Writers at Work: What Day Jobs Taught Some of History’s Greatest Authors

Throughout literary history, many celebrated writers have taken on unconventional, humble, or laborious day jobs to support themselves while pursuing their craft. These odd jobs, often physically or emotionally demanding, gave writers not only the financial means to survive but also the psychological texture, insight, and discipline that later shaped their literary voices. The balancing act between survival and art has long been a defining feature of the writing life, and for contemporary authors navigating similar pressures, the presence of a literary mentor can be transformative—offering guidance, perspective, and stability in an otherwise precarious journey.

Take, for instance, William Faulkner, who worked as a postmaster at the University of Mississippi. He famously disliked the work and was eventually fired for reading on the job instead of attending to his postal duties. Yet, even in that mundane setting, Faulkner developed the ironic detachment and Southern detail that would later distinguish his fiction. Likewise, Charles Bukowski worked for over a decade as a letter carrier and then a file clerk for the United States Postal Service. These jobs not only gave him a firsthand look at bureaucracy and working-class struggle, but they also provided the raw material for his novel Post Office, which launched his career.

T.S. Eliot, before becoming one of the most influential poets of the twentieth century, worked at Lloyds Bank in London. While by no means an “odd job” in the traditional sense, Eliot’s bank work was intellectually stifling and deeply conservative, a sharp contrast to the radical modernism of his verse. The tension between the banality of his professional life and the audacity of his artistic ambition is palpable in poems like The Waste Land. Similarly, Franz Kafka, who remains one of the most hauntingly existential writers of modern literature, held a job at the Workers' Accident Insurance Institute in Prague. There, he processed industrial injury claims—an occupation that exposed him daily to the dehumanizing machinery of bureaucracy, an experience that echoes throughout his fiction.

In more recent memory, Stephen King worked as a janitor and gas station attendant before publishing his breakout novel Carrie. These roles were not glamorous, but they gave him something invaluable: a chance to observe life unfiltered. King's immersion in working-class environments lent his stories a grounded authenticity, particularly in the way he portrays small-town America. Likewise, J.K. Rowling, before the success of Harry Potter, was a single mother working as a researcher and bilingual secretary for Amnesty International. Later, she relied on government assistance and taught English as a second language while writing in cafes. The emotional toll of that period—marked by solitude and fierce determination—directly informed the resilience of her characters.

For writers today, many of whom still find themselves juggling shifts as baristas, rideshare drivers, retail clerks, or adjunct instructors, the challenge of preserving time and energy for creative work can be daunting. These jobs, while often draining, can be observational goldmines—offering glimpses into human behavior, class dynamics, and unscripted conversations that no MFA workshop could replicate. What struggling authors frequently lack is not the material or talent, but a sustainable structure and belief in their long-term potential. This is where a literary mentor becomes invaluable.

A literary mentor provides more than feedback on chapters or advice on submissions. At their best, mentors serve as pragmatic guides and emotional anchors. They understand the rhythms and demands of the writing life because they have lived them. They can help mentees carve out writing routines that respect the limitations of their day jobs rather than working against them. They offer perspective when a writer feels consumed by self-doubt or when life’s demands threaten to eclipse artistic ambition entirely.

Moreover, mentors often serve as advocates—connecting mentees with opportunities, fellow writers, and editors that might otherwise remain out of reach. In a field where success is as much about persistence and connection as it is about talent, having someone to demystify the path can dramatically shift a writer’s trajectory. The loneliness of writing—especially while living hand-to-mouth—can be softened by the presence of someone who genuinely believes in your voice, and who can help you chart a long view, even when the daily grind clouds your confidence.

Many writers, despite their eventual success, continued to struggle with this balance throughout their careers. George Orwell, while writing Down and Out in Paris and London, took on dishwashing jobs in grimy kitchens, immersing himself in poverty both as subject matter and lived experience. Maya Angelou worked as a fry cook, nightclub dancer, and streetcar conductor before her first book was published. These experiences, far from distractions, imbued their work with a radical empathy and realism that remains unmatched.

To write is to observe, and often the odd jobs that writers take are essential opportunities for that observation. But while these jobs may furnish writers with material, they rarely provide the guidance needed to refine, sustain, and believe in the work. A mentor fills that gap—not by making the day job disappear, but by helping writers survive it without losing their creative fire. The stories of these famous writers are not just tales of persistence, but lessons in the importance of support. Behind many successful authors, especially those who came up through difficult jobs and tighter margins, stood someone who believed their work mattered. Today, for emerging writers caught between creative ambition and practical necessity, finding that kind of belief in the form of a literary mentor might be the most important odd job of all.