christopher de la Torre

The positioning of the term “professional writer” in a workplace context as something exclusive of itself, seems a bit erroneous to me. Shouldn’t all professionals be writers? Throughout my graduate school career I’ve been surrounded by discussion regarding the importance of the professional writer in a modern context as culture attempts a return to common communicative values. My question is, by returning to those values, all the while solidifying our role within professional settings, constantly vying for the attention of hiring managers, CEOs and their simulations, are we selling our own blubber? I mean, will there come a point when all “professional writers” go extinct?

We as professional writers know we vitally contribute to any workplace because generally, people – other professionals – can’t write. Continuing education in this country is becoming increasingly difficult. But it’s not the brain drains, the all-nighters, or extreme multi-tasking that’s the problem. It’s the very object of our affection that makes it next to impossible to obtain graduate degrees in the zeroes: the workplace. But what if eventually people learned how to write? What then? Professional writers have been taught that they are Jacks of all trades, but really have we been fleeced? We all have other vocations – the means to avoid being pigeon-holed as mere “professional writers.” And if this seems like an oxymoron to you, take the following into consideration.

The only education most employers accommodate is that which directly relates to what we as “professional writers” already do; we are charged to remain with whatever profession we start in or – worse yet for many – wind up in. What about those who want to change careers? This is where the real brain drain sets in. At some point during grad school (perhaps even before), my family encouraged me to find a government job. If only for the fact that both my father and brother were at the time government employees (my father has since retired), it seemed like the perfect idea. I’ll apply to the National Institute of Health, I thought. After all, I worked in a genomics laboratory so I was more than qualified for the job. But at the end of the day I had to ask, wasn’t it my line of work I was looking to change?

As a Jack of all trades I told myself I could do anything I put my mind to, so long as it involved writing. So last summer I did the unthinkable: I applied for a technical writing position with a government information systems contractor. Needless to say, I hadn’t even made it through the entire interviewing process before realizing the only “JAVA” I really cared about was the kind you drink, and respectfully bowed out. Whether it was the computer gibberish cluttering the margins of my Scientific American or the Visio study guide acting as a bookmark for Michel Foucault’s Discipline and Punish, I realized that Bachelors degrees in Biology and English had nothing to do with what I was expected to do as a “Jack of all trades.” Sure, my options for employment could at least be partially attributed to the fact that Washington, D.C. has a big appetite for all things technical, but the point became salient when I was forced to again ask, what do I want to be when I grow up?

Identifying as a Jack of all trades is, only for the most part, appropriate. On the one hand, professional writers are general enough in their expertise to master the communication of any field. Throw a dash of typography and a pinch of graphic design in and voila! It’s a working recipe for the twenty-first century professional writer. On the other hand, professional writers are specific enough in their expertise to be deemed as vital, necessary, essential lifeblood of any outfit. But I can’t remember how many times I’ve been asked blankly, ”so, what do you write?” Which makes me wonder, are professional writers doomed to choose their occupation solely based on their present vocation, giving this perfect recipe a bitter aftertaste?

The problem with the title “Jack of all trades” is that it’s not specific enough to take ownership of any one thing; it spreads one too thin. Employers don’t care if you know a little about a lot of things. They want you to know a lot about one or two things. The theory behind the title is better left as such; it can safely be assumed that a technical writer with ten years experience working in a CLIA compliant laboratory won’t be welcomed by the editorial staff at The New York Times or Paper Magazine with open arms. What if a writer can do both? When exactly does Jack lose all of his trades, save one? Because “certain discourses are granted the privilege of authorship while others are denied this privilege” [1], it’s suggested that not all professional writers are created equal (which may partially explain the apparent incompatibility between technical writing and journalism, for instance). Are we fooling ourselves? In dissecting the theories of Foucault, Slack, Miller, and Doak I realized that “to grant authorship to a discourse is to grant that discourse a certain authority…thus it becomes evident that authorship is a manner of valorizing certain discourses over against others. As such, authorship empowers certain individuals while at the same time renders transparent the contributions of others” [1]. Think about how many times you’ve read an important technical manual title followed by the name of its author. Now think about how many times you’ve read an article in a magazine that has simply omitted the author’s name.

The difference between “authored discourse” and “participatory communication” (as Slack, et al. put it) is a big one, perhaps deriving from the conflict between science and art, or the fallacy of creating disciplines in the modern university, and perhaps big enough to be cause for change within the field of professional writing. But I digress. “Redefining oneself, one’s work, and one’s field are ways people can produce new social space” [2]. How do we redefine ourselves to this end? No-one knows for sure, but generalizing the job of the professional writer is a fast tack to burnout, especially now that writing and communication have taken such bold technological strides in both professional and private settings, the blur between labor and recreation further complicating the issue.

It’s important that we as professional writers don’t generalize ourselves into a corner, lest we be forgotten. Everyone wants to categorize. It makes us feel safe and in control. So, when you go to an interview ready to tout our title as “Jack of all trades,” think again. Doing what we love needn’t come at a price – namely working in a setting that does nothing for us intellectually or spiritually, simply because it’s a “writing job.”

Works cited in this post:

[1] Slack, J.D. et al. (2003). “The Technical Communicator as Author: Meaning, Power, Authority.” Professional Writing and Rhetoric: Readings from the Field. T. Peeples. New York, Longman.
[2] Peeples, 383.