The Labor of Letters: Why I Treat Writing as a Trade, Not a Hobby

I’ve long stopped waiting for the 'lightning bolt' of inspiration and started showing up to the page the same way a craftsman shows up at his shop, ready to do the work, regardless of how I feel. This is my reflection of how I treat writing as a craft to be practiced, a way to keep my heart intact in a cynical world; a deliberate, honest way of noticing the lives and stories that move around me.

Calling Writing a Trade

I have long stopped romanticizing writing and now call it what it is: a trade. It is neither a pastime nor a hobby, but labor, work I am still learning, slowly, imperfectly, and repetitively. I write at the same desk where I compute my bills, not when inspiration strikes, but to meet a deadline. I strive to produce meaning not as my mood allows, but through routine and discipline.

When I write, I am aware that every sentence I put down is already in conversation with thinkers who came before me. I may not cite them explicitly, but they are present in:

• The questions I ask.

• The unresolved tensions I explore.

• The metaphors I reach for to anchor meaning.

From philosophy, theology, oral wisdom, and cultural memory, writing becomes less about originality and more about stewardship.

There are questions that won’t leave us alone: What gives life meaning? Are we truly living well? What do I owe another, given my fractured self? I write as I think: argue, debate, experiment with ideas already wrestled with in countless theories. I live a life that both proves and disproves them, yet the questions persist.

Bringing Ideas Down to Earth

The "why" of my writing sounds clear in theory, but as the body ages, the work changes. Everything flexes. My limits are no longer abstract; they are in my back, my eyes, and the hours I can no longer borrow from sleep. What tires me quickly, what no longer feels urgent, my writing has to meet these realities.

Many questions remain unresolved. I take what I’ve read in thick books and I test those theories against the heat of the kitchen, the noise of the classroom, the haggling at the market, and the prayers in the church. This is where the "trade" happens. I choose to live what I believe, even when no grand theory offers a final answer to the struggle of the everyday.

Embracing Uncertainty

What does something mean? Why did it happen? After confusion, revision, and wrestling with a paragraph that refuses logic, I let uncertainty linger. Clarity can come later. In the fog that dims my vision, there is always that yet-unwritable thing.

So when I publish content, I am merely acknowledging that this thought might still be useful to someone. Who knows how it might steady another person’s thinking, incite a feeling, or spark a connection? I have to assume that writing is necessary, even now, because it carries the responsibility to respond to some call for meaning.

Writing can flatten complexity or deepen confusion. Each time I choose which ideas to amplify, which metaphors to trust, and which narratives to foreground, I wrestle with humility, aware of how partial my view is. I remind myself that writing is not about being clever or intelligent, but about creating space for others to think. This is why I choose to wear my heart on my sleeve, taking responsibility for my perspective as I write myself into existence.".

Paying Attention as Work

I pay attention to language because our words carry the weight of our history. I pay attention to silence, too; what we leave unsaid is often the loudest part of the story. I pay attention to the people around me because an honest trade ignores no one. This kind of attention makes haste impossible. The work becomes slow, deliberate, mas maingat.

At times, I’ll admit, it all feels futile:

• When it’s easier to isolate myself than risk looking "underperforming" or may kulang sa akin sa tingin ng iba.

• When teaching starts to feel like a chore and fulfillment runs dry.

• When I see leaders mired in corruption, or hear of another storm flattening a province and the heat drying up the land.

• When grocery prices soar while my salary remains low.

In those moments, I easily get angry. I want the harsh response, the quick fix, the immediate relief. It is hard to stay patient when everything feels like a struggle.

But writing allows a sigh. A pause. A breath. It insists that I remain human in a system that wants me to be a machine. Cynicism is incompatible with writing. I can write about despair, even my own, and find a way to redeem it. There are no fixed truths in our lived experience, only the work.

In writing, I join a quiet effort to keep meaning in circulation—to prevent it from hardening into dogma or dissolving into noise. This is the work I’ve poured into my collection, Hugos, where I wrestle with these very questions of silence and redemption.

This is my trade. This is my leverage.

References

Palmer, Anthony. “Philosophy and Literature.” Philosophy, vol. 65, no. 252, 1990, pp. 155–66. JSTOR

Writing is a trade that preserves our legacy and connects us to our community. If you have an encounter, a memory, or a story that needs to be told, I invite you to join the labor.

Start writing your memoir or essay with Ninangjat Wordhouse here.