How Does a Writer Survive in the Era of Snackable Content

Dustin Parkes penned a thought-provoking essay today. It’s about the fate of writers in a world that seems to value longer, more in-depth writing and reporting less and less as time goes on and values shorter, bloggier, clickable content more and more.

Parkes has some recent experience with this. He used to write for the sports site The Score where he specialized in longer form writing. Deeper dives. A year or two ago, however, that site let Parkes and a lot of other good writers go, deleted their archives and has attempted to pursue a more flashy, gossip-driven and viral content existence. Parkes uses the term “snackable content,” which I believe was actually coined by people who like the shorter stuff, even if it sounds like something of an insult. 

A lot of people who have done the sort of work Parkes did at The Score but who are finding it harder to make a go of it these days aren’t terribly happy with the demand for shorter, fluffier content. Indeed, many in journalism who have found themselves on that side of this content divide have taken to disparaging modern tastes and modern media and have chalked it up to the dumbing down of the culture. Parkes gives some excellent examples of this based on some recent controversial changes to The New Republic.

​But rather than join in that chorus, as many a smart, deep-thinking writer has done of late, Parkes calls for an end to that. Or at least points out how useless it is for a writer to take that stance. And it’s not just a surrendering, hands-up, “well, the mob has spoken” kind of thing. Parkes acknowledges that journalistic form will, inevitably, follow the function its readers want it to serve:

“It’s absurd to imagine changes in the production and accessibility of writing not affecting how we read it … Being willing to experiment and innovate will propel us much farther than wallowing in the fact that current trends don’t match our sensibilities. As our reaction to the changes at The New Republic illustrates, it’s easier to bemoan what was great about the past than adapt to the future. We’d rather shame the people looking to make writing economically viable than consider how content is being consumed. And that’s to our detriment.”

Adapt or perish, Mr. or Ms. Writer Person, because this is a business.

It’s a sentiment with which I completely agree. As I found in my previous career, if you think you’re part of some greater noble calling which should be immune to commercial considerations, you’re gonna find yourself on the unemployment line eventually.

But knowing that you need to get with the times and actually doing it are two different things. Parkes spends a lot of time wrestling with it, but even he concedes at the end that it’s easier said than done. The path to being a decently-compensated writer in this new world is still shaking out, really, and that was the case even before Facebook started wading into things, which is likely to cause even greater disruption in existing models.

Though I got and have, somehow, managed to keep a job in the world of snackable content, I can’t say that I have any monopoly on wisdom here. Especially wisdom that allows writers to continue to keep working and keeps them from having to reduce themselves to the lowest common denominator to do it. But I can say what has worked for me over the past six years.

While my writing in this space often skews long and while I, personally, am quite comfortable with more in-depth analysis, the media consumption landscape doesn’t really tolerate that anymore. Unless you’re Gary Smith or unless you have a particularly compelling story, people won’t read 3,000 words from you on anything approaching a regular basis. And if people aren’t reading you on a regular basis, no one will want to give you a regular outlet for your work. Writing three cool things a year just doesn’t pay anyone’s bills.

But people will read 200 or 400 words over and over and over again. If you have a distinct point of view and a decent set of principles you can write 200 or 400 word pops every day – or multiple times a day – and manage to attract readers who keep coming back for those little snacks. If you keep your mind on what is important and maintain that distinct point of view and that decent set of principles, you can say a few things in the process that matter. At least in the aggregate.

Sure, there are some tradeoffs involved here. You have to pay the bills, so you you may have to play videos. Or write a list once in a while. You have to make jokes or embed Vines and assorted crap like that. And, apart from the rare indulgence, you won’t be able to hold up a brilliant 3,000 word essay and say “I did this; this is important!” But you will have a body of work which, while no one single thing may be earth-shatteringly important, amounts to something that you can call your own and which your readers can say gave them something valuable. 

In my experience, I probably write something of any serious length a couple of times a year. A couple of times a week I may write something that exceeds 1,000 words. Mostly I’m writing 15-20 short hits, some of which are just links to other articles, some of which are jokes or pictures or videos. A few of which are short bursts of sharp opinion. All of that taken together provides something my employers can monetize and which my readers willingly and easily consume.

But I think it’s also fair to say that all of these short bits amount to something of substance. Yes, my readers come for laughs and videos and little snacks, but they also know that I stand for some things and that I can be trusted to offer some wisdom or insight on the things that are more or less in my wheelhouse.

​Maybe it’s not as writerly or noble as the stuff a house columnist at a prestigious periodical produced in the 1950s through the 1990s. Maybe some of it is base and commercial and calculated to get people click, click, click. But it’s a way to get ideas out there while simultaneously giving readers and publishers what they want. And that’s about as good as someone can hope in these strange new times.

Craig Calcaterra

Craig is the author of the daily baseball (and other things) newsletter, Cup of Coffee. He writes about other things at He lives in New Albany, Ohio with his wife, two kids, and many cats.