Writing is More than a Skill — It’s a Way of Joining the World
A while back, I posted a short daily prompt called Writing. Of all the prompts I’ve shared this year, that one got the most interest.
Apparently, writing strikes a nerve.
So I thought it was time to go a little deeper. And to do that, I need to tell you something about where I started.
“You Should Just Work at 7-Eleven”
That’s what one of my high school English teachers told me—out loud, in class. I still remember it. "You should quit school and get a job at 7-11. That’s all you’ll ever be good for."
I barely passed senior English. Honestly, I think my teacher passed me just so she wouldn’t have to see me again.
A couple years later, I found myself sitting in a university philosophy lecture, and the professor—early in the semester—put the syllabus aside and said to the class something like:
“Look, I’ve read your papers. And I can’t let this go on. We’re going to take a day to talk about how to write in English.”
The other budding philosophers and I were stunned. Not because he was wrong—I knew my paper hadn’t been good—but because this was the first time anyone had actually explained how writing works. I remember thinking:
“I’m a native speaker. Why didn’t anyone ever teach me this before?”
So I changed my major to English the next day.
And eventually, I earned a PhD in developmental education with an emphasis in literacy. I’ve taught first-year writing courses. I’ve tutored hundreds of students. I’ve seen students improve, stall, unravel, and get back up again. And I’ve come to believe that writing is one of the most powerful things a person can do.
Not because it earns you grades or prestige. Not because it gets you into graduate school. But because it is, in itself, an act of transformation.
Writing Is Thinking Out Loud
The scholar Kenneth Bruffee said something radical:
“We don’t think because we have brains. We think because we can talk.”
Thinking is social. It’s a habit of conversation. Writing, then, isn’t a solitary act of genius—it’s a social practice. Even when you're alone, you're in conversation with every voice that shaped you.
Bruffee calls this “normal discourse”—the stuff that happens when a community shares enough understanding to judge what counts as a good question, a strong argument, or a useful criticism.
But here’s the twist: progress doesn’t come from normal discourse. It comes from what he calls “abnormal discourse.” From people who break the rules. From outsiders. From the 7-11 kids who never quite got the memo and ask weird, inconvenient questions. Like, “Why do we write essays this way at all?”
Institutional Myths and the Status Quo
Mike Rose had a word for how schools talk about students who don’t meet the mold: remedial.
He argued that our obsession with “fixing” students masks a deeper issue—we’re not really fixing anything. We’re preserving a system that privileges a narrow slice of language, culture, and history. It’s efficient, it’s measurable, and it looks objective. But it’s also deeply exclusionary.
If a student doesn’t already sound like the academy, we treat it like a deficiency. When really, it’s an invitation.
I’ve seen this firsthand. I once believed I wanted to be an academic. But when I got close enough to see the job for what it is—adjunct instability, publish-or-perish pressures, institutional inertia—I lost faith in the structure. Not in the work, but in the life it demanded.
Still, I believe in writing. Not as a means to tenure. But as an exercise worth doing for its own sake.
Finding Your Voice (And the Right Room to Use It In)
David Bartholomae famously said that when students write, they have to “invent the university.”
They have to learn to speak in a voice that sounds like it belongs—an authority rooted in scholarship and style. But most students don’t know those rules. So they fake it. They write what they think they’re supposed to write, echoing the tone of their professors like academic ventriloquists.
Bartholomae doesn’t blame them. He says what they’re doing takes guts. But he also asks more: for students to step into the arena as thinkers in their own right—not just imitators, but co-authors in the conversation.
We are all students, and we should heed Bartholomae’s call.
Beyond Grammar
Finally, Lester Faigley outlines three major views of writing:
Expressive: Just be yourself, man. Say what you feel.
Cognitive: Writing is a process—there are stages, and you’ll get there.
Social: Writing is part of the world. It’s how we join groups, push back on norms, and tell new stories.
Faigley leans hard into that last one (and, so do I). He says writing isn’t just personal expression or polished mechanics—it’s the means by which people participate in public life.
Which might explain why most college writing is still taught by grad students on short-term contracts. Writing has power. But if we really taught people how to use it, it might shift the balance a little too much.
I’ve taught students who were told they’d never make it. I’ve been that student. And I’ve seen the way a single well-written sentence can crack something open in a person—the realization that they do have something to say, and the right to say it.
Writing isn’t just a skill. It’s a declaration. It’s a negotiation with the world. It’s the difference between having thoughts and having a voice.
So if you’ve ever struggled with writing—felt like you were faking it, or late to the game, or just not built for the task—let me say this:
Welcome to the conversation. We’re glad you’re here.