It Starts with Coffee and a Cat Named Hemingway
There’s a certain tranquility to mornings here in Maine. The tide does its steady shuffle in the distance while gulls make their daily case for world domination. My day kicks off at 5:45 a.m. sharp, not because I’m one of those miraculous early risers who believes waking up with the sun cures all life’s ills, but because my cat, Hemingway, believes in democracy—the kind where he votes for breakfast by repeatedly smacking my nose. He’s relentless and has a meow that could cut glass, so I’m up whether I like it or not.

But there’s a ritual in it—something grounding that feels like a warm handshake with the universe as I grind beans for my French press. Coffee, in my rural West Virginia upbringing, wasn’t just a pick-me-up; it was a ceremony. My folks, both coal miners, would sip slowly before the crack of dawn, reminding me that life’s most profound moments aren’t loud—they’re brewed.

The Woods, the Road, and a Low-Stakes Game of Hide and Seek
By 7 a.m., I’m out the door for a walk in the woods that border my yard. Growing up, the forest was my playground. When you’re a kid in Appalachia, you don’t have TikTok or Instagram—you have creeks to ford and trees to climb. And while I can’t say I shimmy up a maple these days (Hemingway reminds me I have responsibilities), I like to meander, breathing in the pine-tinged air.

I’ll admit my woods-walking habit is sprinkled with superstition—chalk it up to those Appalachian folklore roots. I keep my eye out for hidden "signs": moss growing in unexpected places, a snag of lost ribbon on a branch. Maybe it’s the storyteller in me, but something about nature always feels like a quiet conversation, like someone—something—is leaving little winks in the underbrush.

These walks aren’t just for me, though, because when I get back, my ritual continues: feeding the blue jays. There’s one particularly bold guy I call “Gary Cooper” (for his stoic standoffishness), and there’s a part of me that hopes Hemingway doesn’t see him as a future snack.

When the Keyboard Meets Chaos
By 9 a.m., I’ve officially swapped birds for words. My work-from-home schedule revolves around crafting essays for This Publication, and today I’m deep in a piece about navigating awkward first dates. I’ll tell you, the overlap between writing and dating is uncanny. Both require vulnerability, a little bravery, and a decent Wi-Fi signal.

Writing, for me, feels a bit like returning to California, where I studied cultural history. I think flavoring advice with a pinch of personal story is what helps people connect—whether it’s through an Appalachian ballad or a tale of disastrous first-date karaoke (ask me sometime about my “Total Eclipse of the Heart” fail). Everyone loves a good train wreck, and when you share yours, it makes others feel a little less alone in all their beautifully messy humanity.

And yes, true to habit, I write while serenading myself with a constant loop of folk music, like Townes Van Zandt whispering truths in my ear. The blend of rhythm and reflection fuels me, though occasionally Hemingway aggressively tries to type with me. He believes himself to be my overqualified editor.

A Lunch Date with Nostalgia
By noon, it’s time for lunch, and here’s where things get... unconventional. Growing up, my mom made the best pinto beans and cornbread—simple fare that carried stories with every bite. Thanks to Maine’s coastal charm, I’ve now added lobster rolls to my repertoire, but when nostalgia strikes, I’ll whip up a skillet of buttery cornbread and a bowl of beans. Some might think it’s strange to eat this old-school Southern dish so far from the holler, but let me tell you: comfort food doesn’t care about geography.

Also, if food has taught me anything about relationships, it’s this—sharing your roots is a love language of its own. Whether it’s serving up cavern-worthy chili to a partner or arguing about proper biscuit techniques, food is connection. So, if ever we find ourselves dining together, expect me to ask, “What dish reminds you of home?”

Afternoon Delights (of the Unexpected Kind)
By 3 p.m., I need a breather. I’ve begun taking up what I call “mindless-but-marvelous” hobbies—things you do purely for joy, no expectation of skill. Recently, I’ve been dabbling in repairing vintage radios. I can barely tell resistors from capacitors, but there’s something romantic about piecing history back together, making it work again, however imperfectly.

It doesn’t surprise me, really, that I’ve come to see dating the same way. Let’s be honest: most relationships aren’t perfect; they’re patched together with duct tape and hope. And that’s okay. What matters is the willingness to show up for the process, whether you’re rewiring a 1940s Zenith or learning your partner finds "airing out grievances" therapeutic (even if it’s about how you stack the dishwasher).

Dinner, Music, and the Great Love Story
By 6 p.m., the stove’s sizzling, and some old jazz standard—the kind I discovered in California—is spinning on vinyl. Dinner isn’t fussy, usually something hearty and easy, like roasted sweet potatoes and salmon. Meals like this are my personal love letter to routine, reminding me that sometimes the simple things sustain us.

And then, out of habit, I call my mom. We chat about what’s blooming in her garden, and I usually sneak in a question about love and relationships because honestly, her advice has aged better than a glass of Pappy Van Winkle. Over the years, she’s shared gems like, “If he doesn’t laugh when you fall, that’s not your person” (context: I once slipped off a barn roof; Dad could barely breathe from laughing). She keeps me grounded, offering clarity when the romantic world feels murky.

Evenings: Where Reflection Meets Flirting with Fiction
By 9 p.m., my day slows, but my mind races. That’s when I write for myself, working on my latest novel—a love story, of course, but no sweeping castles and knights here. Instead, it’s set in a sleepy Appalachian town, where love feels quiet and resounds like the echo of an old hymn. For inspiration, I think of my parents—ordinary heroes who taught me that real love doesn’t require grand gestures. It’s in the steady hum of routine, the unspoken understanding, the brushing of hands before dawn.

And before you ask, yes, I ghostwrite moments from my own dating life into my fiction sometimes. My characters get to relive my worst dates but with better one-liners. Isn’t that what storytelling is, anyway? Taking your mess and making it art?

The Quiet Love of Alone Time
At 11 p.m., with Hemingway curled across my chest like he’s king of the hill, I prepare for sleep. I’m a firm believer in the idea that solitude is not loneliness—it’s love, too. It’s the kind you offer yourself at the end of a long day, the promise that you can be enough on your own.

These rituals—coffee, forest walks, writing, fixing radios, dinner, fiction—they’re not extravagant. They’re the rhythm of my life, the beat that keeps me connected to myself and to others. Whether it’s Maine, West Virginia, or somewhere in between, this daily routine reminds me that the love stories we build—romantic and otherwise—begin with a solid foundation of knowing and honoring ourselves.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: life, like love, is in the small stuff. So lean into it, listen to your favorite songs on repeat, laugh at yourself, and, by all means, thank your cat for waking you up before you miss it.