Who Gets to Be Called a Writer?

On novels, essays, articles, and the hierarchies we rarely question.

Certain types of writing are seen as prestigious even before anyone reads a word.

The novelist is granted seriousness by default. The poet, depth. The memoirist, courage. But the essayist, the columnist, the article writer — their legitimacy is often measured against something else. Against scale. Against permanence. Against the imagined weight of a book.

I’ve been thinking about this hierarchy for some time.

It’s subtle, but persistent. We speak of “real writers” as though the form itself confers authority. As though length equals depth. As though fiction is inherently more significant than reflection. As though publication in hardback carries more artistic integrity than publication online.

But the act of writing itself does not change depending on the format.

The novelist sits alone with uncertainty.
The essayist does the same.
The article writer faces the same blank page.

Each of them has to choose what to include and what to leave out. They all have to revise and come back to their work.

The work is not easier just because the piece is shorter. It is not less valuable if it appears online instead of in a book.

Often, what we see as hierarchy is really just a matter of visibility.

Writing a novel can take years and ends up on shelves, showing endurance. An article might come and go in a week, and an essay might circulate quietly. But just because something is temporary doesn’t mean it isn’t important.

I’ve found some of the clearest thinking in essays, and some of the most careful writing in journalism. No single genre owns precision.

There’s also a practical side to this hierarchy. Many writers choose forms that pay or fit into their lives, which helps them keep writing. Writing articles doesn’t make someone less serious. In fact, it might be what lets them keep going.

I’m less interested now in the title attached to the work. I’m more interested in the discipline behind it.

Does the writer return?
Do they revise?
Do they respect the reader’s attention?
Do they hold themselves to standards that persist beyond applause?

Those questions matter more than genre.

Maybe we hold onto these hierarchies because they make it easier to judge. They let us put writing into categories and praise one form without looking at the skill in another.

But what makes writing valuable isn’t its format. It’s the care put into it.

Whether the piece becomes a novel, an essay, an article, or a post, the work remains the same: to shape language accurately enough to carry thought.

Everything else is packaging.

The form may differ. The discipline does not.