How We Define a “UX Writer” Matters

For one bright and shiny moment, there was a cool new job. It was more empathetic than advertising copy, more creative than technical writing, and more precise than blogging. It was a new compound word that married user experience and writing.

UX writing had a name but if you looked at the job descriptions, the ink hadn’t dried yet on its meaning. In the space of time before UX writing became UX writing, it was full of possibilities, and the open door policy allowed in refugees from linguistic studies, freelance writing, and library science who enriched our experience.

And for me, personally, it offered a hopeful solution to the problem of what to do with my life when my background was a hodgepodge of research, film narrative analysis, and marketing.

Maybe it’s too early to be talking in the past tense, because I still see the possibilities. I saw them when I accidentally slipped through the cracks and got an interview as a UX writer…with no formal writing or user-interface experience.

Here’s my story about how the language of UX makes or breaks opportunities:

A vaguely-worded job description gave me my big break

We are used to recruiters screening candidates out. But in my case, the lack of clear criteria for UX writers gave the recruiter the open-mindedness to see that I might have the right skill set even if I didn’t have the right pedigree. My background in research, storytelling, and marketing was not what the UX design team was looking for. The recruiter didn’t know that, so I made the first cut.

Once my foot was in the door, I made the most of it

I knew I was in trouble when I got on the phone and the hiring manager estimated that our conversation shouldn’t take longer than ten minutes. So I flung myself into sales mode. It reminded me of the time I got out of a traffic ticket by cramming in as many words as I could before the policeman got his chubby fingers on my driver’s license.

That conversation lasted a half hour, and as I listened to what they were looking for, it was clear that my background didn’t fit. Despite that, I made it past four rounds of interviews by pitching the possibilities of what the role could look like from a different point of view.

I drew upon my film experience to suggest a dialogue between the user and the interface, one which maps the user’s emotional journey.

I drew upon my research skills to propose the questions we could be asking to pinpoint the audience and its needs.

I drew upon my marketing skills to point out business opportunities that could help inform design flows.

A decade of experience coalesced into strategic writing recommendations.

Ultimately I was speaking the wrong language

There was one fleeting instant where the hiring manager seemed convinced, shaking his head and saying, “You would bring a fresh perspective.”

But I learned that I was not speaking the language of designers. The same jargon I was tasked with eliminating from the user interface was the jargon I needed to be able to speak to bridge the gap between the user and designer.

What’s next?

While I didn’t get the job, I’m grateful for the opportunity. This company did what I wish all companies would do. They gave me a shot while reserving the right to stick to their specifications.

In terms of next steps, I’m still deciding whether to continue the pursuit. Because lately, I’ve been seeing a change in the language of UX writing job descriptions. Companies that were once inclusive in their wording have been setting restrictions. The approachable call for folks who care about Oxford commas has turned into a strict demand for only those who have certain words in their previous titles.

Here’s what I know. I almost got a job as a UX writer because somebody didn’t have a narrow definition of what that was supposed to be. I hope that the UX community decides to keep the borders open just a little while longer. And maybe when we talk about UX writers, we could aim less for definitions and instead search for meaning.