The Introduction Is The Hook

When I think about why I write, my answer feels slippery, like explaining why a pot of gumbo tastes as good as it does. Sure, there’s a recipe—measurements here, timings there—but when it’s done right, the 'why' of it comes from somewhere deeper. Writing, for me, is part instinct, part survival. It’s the way I make sense of the world, build my place within it, and challenge what’s been handed to me. Growing up in Beaumont, Texas—a small town heavy with refinery smoke and unspoken rules—my voice sometimes felt like a candle in a gusty room. Writing, however, gave that small flame shelter. And it’s still flickering, still lighting my world.

But let me be real here for a second: writing isn’t some smooth rom-com grand gesture where everything just clicks and the credits roll. Writing feels more like that awkward first date where you spill your water, trip over your chair, and nervously laugh at the wrong moments. But when it’s done right, writing—just like love—carries you someplace altogether beautiful. And this, right here, is where words and life start to intertwine.

Section 1: Writing Is My Therapy (Minus the Copay)

Let’s face it: life is messy. And I mean Beyoncé-at-a-county-fair messy. Growing up, I didn’t always feel like I had the space to just be. Not as a Black boy who didn’t quite fit everybody's expectations of masculinity. Not as someone asking questions about love and identity in a small town resistant to change. All the feelings I muffled in public spilled out onto paper late at night. Writing became my imaginary friend, confessional booth, and boxing ring all at once.

Even now, when life stirs up chaos—and trust, chaos doesn’t retire—writing is where I process it all. When the guy I was dating suddenly goes ghost? I write. When I’m figuring out how to navigate a family gathering where my love life might raise a few eyebrows? I write. When the racial and political headlines on my timeline churn up that sick feeling in my stomach? Yep, I write. It’s not always eloquent prose, but it’s real, and putting it down lets me breathe again.

Writing is where I ask myself the tough questions: Am I showing up authentically in my relationships? Am I pursuing big dreams, or letting fear lace up my shoes? And sometimes the questions are smaller but no less important: Do I send this guy a "Hey stranger" text, or am I about to recommit to bad decisions? Writing reminds me who I’ve been and, more importantly, who I’m still becoming. It’s a self-date, free therapy session, and pep talk all rolled into one.

Section 2: Every Sentence Is a Love Letter

I grew up watching my mom and dad work from sunup to sundown. My dad smelled like motor oil, my mom carried the faint scent of hospital soap, and both carried the weight of the world on their backs. Seeing them sacrifice so much to keep our family afloat taught me that love, at its core, is work—beautiful, exhausting, life-giving work.

Writing carries that same energy for me. Each sentence, each scene, each metaphor? They’re little bricks I stack to build something that, I hope, can hold whatever someone else might be carrying. When I write about love, I’m sharing the pieces of myself that I used to hide. When I write about struggle, I’m holding up a mirror and whispering, “Same here." And when I write about joy, I’m throwing confetti into the air for anyone willing to celebrate with me.

There’s something radical, especially in the world we live in, about documenting our stories. Too often, history tries to write us out of its chapters, leaving gaps where our voices should be. So every word I write is my way of saying, “We were here. We mattered. We loved fiercely, cried loudly, danced badly at weddings, and sent embarrassing drunk texts at 2 AM. We lived.”

Section 3: Writing Is (Somehow) Both Humbling and Emboldening

You ever try explaining yourself to someone on a date and realize, five minutes in, that you're not making any sense? Writing feels a lot like that sometimes. For all the big feelings I pour into my work, there are moments when nothing lands on the page the way I want it to. It’s humbling—maddening, really—to wrestle with words until they surrender and finally say what you mean.

But then there’s the flip side. There’s nothing quite like nailing that perfect line. When every word clicks, you feel unstoppable, like the literary version of Beyoncé demolishing Coachella. Those fleeting moments remind me why I keep showing up to the blank page. They’re why I endure the humbling stretches of self-doubt, overthinking, and coffee-fueled 3 AM revisions.

And here’s the thing: humbling experiences are necessary. Writing keeps me grounded, but it also reminds me that I have something to say. Because if someone like the kid I once was—a shy, closeted Black boy in rural Texas—stumbles upon something I wrote and sees a glimmer of themselves in my words? That’s worth all the awkward wrestling matches with my inner critic.

Section 4: Stealing Time to Write (And Living to Tell About It)

Life comes at you fast. I’ve got jobs to juggle, family commitments, the occasional wedding to attend, and let’s not even mention the laundry pile that perpetually glares at me in the corner. And yet, I steal time to write. Sometimes it’s a stolen lunch break. Other times, it’s ignoring Netflix autoplaying the next episode and dragging my laptop out instead. Writing forces you to prioritize—but it also keeps asking you how you prioritize you.

I think that’s what love looks like—whether that’s writing or dating or learning how to salsa dance on a Friday night. It’s carving out space. It’s fighting for what lights you up inside, even when everything else is attempting to snuff it out. So, yeah, the kitchen might still be a mess and my to-do list might be longer than Luther Vandross’s discography. But when my fingers are flying across the keyboard, none of that matters. That’s my joy. That’s my freedom.

The Takeaway: Writing Is Love, Writing Is Life

So, why do I write? Simple. I write to remember who I am. To make sense of a world that doesn’t always make sense. To celebrate love in all its messy, magnificent forms. Writing is the mirror where I see my truest self reflected, and the bridge I use to connect to other people.

Whether you’re jotting down feelings in a journal, sending memes that say what you’re too shy to, or crafting your own piece of art, there’s power in putting it out into the world. Writing teaches us that our voices matter and our stories deserve a place. Whether messy or polished, confusing or clear, they’re enough—just like us.

So here’s your reminder: carve out the time, steal a few minutes, and write your world into being. You never know whose life you’ll crack open with one of your sentences. Maybe even your own.