When I was in graduate school, I had a teacher who said to me

Lorrie Moore, with her sharp wit and unflinching honesty, once recalled the words of a teacher: “When I was in graduate school, I had a teacher who said to me, ‘Women writers should marry somebody who thinks writing is cute. Because if they really realised what writing was, they would run a mile.’” These words reveal the ancient burden of the writer’s path, and particularly the burden carried by women in the literary world. They remind us that writing, far from being a quaint pastime, is a fierce, demanding labor that consumes time, solitude, and devotion.

The origin of this saying is rooted in the harsh realities of literary life. Writing, for both men and women, is not simply arranging words—it is wrestling with meaning, sacrificing comfort, and bearing rejection. But for women, especially in earlier generations, the struggle carried an added weight: the expectations of family, society, and partners who often dismissed their craft as secondary, trivial, or unworthy of sacrifice. The teacher’s cynical advice carried a grim truth—that only those who underestimated the seriousness of writing would remain supportive, for to understand its demands was to grasp how much it asks of a household, a marriage, and a life.

History is filled with echoes of this truth. Virginia Woolf spoke of the need for “a room of one’s own,” knowing that women, more than men, were denied the solitude necessary to write. Charlotte Brontë concealed her authorship under a male pseudonym, aware that society would not easily allow a woman to be both wife and author. And even Sylvia Plath, burning with brilliance, struggled under the pressures of marriage and motherhood alongside her poetry. Each of these women bore the weight of society’s doubt, and each reveals the deeper meaning of Moore’s recollection: that to be a woman writer often meant defying a world that found your work inconvenient.

The emotional power of this quote lies in its blend of irony and tragedy. The teacher’s words sound like a cruel joke, yet beneath the jest lies an acknowledgement of the relentless demands of the literary life. Writing is not “cute.” It is work that pierces the soul, disturbs the peace of home, and requires sacrifices that few outside the craft can truly understand. It is a vocation that, if taken seriously, unsettles the conventional roles often expected of women, especially in Moore’s time as a student.

Yet, the lesson here is not despair, but courage. Moore herself did not run a mile. She embraced the craft, accepted the loneliness, and carved a path of brilliance through her stories, becoming one of the most celebrated voices of contemporary literature. Her life stands as a rebuttal to the teacher’s cynicism: though writing may be demanding, though it may strain the ties of love and family, it is still worth the cost. The writer who persists transforms the burden into beauty, the sacrifice into legacy.

For us, the teaching is clear: do not diminish the seriousness of writing—or of any creative labor. It is not hobby, but devotion. And if you walk this path, expect resistance, both from within yourself and from those around you. Yet do not be deterred. Instead, surround yourself with those who respect the depth of your craft, who see beyond the “cuteness” to the fire within. For with support, courage, and persistence, you may transform the labor of words into a beacon for generations.

Thus, Lorrie Moore’s recollection is more than an anecdote—it is a parable. Writing is never cute. It is sacred work, demanding sacrifice. Many will not understand it; some will even mock it. But if you remain steadfast, as Moore did, your words may outlast those who doubted you, and your silence may become voice, your struggle a gift to the world.