Why do I write? It’s easier than therapy, cheaper than retail, and far less confusing than interpreting that thumbs-up emoji your date just sent. But more than that, writing is my North Star—steady, guiding, and always there on even the messiest of days. Writing, for me, is a way to understand the world, one awkward conversation and heartfelt observation at a time. It’s my love language, my coping mechanism, and the lens through which I see both the glossy red carpets of Beverly Hills and the less glamorous truths hiding behind them.
So, grab your favorite overpriced oat milk latte (I’m partial to a matcha with honey), and let me take you behind the scenes of why—and how—I tell stories. Spoiler alert: a bad date or two may be involved.
The Art of Listening Between the Lines
I grew up in a house where storytelling wasn’t just casual dinner conversation; it was practically a competitive sport. Friday nights around the Shabbat table would inevitably spiral into what I like to call “anecdotal duels.” My mom might recount a harrowing trip to the DMV in painstaking (and hilariously dramatic) detail, while my grandpa would follow with a WWII-era tale that somehow tied into the lackluster brisket recipe someone dared to introduce years ago.
You learn to listen closely in environments like that. Not just to the words being said, but to the emotions beneath them—the humor in heartbreak, the pride in vulnerability. Writing became my way of capturing these layered moments. It’s not just about what happens, but how it feels. That’s a lesson I’ve carried into everything I write, especially when tackling relationships.
Think about it: How often do we gloss over the quiet truths in favor of the obvious plot twists? The awkward silences, the missed texts, the time he referenced a scene in Die Hard and you Googled it under the table to keep up. Those moments are pure gold. They’re where connection—and the best stories—live. Writing gives me the space to unpack them, and that’s why I keep coming back to it.
Where Hollywood Meets Laundry Day
If you’ve ever seen one of those glossy rom-coms where everything is lit by golden hour and no one seems to own sweatpants, here’s a little secret: some of that magic wears off when you grow up in LA. It’s hard to suspend disbelief when your local Starbucks barista casually mentions they’re in talks to produce a pilot.
That said, one of the best parts of my background is that it handed me a lifetime supply of material. Hollywood may be sprinkled with red-carpet dreams, but it’s also full of grand, hilarious, human contradictions. For every perfect meet-cute at a wine bar, there’s a botched audition or, in my case, a first date where a guy spent the entire time explaining why Citizen Kane is “misunderstood.” (Reader, there was no second date.)
Writing is how I make sense of these contrasts: the fantasy versus the reality, the Instagram story versus the messy middle. Life, just like love, isn’t a screenplay. It doesn’t always follow the beats or tie itself up in a perfect 90-minute bow. Writing lets me sit with what’s real—whether that’s heartbreak, humor, or the gray area where they overlap—and translate it into something meaningful.
The Hard-Won Wisdom of Bad Dates (and Good Drafts)
Here’s a truth I didn’t fully appreciate until I was deep into my screenwriting career: stories and relationships both thrive on revision. You know that feeling when the first draft of anything feels monumentally off, and you’d rather throw your laptop into the Pacific than edit another word? Turns out, dating can feel a lot like that too.
Some connection sparks, you dive in headfirst, and then…red flags emerge. Or it fizzles. Or you realize halfway in that you’re playing a role instead of being authentically you.
The same goes for writing. The first draft is rarely the masterpiece. It’s messy, uncomfortable, and sometimes cringe-worthy. But it’s necessary. Those imperfections teach you what you do want to say—and what you don’t. They guide you forward, refining both your voice and your vision.
When someone recently asked for my “worst date horror story,” I couldn’t help but laugh. Sure, there’s the guy who arrived 45 minutes late, then tried to mansplain the word “zeitgeist” to me. Or the one who audibly booed when I said I’d never seen The Godfather. But honestly? My so-called “bad” dates have sharpened my writing in ways I never expected. They’ve given me punchlines, perspectives, and priceless dialogue. Writing about them isn’t just cathartic—it also reminds me to find humor in the awkwardness, to embrace the lessons amidst the chaos.
Writing for Connection
They say storytelling is the oldest form of connection, and honestly, I live for that. There’s something magical about getting the words just right, about noticing someone read your work and light up in recognition. It’s not just validation (though, hi, I’m human—validation doesn’t hurt); it’s the realization that by sharing a little piece of yourself, you’ve resonated with someone else. Writing is my way of saying, “Hey, I get it. Life is weird. Love is weirder. Let’s figure it out together.”
And connection doesn’t always have to be grandiose. Sometimes it’s as simple as writing the perfect line—a line that feels so true, it sticks with you like old song lyrics or that one amazing date you still think about five years later. Writing is my bridge to other people, built one sentence at a time.
Why I Keep Showing Up to the Page
Writing, much like relationships, requires showing up. On the good days, on the bad days, and especially on the days when all you want to do is hide under the covers. It demands honesty—a willingness to explore what feels too big or too small or too messy to say out loud.
But it’s also entirely worth it. Whether it’s a burst of belly-laugh humor or a raw, weighty truth landing on the page, writing lets me hold a mirror up to life and find clarity in the reflection. And if it inspires someone else to do the same? Even better.
So, why do I keep writing? Maybe it’s because, even growing up in Beverly Hills with its sky-high expectations and a curtain-less view of love and relationships, I’ve learned that the world isn’t about perfect endings. It’s about the messy middles. The near-misses. The moments that didn’t go as planned, but ended up telling you something about yourself anyway.
And of course, it’s about finding joy in the process—because whether you’re crafting a story, falling in love, or just figuring it out as you go, the journey is half the fun.
