"PAPERBACK WRITER"

Jul 29, 2025

3 min read

Before Zillow, there was me and a dot-matrix printer.

Original Post Date: 05.31.2020. Revised: 07.19.2025.

It took me a day or two to decipher the code:

80x100 ft lt, 1200sf, 2B, 2B COL LR, DR, FKT, BSMT on CDS

Translation: 80x100 foot lot, 1200 square feet, 2-bedroom, 2-bath colonial with living room, dining room, full kitchen, and basement on a cul-de-sac.

One of my first freelance writing gigs was crafting property descriptions for a local real estate company. This was before Zillow™, before social media platforms, and before photos of real estate agents smiled at you from the back of your grocery cart. Back then, house hunting meant piling into the car on Sunday afternoon and touring open houses—one after another—until you found “the one.”

In the late 1980s, one company took a bold leap: they launched a marketing campaign where potential buyers could dial a toll-free number, enter a listing code, and hear a recorded description of the house. Imagine a voice like Patrick Stewart or Morgan Freeman whispering about your future dream home—complete with a Jacuzzi tub to unwind after a long day at the office. Unsurprisingly, sales spiked.

But someone had to write those descriptions.

Hundreds—sometimes thousands—of homes needed copy. So, the company hired a small army of creatives (yes, an oxymoron). I was one of them.

Every few days, I’d receive a packet of 33 dot-matrix–printed sheets. The only readable detail? The street name. Everything else was cryptic abbreviations and numbers.

We never saw the houses. We were paid $3.00 per listing, so it wasn’t worth driving across town to see if a place had shutters, picture windows, or even a roof for that matter. So, I developed a “system” if you will - a shorthand for painting pictures of places I had never been.

It started with the price.

Between $75,000–$100,000? The house was “cozy and comfortable.” Didn't matter if it was a Tudor, a ranch, or a yurt—cozy and comfy it would be.
For every extra $10,000–$25,000, the adjectives multiplied. “Gracious and spacious” entered the scene.
Anything over $250,000? Get ready for “tasteful, elegant, perfect for entertaining guests, and sure to delight friends and family alike.”

Of course, I assumed each house had windows. But since I didn’t know if they faced a lake or a landfill, I settled on: “You’ll enjoy a great view of your surroundings for years to come.”

Color? Décor? No clue. So, “Imagination is everything as you add your personal touch to your dream home.”

If the notes said “move-in ready”:” Once you settle in, you can begin living your dream life immediately.”

If repairs were needed: “Renovators will revel in the opportunity to add their creative touch to this charming home in need of a little TLC.”

Empty lots were the toughest. What I wanted to say: “There’s a plot of land on the corner of Elm and Maple. There’s nothing there. You’ll need to do everything yourself.”

What I actually wrote: “If you’ve always dreamed of building the perfect home to your exact specifications, this 100x80 foot lot in a vibrant, year-round community awaits your vision.”

When I could, I added localized flair.

Near the museum district? “Art lovers will appreciate the proximity to world-class cultural institutions.”
On the lake? “Enjoy easy access to boating, water sports, and natural beauty.”
In the city? “Convenient to public transit and metro services for effortless urban living.”

I probably wrote 500 of these blurbs. Eventually, the company hired full-time staff and embraced newer technology. But I’ll say this: that job taught me how to write. It laid the foundation for my career as a communications professional and ghostwriter for the C-Suite.

What I learned is this: writing means showing up every single day. You sit down, write the thing, edit the thing, rewrite it, hate it, fix it, and repeat—until you’ve cracked the code. Honestly? I should have paid them for that lesson. What a gift.

These days, I write for myself—and for anyone who finds these essays. Some days it flows like water. Other days, I glare at the screen like it owes me money—and it just blinks at me like it forgot its wallet.

And then I take a deep breath and ask myself, “Okay, what code am I going to crack today?”