As a melodrama driven by intimate relationships, the dimension of work may seem largely irrelevant to the narrative edifice of The L Word, a mere contrivance subordinated to its romantic intrigues. I argue here that this apparent insignificance is in fact a symptom of the program's perfect rendition of the late capitalist transition to immaterial labor, wherein work is diffused throughout the whole life of the subject. All of The L Word's characters, insofar as their employment is represented onscreen, hold jobs in the services and cultural industries, the growth sectors in a post-industrial economy. Consider these examples:

• Bette Porter – An art curator and administrator, Bette serves as a high-powered, high-profile high culture gatekeeper in her positions as Director of the California Arts Center (a small but ambitious museum) and later Dean of the California University School of the Arts. Aggressively out as a lesbian, she often champions the work of controversial queer and feminist artists, an agenda referenced in The L Word's opening credits by scenes of Bette and others in a gallery featuring portraits by Catherine Opie.
• Tina Kennard – Initially a stay-at-home mom, Tina eventually revives her professional experience in development to volunteer for a non-profit and then launch her second career as the executive of a movie studio. In the latter capacity, she is instrumental in the production of Jenny's autobiographical screenplay.
• Jenny Schecter – A struggling writer with literary aspirations, Jenny ends up cashing in on the memoir craze with her semi-fictionalized account of her childhood sexual abuse. Her second work, Lez Girls, retells the story of The L Word from Jenny's perspective, angering many of her friends with unflattering portrayals. Jenny parlays the success of Lez Girls into the rights to write and direct the movie version, despite having no experience in film.
• Shane McCutcheon – A freelance hairstylist allegedly modelled after Sally Hershberger of the reality show Shear Genius, Shane's personal brand is fully realized in season 3 with the opening of "Shane for Wax," her own salon chair attached to a hipster skate shop. Shane's signature androgenous look also lands her a gig as a male underwear model for Hugo Boss, with the slogan "you're looking very Shane today."
• Dana Fairbanks – Dana is initially afraid to come out because she worries it would adversely affect her career as a professional tennis player, where her income is largely dependent on endorsements. As it turns out, she gets her biggest sponsorship deal, with Subaru, precisely because they are looking for gay celebrities for their "get out and stay out" ad campaign (in the non-fictional world, Subaru's advertising has targeted lesbians and included out tennis star Martina Navratilova as a spokesperson).
• Kit Porter – Bette's half-sister Kit, the program's most central straight character, is equally committed to the lesbian community. Beginning the series as a formerly famous soul singer who is now a washed-up alcoholic, Kit pieces her life back together when she buys dyke hangout The Planet, turning the café into a hotspot of lesbian nightlife and later acquiring a second gay club.

Each of these characters exemplifies immaterial skills that are becoming hegemonic under late capitalism: manipulating hierarchies of taste through hype and branding; leveraging personal connections and social networks; communicating productively through various media channels. Moreover, in synergy with the genre of melodrama, they exemplify the interdependence of professional and intimate lives, as their relationships provide the material and the occasions for their career advancement.

To take this even further, we might say that the characters on The L Word exemplify the importance of subjectivity itself as labor. It is their work on themselves (Jenny's identity crisis; Dana's coming out process; Shane's ineffable style) and on their communicative capacities (Bette's taste-making; Tina's movie-making; Kit's community building) that makes them successful at their titular jobs. And when it comes to The L Word, this labor is all concentrated in the production of "lesbian" as an economically meaningful category. Despite their occasional lip-service against ghettoization, it is ultimately as LESBIAN critic/executive/author/hairdresser/ athlete/promoters that the characters thrive professionally, and they model working at being a lesbian as a vocation. Of course, this portrayal is far from disinterested: lesbian is also the category that works as The L Word's brand, the characters' endorsements are the program's ad revenue, and the characters' careers mirror the careers of showrunner Ilene Chaiken and a handful of other professional lesbians in the industry. In a parallel that operates didactically, lesbianism is the program's privileged labor on both sides of the screen, as both its characters and its creators endeavor to render this identity lucrative in capitalist terms. If these characters are employed as lesbians textually, they are also employed as lesbians metatextually in that their job is to be spokeswomen for the program's trademark sexuality.

This strategy is more than an isolated or mercenary symbiosis, however; it is the regime of immaterial labor that makes it viable. The L Word's project to monetize a particular subjective formation is one instance of the generalized subsumption of subjectivity into capitalist production, and the work of its characters or creators as lesbians echoes the work it asks of its audience. Industrially, that is, what is productive for The L Word is not the willingness of its characters to take up the labor of lesbian identification but the willingness of its viewers to take it up. These viewers do not have to "be" lesbians, although that approximation is often convenient, but in order to be inspired to watch and thus to generate revenue for Showtime they have to "buy into" the value of that position. The program promises various remittances that audience members might enjoy in exchange – the voyeuristic pleasure of watching beautiful and often semi-nude women, the narrative pleasure of a soap opera's intimate networks (posited as a particular hallmark of lesbian life), the subcultural pleasure of participating in a recognizable community experience – but whatever their motivation, viewers must make a connection (however contingent or ambivalent) between themselves and The L Word's manufactured lesbian identity that sustains up to 52 minutes, 13 episodes, 6 seasons of involvement. The L Word's self-reflexive storytelling attempts to teach this occupation by example, through its object lessons in laboring to valorize lesbianism. Its characters epitomize the hegemonic orientation of all producer-consumers in a post-industrial era: the imperative to "be subjects" – to desire and to communicate with relative autonomy from any enclosed proletarian arrangement.