I was talking on the phone a few nights ago to a friend who recently started a new job. While I
was asking him how he likes it so far, he turned the tables on me.
What do you like about what you do, he asked me.
Where do I start with that? I love my job.
As a person who loves to read and write, I have a close, personal relationship with words and
meaning. Former Indiana basketball coach once famously responded to a column by Andy
Rooney criticizing the University for not firing him, by saying “All of us learned to write in
second grade. Most of us go on to greater things.”
I beg to differ.
All of us may have learned the physical act of writing, of scratching letters on a piece of paper in
some order that forms a sentence. But that, in itself, is not writing.
What I love is the craft of writing. The slight variation in the meaning of two similar words and
choosing which one precisely means what I’m trying to say. The way a sentence clicks into place
when you find the right words.
What I love is that writing structure isn’t just technical, it’s emotional. It’s how I make sense of
the world. Every time I transcribe a voice, or refine a lede, I feel like I’m honoring somebody’s
story, even if it’s just a small one.
I love my job because it lets me be myself—methodical, reflective, quietly passionate. It lets me
find meaning in the mundane and beauty in the structure. And in a world that often feels too
loud, it gives me a place to listen.
Unfortunately, too many of the stories I write don’t afford me the time to do all of that. I usually
end up writing somewhere between 15 and 20 stories a week, so maybe a third of those give me
the chance to craft the story, instead of just pour a stream of details onto the page.
That actually makes me appreciate even more the times that I can take my time on a story and try
different verbs, adjectives or adverbs for the one that means just what I want to say. When the
story breathes a little. When the writing feels less like a task and more like a conversation.
That’s what I love. Not just the job, but the quiet labor of it. The part that lingers long after the
deadline passes.
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