The Age-Old Debate of Writing as a “Real Job”
Even now in 2024, I feel like so many folks still see writing as a lovely little hobby where you scribble down your thoughts, sip tea, and wait for inspiration to strike. Meanwhile “real adults” do real jobs like constructing skyscrapers or assembling Chinese-produced IKEA furniture. It’s almost as if the world collectively agreed that writing is something to do when you’re bored—right before a proper career, like banking or dentistry, comes along to rescue you from such idle fancies.
It doesn’t really help the writer’s cause that the legendary essayist and novelist E.B. White, that literary darling of mine, once claimed that writing isn’t an occupation at all. No, to him, it’s simply an ongoing activity, a reflex of the human spirit. He likened it to something as natural and inevitable as breathing. According to him, writing wasn’t an occupation because it couldn’t be confined to a nine-to-five schedule or pinned down to a job description. Instead, it was this perpetual, organic act—a byproduct of living life.
White painted this picture where writers are simply caught up in a whirlwind of words, swept away by the muses, while the rest of the world handles the “serious” work of hammering nails or balancing budgets. Okay, sure, I can appreciate the sentiment. Writing is, in many ways, a natural extension of living—an attempt to make sense of this messy existence through words.But, really, living and breathing are also ongoing activities. So why aren’t we telling architects or carpenters that their work is just a reflex, something they do between meals and naps?
No, my dear E.B., writing is most certainly a profession, an occupation, and a real job, just like building bridges, painting masterpieces, or yes, assembling IKEA shelves with those accursed little allen wrenches. The problem comes with convincing people that writing should be seen as a career, even when it’s a craft that requires the same dedication and expertise as any other.While I certainly agree with White that writing is instinctual and deeply tied to human nature, that doesn’t mean it lacks the structure, discipline, or value of any “real” job.
So, how do we reconcile this? How can we agree that writing is both a reflex and an occupation, a calling and a career? More importantly, how do we convince the world that writing isn’t just playing with words, but constructing ideas, stories, and even entire worlds with them?
The Reflex vs. the Craft
I can imagine White on his seacoast Maine farm, casually jotting down a timeless essay while his chickens clucked outside and the world of deadlines and drudgery seemed a thousand miles away. Well, my dear Mr. White, writing may begin as a reflex. But anyone who has dedicated themselves to the craft knows that the romantic glow fades fast. You’re left staring at a blank page—or in our modern age, a blinking cursor—questioning your life choices. Truthfully, writing is hard work—hard mental labor—that requires focus, discipline, and more persistence than should be humanly possible.
White’s claim that writing basically just “happens” ignores the fact that good writing, the kind that moves people and stands the test of time, doesn’t magically appear. No one sits down, spills some ink, then calls it a day. Not even E.B. White. We writers draft, revise, and tear apart what we’ve written and try again on a regular basis. It’s not some ethereal process where we just “let it flow.” The act of writing is more like wrangling an unruly beast, and rather than wielding a sword to defeat it, we’re hoping to win the battle via death by a thousand papercuts.
If anything, writing is more like carpentry than White gives it credit for being. Sure, the initial spark of inspiration feels instinctual, but after that? You’re chiseling, sanding, and polishing away at the raw material until it finally takes shape. If a carpenter stopped at the first nail they hammered in, we’d have a lot of three-legged chairs and wobbly tables. Much like carpenters, writers refine their craft over time—because except in extremely rare cases, no first draft is ever good enough.
So, while I appreciate White’s dreamy depiction of writing as a reflex, the truth is far less poetic. Yes, writing comes from a place deep within—I daresay even a reflex at times—but transforming raw thought into something worth reading is sheer craftsmanship. It’s verbal architecture, building something solid from a mass of unruly, scattered ideas. If we’re going to romanticize writing, let’s at least be honest about the sweat equity that goes into it.
The Architecture of Writing
Like architecture, writing is all about construction—except instead of bricks, beams, and blueprints, we’re working with nouns, verbs, and the Oxford comma. Just as architects don’t just stand around waiting for buildings to spontaneously rise from the ground, writers certainly don’t just throw a few hundred words on a page and hope for a Pulitzer Prize.
Let’s be serious for a moment: an architect spends hours, if not years, meticulously designing structures, considering both the aesthetic and the functional. If they make a mistake, the roof caves in or the building leaks. Writers face the same precarious balance, even if the consequences are plainly nowhere as costly. Still, one ill-placed sentence or one awkward phrase, and the whole piece can collapse like a poorly planned skyscraper. Yet, unlike architecture, the fruits of a writer’s labor are mostly invisible—unless you count coffee stains on our keyboards or the deep, frustrated sighs we let out during writer’s block.
In many ways, the writing process can often be a blueprint-driven task. Just like an architect starts with an idea and sketches it out, a writer begins with a blank page and a vague notion of what we want to say. Sure, we might have good intentions and a clear vision of what we’re on about, but then comes the tricky part in drafting, revising, and figuring out which parts of the structure actually hold together. Much of what we create, ultimately, needs to be bulldozed entirely. There’s nothing romantic about wrestling with syntax for three hours, trying to make a sentence stand up straight.
Editing is probably the closest thing writers have to a construction site inspection. Just as you wouldn’t want to move into a house with exposed wiring and shaky foundations, nobody wants to read a novel riddled with plot holes and dangling participles. (Interestingly, we’ll settle for streaming series with such issues, plus bad dialogue, but that’s a matter for another essay entirely!) Editing is the tedious but necessary process of making sure the “building” we’ve spent months (or years) constructing won’t crumble under the slightest critical glance.
Heck, if anything, writing has even more moving parts than architecture. Not only do we writers need to build solid foundations with our words, but we also must consider pacing and tone. For fiction, we add narrative arcs and character development! The precision involved in crafting a well-written essay or novel is just as taxing—if not more so—than designing a sound structure. After all, most buildings aren’t required to move people emotionally, intellectually, or otherwise, breathtaking as some architectural marvels may prove to be.
Yet, somehow, society fails to see any clear connection between architecture and wordcraft. Maybe it’s because you can’t physically walk through a novel like you can a building. Well, maybe with the rise of immersive storytelling, that day may come sooner than we think.
Still, regardless of how future tech changes how we interact with stories, the fact remains that we writers, like architects, are creators of worlds. We construct narratives that people live in, emotionally and mentally, just as much as they live in the physical spaces that architects design. Even in immersive storytelling, there will still need to be writers to keep things moving forward.
In any case, I think we should all agree that crafting words is no less of a job than building a skyscraper. It’s just that instead of hard hats and steel beams, we’re armed with pens, paper, and an unhealthy attachment to the thesaurus.
The Tangible and the Intangible: Why Words Matter Even if You Can’t Touch Them
One of the most frustrating misconceptions about writing is that because it doesn’t produce something tangible, like a chair or a building, it’s somehow less “real” or valuable. People can wrap their heads around the importance of a well-built table, of course. But crafting a well-built story is apparently just an indulgent hobby for those who prefer daydreams to a real job. Here’s the thing, though: the real world runs on ideas, narratives, and words!
Just because you can’t physically sit on or touch the ideas discussed in any given work doesn’t mean it’s any less constructive than a piece of furniture.In fact, writing does often have tangible effects on our lives. Words create ideas, shape cultures, and change minds. They influence everything from individual thoughts to entire social movements. It’s just that writing’s final product happens to be something you carry in your head rather than in your hands.
The big misunderstanding we must strike down here is the assumption that tangible objects are inherently more valuable than intangible ideas.If this were true, then why do we revere historical documents like the U.S. Constitution or novels like 1984? It’s because the ideas they contain shape societies, policies, and even entire generations. Yet, somehow, the act of writing these documents is seen as a lesser task compared to more “hands-on” professions.
While writing may be invisible in the physical sense, its impact is anything but that. Think about the last time a novel, article, or even a social media post made you think differently, feel deeply, or change your perspective. This probably happens to you often and with how much media we daily consume these days, probably multiple times a day. That’s the power of words, allowing us to make connections we may never have made on our own.Writing constructs thoughts in a way that guides us through experiences, both personal and universal. It’s not unlike building a bridge—except this one connects minds instead of crossing rivers, but essentially they serve the same purpose.
It’s quite fascinating to me how the very people who dismiss writing as a career are the same ones who consume its fruits every single day. You want to watch your favorite show? A writer came up with that story.You want to read the news? That’s written by a journalist.What’s particularly amusing to me is, how did people come to this idea that writing isn’t a real job or a serious occupation? Chances are, if you ask these folks where they got the idea that it’s not, you’ll discover it’s because they read it somewhere. Irony is rarely so delicious.
So, then, writing isn’t about creating something you can touch. Rather, it’s about creating something that touches you and potentially many others, too. Seriously, who would argue that the emotional impact of literature isn’t just as real as a perfectly engineered building or a well-designed piece of furniture? Every single advertisement that convinces you to buy a product or use a service, or your favorite streaming show, or that song you can’t get out of your head—that’s all thanks to writing. It’s very possible, too, that those writers aren’t being paid anywhere close to what they should for the impact their work can have.
Tangible results aren’t the only measure of value. Just because writing operates in the realm of ideas doesn’t make it any less of a profession than jobs that produce physical goods. In fact, much like construction workers bring a blueprint to life, reading a piece of writing is pretty much the same act. The words create ideas, concepts, and images in your mind. So, in effect, reading good writing makes us all a sort of architect of these intangible but very influential things.
Now, if it makes you feel better, perhaps each time I publish a piece, I should also provide a blueprint of what went into it. I’ll even hand out hard copies of my work so you can have a tangible thing to consider. Just don’t blame me if what I have to say collapses under the weight of your misconceptions. I did my best.
The Discipline and Mastery of Writing
Here’s the part that most people conveniently overlook when they dismiss writing as a “real” job or serious occupation: the discipline it takes to sit down, wrangle your thoughts, and turn them into something coherent. That is, something worth reading. If writing were as effortless as people seem to think, there wouldn’t be an entire industry built around caffeine, deadlines, and writers staring blankly at screens as if willing the words to appear through sheer force of frustration.
Of course, no one questions the mastery it takes to be an architect, a surgeon, or even a pastry chef. These are recognized as careers that require years of study, practice, and experience. Yet somehow, people look at writers, shrug, and say, “You just have a way with words, right?” Well, yeah, but only after almost twenty years of honing my craft, much like a violinist practicing scales or a surgeon perfecting their scalpel technique. Mastery of language doesn’t just fall into your lap one day while you’re lounging in your PJs. It takes painstaking effort, regular practice, and developing a thick skin when it comes to criticism, both constructive and otherwise.
Serious writing, the kind that moves people or convinces them of something, doesn’t just require raw talent, but also the discipline to nurture that talent over time. No, it’s not glamorous. It’s definitely not easy. Then what you see as a finished product doesn’t happen without countless revisions, and perhaps even a bunch of meddling. Just as a sculptor chisels away at a block of marble until the masterpiece is revealed, a writer hacks away at paragraphs, sentences, and words until something beautiful (or at least functional) emerges.
So, why does society seem to have such a blind spot when it comes to recognizing writing—and, by extension, many other creative endeavors—as legitimate work? It seems that in the collective consciousness, labor isn’t “real” unless it involves lifting something heavy or constructing something visible. If you’re not building a shed or paving a driveway, then you’re seen as not doing “real” work. No disrespect to hard physical labor, but intellectual work is just as exhausting, just with far less respect.
Wherever it came from, this cultural bias toward physical labor has left intellectual and creative labor struggling for recognition. I’d argue that after a full day of agonizing over how to make a paragraph not sound like an awkward mess, my brain is every bit as exhausted as someone who just dug a trench. I’d argue that both jobs, done properly and with intention, are equally necessary and valuable to society. But it’s just not seen that way.
To convince people that writing is real work, perhaps we need to start shifting the language around creative professions. I’ve always felt the term “creators” is much too broad and not descriptive enough. One possible solution is to reframe writing, among other artistic professions such as graphic design or digital art, as craftsmanship. In the case of writing, words are the tools, sentences the building blocks, and stories the end result. There’s a reason why writers have workshops, after all. The process is very similar.
Just like a craftsman, a writer builds something intricate, functional, and hopefully enduring. Only in this case, instead of a bookshelf or a dresser, we’re constructing an idea, an argument, or an entire world. This writing will then be read, recreating these ideas, arguments, and worlds, but with the readers’ own perspectives and ideas intertwining with them. A table may just be a table, but a story can be so many different things to many different people.
One of the chief reasons people fail to appreciate writing as a profession is that they don’t often witness the labor that goes into it. Unlike construction, where you can see a building rise brick by brick, writing happens mostly in the depths of the mind. The results only appear after hours of invisible, silent toil, and sometimes, a lot of that work goes entirely for not and goes right in the wastebasket. This happens in many different fields, but the writer seems to take the most crap for it. Sure, someone might see you typing furiously at a café, but they don’t see the hundreds of half-formed drafts sitting in your trash folder. They likely missed the hair-pulling marathon that led to that one satisfying sentence.
Yet, while everyone constantly consumes the results of our labor, we writers still regularly asked when we’re going to get a “real job.” But who would say this to an architect while lounging in a building they designed, or tell a chef that cooking isn’t a real career while eating their food?
There’s also the argument that writing is easy or that anyone can do it. Technically, anyone can, just like pretty much anyone can hammer a nail. But not everyone’s cut out to do their own home improvements, never mind build a house. The same applies to writing. Yes, anyone can jot down some words. But crafting them into something coherent, compelling, and worth reading takes skill. It’s not just the kind you can pick up on a lazy afternoon between Netflix binges.
Ultimately, this cultural misunderstanding about writing’s value boils down to a lack of appreciation for intellectual labor. Physical work leaves behind something you can see and touch, so it’s instantly validated.Intellectual work, particularly writing, shapes the intangible world of ideas, emotions, and culture.The results aren’t always visible, but they’re undeniably real and undeniably impactful. So, it’s crucial we educate people on how essential this kind of work is to everything we experience.
Essentially, writing is the often-invisible architecture that’s holding up modern society. Without it, we’d be left with nothing but silence, confusion, and a lot of poorly constructed IKEA furniture. What’s probably the best solution is to teach our kids how to write a well-constructed paragraph and what goes into it. If young people are taught the value of strong, clear writing as they were decades ago, I don’t think many people will still question the validity of writing as work after that.
Reconciling White’s View with Reality: Yes, Writing is Reflexive—But it’s Also a Career
Now, E.B. White wasn’t entirely wrong, of course. After all, writing is deeply human, and in many cases almost reflexive. We humans are natural storytellers, after all.Long before we had desks, pens, and overpriced laptops, humans were sitting around fires, spinning tales to make sense of their world. In that sense, White’s point is well taken. Yes, writing is an extension of thought. It’s a kind of mental muscle memory where words flow from our lived experiences and ideas.
But here’s where White’s lovely, romantic view falls a bit short: just because something is reflexive doesn’t mean it isn’t also work. Living is a reflex too, but that doesn’t mean people aren’t exhausted at the end of the day after doing it. Breathing is reflexive, but I’d like to see anyone try that underwater without a proper oxygen tank.
Here’s something fascinating that people rarely point out, though. White often wrote about all the work that goes into a farm, and I completely respect that. But you know how he actually made money for him and his family? It was his writing for the New Yorker, Harper’s, and his three children’s novels that paid the bills. All the farm did was supply certain goods that he ultimately didn’t have to buy. Otherwise, his farming broke even.
But he enjoyed the work, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Still, it’s extremely ironic that he wouldn’t call writing an occupation, only because he saw farming as the real work worth doing, and yet the writing was where he made his money. His wife? She was an editor for the New Yorker.
Now, do I agree that farmers should be far better compensated for their efforts? I absolutely do think so. But I think that perhaps this sentiment that White shared unintentionally created this odd tendency to discount writers as not having real jobs. While I doubt he intended to set any precedent, it’s something that I seriously can’t agree with him about.
Clearly his view that writing isn’t an occupation came from a bitterness towards his farming not creating nearly the same income as his writing. Of course, he lived in as much of a capitalistic hellscape then as we do now, and there wasn’t yet the internet. That’s probably a good thing, because I don’t think he would’ve dealt very well with that, either.
Writing is a natural impulse, yes, but turning that impulse into something coherent is where the real work begins. Yes, White was correct to highlight writing’s organic connection to life itself, but what he glosses over is the sheer amount of discipline and craftsmanship required to channel those thoughts into something with form. White knew this better than anyone; he was a master of his craft, one of the best out there that wrote things worth reading.
To this day, his essays and stories are still relevant because of the ideas that he shares in them. But, through this philosophical journey, we’ve discovered how White and I must agree to disagree on this very important issue. Whatever his reasons, his argument leaves a bad taste in my mouth, because I think he unintentionally doomed countless writers with his commentary. Of course, he passed two years before I was born, so I suppose he can’t comment on this.
Closing Thoughts
Writing can be both a reflex and a profession. Yes, it can be a natural act, born of our need to communicate. But those of us who are willing to dedicate ourselves to making it into a highly disciplined craft, shaped by years of dedication and refinement, should be allowed to do so without judgment or malice. Just as musicians naturally hum tunes and still practice scales for hours to master their instruments, writers must hone their reflexive thoughts into structured prose.
Now, White’s point—that writing isn’t easily compartmentalized into a job—is true in a sense. Writing isn’t something you clock in and out of, and it’s not a profession that fits neatly into society’s rigid definitions of “work.” But that doesn’t make it any less of a career. If anything, it makes writing more of a vocation—one that you live, breathe, and carry with you constantly.
Writers don’t just work when we’re sitting at a desk with a deadline looming. No, we writers are constantly observing, thinking, scribbling down fragments of conversations overheard at coffee shops, or waking up in the middle of the night with ideas that won’t let us sleep. It’s an occupation in the truest sense of the word—because it occupies your entire life.
I honestly think that White finally got to a point where he didn’t want to observe and write about it anymore—especially once he realized that ‘writer’ wasn’t an occupation he could select on the Selective Service forms that he received during wartime. So, he just wanted to have his farm and leave the rest of the world behind to fly to pieces. I don’t blame him, believe me. But remember, the American government didn’t respect writers then, either; it’s just that other people generally still did.
Still, thinking about writing all the time doesn’t make it easier. If anything, that makes it harder to do because you spend so much time overthinking every little thing about it. Almost anyone can punch a timecard and disconnect when the day is over, but writers can’t do this. We’re forever haunted by the unwritten stories in our heads, the articles that need revising, and the characters begging for development. It’s a job that doesn’t leave you alone—because it’s not just what you do, it’s who you are.
So, while White wasn’t wrong in saying that writing is something intertwined with the very act of living, he leaves out the part where living itself is often hard work. In fact, he used to write about this very aspect of being a writer, and for some reason, he irresponsibly decided to disregard it, for whatever reason. Writing is living out loud on paper for the world to see, critique, and—if we’re lucky—appreciate. That’s what he made an entire career out of, and yet, he’d rather just be a farmer. Again, I don’t blame him for that, but he was born to be a writer, and yes, it’s a curse more than a blessing.
No matter how much writing a reflex may be, but it’s also a muscle we’ve trained. That training deserves as much respect as any other profession. Sure, we can agree with White that writing isn’t a job in the conventional sense—it’s far too messy, too intertwined with the act of living, for that. But it’s most definitely a career, a vocation, and even a calling, just as it was once for White.
Just like any good reflex, writing takes instinct—but it also takes skill to pull it off right. While White may have been content to romanticize the process, if we want to get back to people communicating effectively again, we must give the craft its proper due. Let’s recognize it for both the reflexive art it is, and the profession it deserves to be recognized as for good.
So, the next time someone asks you what you do for a living and looks at you sideways when you say “writer,” feel free to remind them that while your job may not involve lifting heavy objects, it can involve lifting heavy ideas.
~ Amelia Desertsong
