The First “First” Is Always the Hardest

Growing up in Beverly Hills, I thought my first byline would come naturally. When your parents are producers and your backyard pool parties attract more industry execs than an Oscars afterparty, confidence becomes your default setting. Journalists? Screenwriters? Directors? These were the people I saw at Shabbat dinners, balancing a plate of kugel while pitching their next big idea to my aunt. Of course, I figured, when it was my turn, I’d just… glide into it. You know, like a rom-com moment: my byline would wink at me from the crisp folds of a magazine as I casually sipped coffee at some café on Melrose.

But, spoiler alert: it didn’t quite pan out like that.

Let’s rewind to my early twenties. It's post-college, and I’m interning with a script development team at a film studio, which essentially means I’m a glorified coffee runner with a snooty screenplay coverage portfolio. My days are filled with enough predictable plot twists to ensure that every bagel shop in LA knows my order by heart. And my nights? Spent agonizing over one-act plays and future short story ideas that no festival would ever call back about. I kept telling myself, “You’ll write something meaningful soon.” Right after I finished obsessing over whether the guy next to me in spin class really liked the idea of a second date or just wanted someone to laugh at his “cycling makes me wheelie tired” jokes.

One Friday, as my luck would have it, my aunt calls, saying that her best friend is launching a small cultural blog and they're looking for “exactly your voice” to write a piece on modern dating. She describes the opportunity in such glowing terms you’d think she was matchmaking me with the article itself. I panic. “Modern dating?” I asked, clinging to my existential 23-year-old dread. “What could I possibly write about modern dating that someone doesn’t already know?”

“Have you seen your friends date?” she counters. “It’s comedy gold. Just write.”

Enter my first byline. Or, as I privately call it, my published panic attack turned in by deadline.

From Pitch to Panic: The Road to My First Byline

Here’s the kicker about your first byline: no matter how much you think you’re ready, actually sitting down and writing it feels a little like a first date. You’re equal parts excited (“I can’t wait to prove I belong here!”) and terrified (“What if this flops and no one ever loves my writing again?”).

Between juggling my day job and my Kindle obsession with Joan Didion essays, I somehow convinced myself I could spin a personal essay on Los Angeles relationships into something witty, insightful, and worth reading. I pulled from what I knew best: the social scene hiding under LA’s smog-covered romantic ideals. Mindless party mingling? Sure, I’d dig at that. The way everyone postures like a well-edited IMDB profile in real life? Definitely. And the unique horrors of grabbing dinner at a fusion taco truck with someone who insists on splitting the bill via Venmo—oh, there’d be plenty of that too.

It turns out, getting material wasn’t the issue. The issue was staring down at my naked, blinking cursor on a blank Word document for hours like it was actively judging me.

My Secret Weapon: Embracing the Mess

Here’s the thing about starting anything for the first time: you desperately want it to be perfect. I wanted the editor to read my piece and think, Wow, THIS is Pulitzer-worthy, not, Wow, we regret asking the producer’s niece to write this. But something shifted when I decided to let the writing get a little messy. I stopped overthinking every potential sentence and what others (readers, editors, the entirety of Los Angeles) might say and focused on my unique perspective.

That meant being honest about what I found simultaneously hilarious and humbling in my dating life. It meant calling out LA clichés with zero filters—like the guy whose first date idea was taking me on a crystal sound bath hike. (No shade if sound baths are your thing, but in retrospect, however well-meaning he was, his “our chakras might align better in the canyon” line wasn’t a winner.)

Letting the messiness happen unlocked something in me. All of sudden, the essay wasn’t about perfection—it was about what felt real to me. And as I hit my stride, I found comfort in borrowing from the screenwriting tricks I’d spent years analyzing. Every good plot starts with messy scenes, right? Real people—especially potential partners—rarely show up packaged with their best qualities plastered front and center. That’s what makes writing (and dating) interesting: the imperfect, the cringe, the unexpected zingers that stay with you long after the interaction.

The Aftermath: Seeing Your Byline

The moment I saw my name and words published? Magical. It felt ridiculous, surreal, and deeply satisfying all at once, like biting into a perfect, overpriced LA brunch avocado toast. I didn’t expect the mix of anxiety and thrill when I realized, “Wait, people are going to read this.” My mom printed ten physical copies to pass around, doing the Beverly Hills Jewish mother PR tour: “Look, Becca’s first article!”

The piece got more clicks than I anticipated, which I still believe is partially thanks to my self-deprecating tale of a failed Griffith Observatory date. (PRO TIP: Do not insist on hiking while trying to impress someone with your astrophysics knowledge. Especially when the only constellation you can confidently name is Orion’s Belt.)

Lessons I Learned Writing My First Byline (That Also Apply to, Well, Life)

Of course, the “first time” (writing or otherwise) always teaches you more than you’re ready to admit. Here’s what I took away:

  • Perfection is overrated. Whether it’s dating or writing, you’ve got to let go of being immaculate. No one connects with shiny, impossible ideals. They connect with humanity—flaws, wit, and all.
  • Imposter syndrome is just background noise. In hindsight, I wish I hadn’t spent so much time obsessively doubting my voice. Your first byline, much like your first serious crush, is meant to be equal parts messy and exhilarating.
  • The key is to show up. There’s no article—or relationship—if you don’t risk the vulnerability up front. Scary? Yep. Worth it? Totally.
  • Celebrate milestones. I was so busy sweating over comments and views, I almost missed the magic of what I’d accomplished. Sometimes, we forget to soak in the good stuff because we’re already onto the next hurdle.

Closing the Chapter

My first byline didn’t define my career, but it did something more valuable: it proved I could do it. Firsts will always feel terrifying, monumental, and heavy. But once you move past the fear and lean in—even if it feels like patchwork—you’ll find that they’re just the beginning.

And best of all? You’ve earned a story to tell afterward, whether it’s messy, funny, or a little bit of both.