m also aware I don’t try to “fix” lyrical, wandering essay voices into something tighter; if your book wants to roam, I’ll keep asking you to show the reader why the detour matters, but I won’t pretend I’m the best champion for purely atmospheric nonfiction. If you want a trusted first reader who will point at the hinge moments and say, “This is where you lost your own argument,” that’s me.