What Cowboys and Keyboards Have in Common
When I was a kid growing up on a ranch just outside Jackson, writing wasn’t exactly an obvious path. Out there, it was all about practical skills—mending fences, saddling horses, and knowing how to stare down a snowstorm without blinking. Writing? That sounded about as useful as trying to rope a cloud. But somewhere in between hauling hay and wrangling tourists on trail rides, I found the time to grab a journal and sketch out thoughts about the world around me.
It turns out, storytelling has a lot in common with ranch work. Both are demanding, at times ridiculous, and occasionally rewarding in ways you don’t expect until long after the dust has settled. Writing became the thing that allowed me to interpret the rustle of aspens, the distant howl of a coyote, or (later in life) the deep, confusing complexities of relationships. And while the keyboard has replaced the saddle in my daily life, the wild, untamed landscape of human connection continues to inspire every word.
Here’s why I write—and more importantly, why I keep writing—about love, dating, and the beautifully messy nature of relationships.
The Stories We Can’t Help But Tell
Let’s start with a confession: there’s no shortage of “relationship advice” out there. Type it into a search engine, and you’ll be buried under an avalanche of Top Ten Lists and “What He’s Really Thinking” explainer articles. They’re fine, I suppose, in the way fast food is fine—you’re in, you’re out, mission accomplished. But the reason I write about human connection is that relationships deserve more than a drive-thru approach.
Every relationship, whether it’s a spark that ignites and fizzles in weeks or a steady flame that lasts decades, is its own story. I’ve always believed that stories are what make us human. That late-night phone call where you laugh so hard it feels like doing sit-ups in reverse. That awkward first kiss where someone misses and accidentally headbutts the other person (true story—I’ll let you guess which one was me). Or the heartbreak of sitting alone in a coffee shop, watching someone pack up their shared dreams in a to-go cup. These moments are as unique as the footprints on a fresh blanket of snow.
I write because these tales deserve to be captured. Some stories remind us what we’re capable of, others teach us to laugh at the lessons we learn the hard way. Either way, they connect us—one awkward, beautiful mess at a time.
Wrangling Truth Out of Chaos
Let’s be real: relationships are complicated. Take someone else’s hopes, fears, quirks, and habits. Throw in your own, multiply by the force of daily life, and voilà—there’s your relationship equation. Writing about it requires sitting with the chaos and trying to pull out something that feels true.
When I worked as a park ranger in the Tetons, a lot of my job was about interpreting signs. Tracks in the mud. A snapped branch. The distant yip of a coyote pack. All of these subtle signs told a bigger story, but you had to train yourself to notice them. Relationships are no different.
Writing forces me to step back and take stock. Why did someone stay in a relationship that seemed destined to fail? Why are we so afraid to say how we really feel, even to people we claim to love? What makes a flirtatious comment spark fireworks with one person and fall flat with another? To me, writing about love means asking those questions and, if I’m lucky, finding answers that help people feel a little less alone in their own search for connection.
Why Humor Heals
Growing up in Wyoming toughens your skin—literally and emotionally. Winters were brutal, and my family’s unofficial motto was “If you can’t laugh about it, you’re doing it wrong.” So yeah, a lot of my writing borrows that philosophy.
Humor is a survival skill in relationships too. I’ve grinned my way through awkward blind dates (pro tip: maybe hold off on sharing your appendix surgery story over appetizers), smoothed over dumb fights about who left the garbage lid off again, and chuckled in hindsight over breakups that felt catastrophic at the time but later became fodder for some of my best work.
Life throws enough curveballs without taking ourselves too seriously. Writing about love allows me to explore those absurd, funny moments while giving them just enough gravity to remind you—yes, even that disaster of a date was worth something. Whether it’s the courage it took to show up or the inevitable story you’ll tell about it later, laughter is what makes it stick.
What the Wild Taught Me About Love
Spending so much of my life in wild spaces has taught me that nature thrives on balance. The same mountain range that stuns visitors with its towering peaks can turn deadly with a single avalanche. A crystal-clear creek can dry up without warning after a drought. Relationships work the same way—they’re a delicate dance between the mundane and the magical, the exhilarating and the exhausting.
But that balance is what makes it worth the effort. Writing gives me the chance to explore the ways relationships mirror the natural world—how they require tending, patience, and more than a little faith. Like an alpine meadow after a spring thaw, they can teach you to embrace beauty even when you know it won’t last forever.
When Words Become a Compass
There’s a reason love stories have been told and retold since humans first figured out how to draw on cave walls. They’re not just entertainment—they’re guideposts. Writing about relationships reminds me of that every time I sit down to draft another piece.
I like to think my work helps people find their own compass. Maybe a line in my essay encourages someone to give a relationship another shot. Maybe it inspires someone to let one go. Maybe it just makes someone laugh after a date so bizarre, they swear it could never happen to anyone else—until I sprinkle in my own war stories about romance mishaps amidst the prairie sunsets.
So, that’s why I write. Not because I have all the answers, but because I’ve learned to appreciate the searching. Whether I’m sharing the tender joy of a tiny gesture or reflecting on the heartache of letting someone walk out of your life, writing reminds me of the power we all have to rewrite the narrative.
The Parting Shot
Here’s the thing, folks: None of us is perfect, and neither are our relationships. But that’s what makes them worth chasing, celebrating, and yes—even writing about. I’ll keep hammering away at the keyboard (and grappling with my own messy love life) because I truly believe we’re all here to connect, laugh, and learn.
The same way I used to sift through books about wildlife to understand what made elk migrate or bears hibernate, I now dive into the everyday drama of relationships—not to figure it all out, but to honor their complexity.
And if I can lasso one good story out of the chaos, well, maybe that’s all the proof I need that writing is the thing that keeps me connected to who I am—and to the people out there rolling their eyes, laughing, or nodding along. That’s you, by the way. Thanks for reading. And thanks for being part of the story.
