Why I Write (and Keep Writing)

The Accidental Writer

I didn’t set out to become a writer. In fact, if you’d asked 13-year-old me what I wanted to be, I probably would have said something like “marine biologist” or “owner of a very cute dog café.” I had no blueprint for this life—just a parent-run café where the regulars told stories louder than the milk steamer and a tendency to keep a journal full of misspelled feelings.

But here I am, writing—and to be honest, I don’t know how to stop. Writing feels a lot like that one flaky friend who swears they’re cutting out dairy but always ends up eating half your pizza. Annoying, unpredictable, yet somehow impossible to resist. No matter where life takes me—be it the shores of Tofino or Melbourne’s tram-packed streets—I can’t seem to shake the compulsion to grab a notebook or a keyboard and spill my thoughts.

Some people knit to relax. Others climb mountains or bake sourdough or stream Netflix until 1 a.m. I write. And while it started as an outlet for angsty teenage musings (most of which should never see the light of day), it’s become something bigger. Writing is how I process the world, connect the dots, and most importantly, connect with the world.

From Flirts to Fiction

Here’s the thing: storytelling isn’t exclusive to writers. It’s life itself. Think about it—every first date is basically a mutual storytelling session. “So, how’d you end up in Vancouver?” “Why on earth did you take up pottery?” “Wait, you got a matching tattoo with strangers during a layover in Hong Kong?”

We tell stories to be known, to make sense of who we are. And writing is simply a way of preserving those stories. Like that time I sat on Kits Beach on a misty evening, trying to untangle a recent heartbreak, and noticed how the clouds seemed to hold back the horizon, as if they too were unsure of which direction to take. That moment became a short story later, but at the time, it simply helped frame my heartbreak in something bigger than myself.

Similarly, when my family’s café bustled with customers, mismatched mugs clinking together and the smell of sour plum cake in the oven, I watched these small interactions unfold like vignettes. The barista with a crush on the regular who never ordered the same thing twice. The guy who brought flowers for someone who didn’t show up. I couldn’t help but wonder: what’s their story?

Those observations—the beautiful, awkward, tender chaos of human interactions—light up my creative brain like fairy lights in a backyard. Whether I’m crafting a poem, a story, or an article pretending to help but really revealing our shared messiness, it all comes back to that: noticing the details and weaving them into something that connects.

Why Writing Feels Like Flirting

I’ll let you in on a secret: writing is a lot like flirting. The good kind of flirting, not the cringe “are you Wi-Fi? Because I’m feeling the connection” kind.

Here’s how:

  • It’s all about the vibe. When you write—or flirt—you’re trying to spark something invisible but powerful: chemistry. A well-timed metaphor or punchline can light up your reader (or date) in ways even you didn’t expect.
  • You put yourself out there. Writing, like flirting, involves vulnerability. You toss a piece of yourself into the world and hope it resonates.
  • It’s in the details. Generic doesn’t work. “I like tacos” is cute, sure, but “On rainy nights, I crave crispy fish tacos with extra lime because they taste like sunshine” is specific—and memorable.

Whether I’m writing a scene in a short story or, well, most text messages, I’m aiming for that perfect cocktail of charm, depth, and curiosity.

Of course, flirting—especially with words—only works when it’s authentic. I can’t fake introspection (and neither can good writing). That’s where the magic lies: facing your own truths, cringing a little, laughing a lot, and offering them up honestly.

My Writer’s Toolkit (It’s Messy, Like Me)

If you’re wondering how I keep the words flowing, let me assure you there’s no perfect formula—and any other writer who claims otherwise probably has their version of “Eat, Pray, Love” in a drawer. But here are a few essentials in my toolkit that keep me scribbling away:

  1. Eavesdropping (Respectfully). Cafés, tram rides, random parties—I’m always orbiting around conversations like an emotional satellite. The tiny snippets people let slip? Gold. A single overheard “I didn’t think she’d wear that to my wedding” has inspired entire essays.

  2. Embracing my cringe. Some of my stories have been swept up by local magazines. Other pieces? They’re digital skeletons on my hard drive, half-written, over-thought, or deeply embarrassing. I’ve learned that it’s okay to create poorly sometimes—just don’t delete it too quickly.

  3. Stealing moments. No, I don’t mean shoplifting pens (although I’ve “borrowed” far too many from people’s desks). I mean noticing life’s fleeting, quiet moments. The half-melted ice at the bottom of your drink. A dog waiting for its owner outside a deli, ears twitching with every passing stranger. Ordinary is magic when you take the time to capture it.

Writing Through the Chaos

Life is hectic. And I’m not a disciplined, “rise at 5 a.m. to journal my heart out” kind of writer. I’m more the “writing on a napkin because an idea hit me during brunch” type. But I’ve found that writing grounds me when nothing else does. It’s how I make sense of a world that often feels like a Rubik’s Cube I forgot how to solve.

And yes, sometimes we writers dramatize things. I could describe heartbreak as “a kaleidoscope of shattered memories and unrealized futures” (true) or “like opening the fridge and realizing someone ate the last croissant you were saving” (also true). Either way, getting the words out gives them less power over me.

Why I Keep Showing Up

So why do I keep writing? For the same reasons you keep telling that one hilarious first-date story, or texting your best friend random existential questions at midnight. Because creating and sharing our experiences is how we stay connected—and maybe a little sane.

I write because every word on the page feels like a bread crumb leading me closer to myself. I write because the world is absurd and stunning, and I’m constantly trying to pin down tiny pieces of it in language. I write because it’s my way of flirting with life, of saying “Hey, I see you. Let’s talk.”

And at the end of the day, writing is a lot like love—it won’t solve everything, but it’ll help you make sense of the mess. And honestly, that’s enough for me.