What People Get Wrong About My Job

Let’s Get One Thing Straight: I’m Not a Brooding Recluse in a Cable-Knit Sweater

When you tell people you’re a writer, particularly one lucky enough to work from a picturesque slice of Nantucket, their imaginations run wild. They picture me in some weather-beaten armchair, sipping black coffee in a faintly haunted study with seagulls cawing outside the window. I’ll admit, that sounds lovely, but the reality is far less romantic—I do most of my writing at the corner of my kitchen table, where there’s an excellent Wi-Fi signal and a constant danger of crumbs infiltrating my keyboard.

Unlike the mysterious, windswept writers of wistful PBS dramas, I am firmly rooted in reality. In fact, I might argue that my role as a staff writer for an online publication about relationships involves more relationship wrangling than anyone suspects. So, let’s break the myth open, shall we?

Myth #1: All I Do Is Romanticize Love

It’s easy to assume my job revolves around sprinkling rose petals of inspiration over every dating scenario or writing articles about how gazing into someone’s eyes over candlelight will solve all your problems (spoiler: it won’t). In truth, while I get to crack witty one-liners and reflect on the beauty of human connection, I also spend hours untangling what it means to really navigate the messiness of love. Sometimes, I feel more like a relationship mechanic than a poet.

Picture this: It’s a Tuesday. I’m on my fourth cup of tea, digging through sources on how attachment styles shape communication habits. I cross-reference that with studies that show people overuse emojis as a replacement for emotional vulnerability in text conversations (you know who you are). This is the nitty-gritty stuff I relish—what actually helps people understand themselves and their relationships better.

And, let me tell you, it’s not always grand declarations or epic meet-cutes that do. Often, it’s the small stuff: asking thoughtful questions, biting your tongue before you send that “...” text to your partner mid-argument, or—my personal favorite—just listening.

Myth #2: Writers Have All the Answers

Oh, don’t I wish. If you think writing about dating makes me an oracle of all things romantic, you’ve never seen me panic after someone (politely, kindly) points out my over-enthusiastic use of parentheses. Here’s the truth: I’m a lifelong student, not a guru. My job isn’t about having all the answers but about asking the right questions.

Take this example: people constantly ask me what they should be looking for in a partner. As though I can look into their hearts like some kind of Nantucket Obi-Wan Kenobi (spoiler: I cannot). What I can do is reframe that question. What lights you up? What do you value when no one else is looking? Finding a good partner begins by becoming one to yourself, and that’s a truth I’ve only discovered through years of writing—and let’s be honest, more than a few real-life relationship missteps.

Myth #3: It’s All Sunshine and Metaphors

I’d love to tell you my days are brimming with poetic epiphanies and Hollywood-esque moments of inspiration. But truthfully, writing—and writing about love—can feel as frustrating as trying to fold a fitted sheet. There’s nothing glamorous about drafting, revising, and second-guessing your word choice on a paragraph that begins with, “Why do we ghost each other and pretend it’s normal?” Writing, much like dating itself, often involves overthinking in ways that only occasionally serve you well.

There’s a unique challenge, though, to dissecting the landscape of relationships in 2023: the constant pressure to balance timeless truths with the churn of modern culture. Ever tried to write something lasting about commitment while accurately acknowledging how people “soft launch” their relationships on Instagram? That’s my life.

But even in these challenges, there’s immense joy. For every moment I spend scrolling for the perfect pop culture analogy (side note: situationships are like Netflix trial subscriptions—exciting until you realize there’s no real commitment), I come to better understand the richness and complexity of connection.

What Many Don’t Realize: Relationships Aren’t Just a Topic—They’re a Mirror

I’ll confess something: writing about other people’s hearts inevitably forces you to confront your own. It’s beautifully uncomfortable. I’ve spent countless hours crafting advice that makes me ask myself, “Oliver, are you actually following this yourself?”

For example, I recently wrote about the importance of giving people the benefit of the doubt—a small yet profound act of grace in relationships. And while editing that piece, I realized I’d been harboring unnecessary judgments about a friend’s delayed text reply. (Pro tip: not every flake is a betrayal. Sometimes, life gets in the way.)

The reality is, to write authentically about connection is to accept that you’re never really done growing, learning, or unlearning. Relationships are ongoing experiments, and I’m as much a test subject as anyone.

What People Should Know About My Job

If you’re dating or in a relationship right now, you’ve likely consulted a barrage of TikTok advice, Twitter threads, or those Instagram quotes that say something too accurate like, “If someone loves you, you won’t have to ask twice.” And while these sound great in theory, practical advice often gets lost in the noise. My job is to dig beneath the catchy one-liners to offer the deeper truths people need—not only the ones they want to hear.

Here’s what I’ve learned along the way:

  • Love isn’t cookie-cutter. There’s no perfect template for relationships because no two people are the same. As tempting as it is to draw hard lines (like, "never text first" or "always have the upper hand"), real relationships demand nuance.
  • Imperfection is connection. The realness of a chipped coffee mug or a messy Sunday morning often outweighs the grand gestures. Relating to each other in our flawed humanity is what sparks intimacy.
  • It’s OK not to have all the answers. And really, who does? The best connections leave room for wondering, for exploration, for figuring it out as you go.

What You Can Take Away

The best part of my job—the part I wish I could bottle up and share with everyone—is how deeply it’s taught me the value of curiosity. Whether you’re writing about relationships or living them, approaching others with curiosity and not judgment is like opening the window on a spring day. Suddenly, everything feels clearer and lighter.

So, no. I’m not brooding over a leather-bound journal, composing an ode to your first crush or your last heartbreak. But if I’ve done my job right, I might have helped you ask yourself a question you needed to hear or offered you the nudge to keep going, even when love feels like uncharted seas.

And if you still picture me in a windswept chair, I’ll allow it—just don’t forget to imagine the overflowing stack of dishes in the background.