I fell in love with words the same way I imagine most people fall in love on a third date—with a giddy sense of possibility and the sudden conviction that this might be something real. It started innocuously: scribbling descriptions of overripe pears in the corner of a vineyard as a kid, trying to make sense of why they smelled like summer but tasted like regret. It became serious years later, when I realized that written storytelling had the same magical ingredients as a brilliant meal or a perfectly chosen wine: layers of complexity, unexpected surprises, and an aftertaste that lingers long after the last sip.

But writing isn’t always romance. Sometimes it’s like a bad fling—when every sentence mocks you, every paragraph resists you, and even your metaphors turn sour. And yet, I keep showing up, pen in hand, laptop at the ready, because writing is not just something I do; it’s how I process, connect, and, perhaps most importantly, make sense of the chaotic, beautiful mess of being human.

The Spark: Finding Magic in the Mundane

Growing up surrounded by vineyards, there was no shortage of beauty in my world. But it wasn’t the postcard-perfect landscape that fascinated me most—it was the little things. The way the light dappled through grape leaves after a summer rain. The distinct, earthy smell of the crush pad during harvest season. The sound of boots on gravel as workers toiled before the sun rose.

For some people, these are fleeting sensations, easily forgotten. For me, they were seeds—words begging to be written, moments demanding to be crystallized. Writing became my way of capturing the sensory overload of life, of bottling it up (to use a very on-brand Napa metaphor) and sharing it with others. Even as a kid, I felt like a translator for textures and tastes, trying to turn the tang of a Meyer lemon or the silkiness of a chocolate ganache into something someone else could feel.

Writing, in essence, is my love letter to noticing.

Why I (Still) Write: Commitment Beyond the Honeymoon Phase

It would be easy to romanticize my relationship with writing as an endless stream of inspiration and creativity, but let’s be honest: there are days it feels more like a stubborn blind date that just won’t end. You know the type—you’re sitting there thinking, Why am I even doing this? We have nothing in common, but then, out of nowhere, they say something insightful, funny, or oddly tender, and you think, Wait. Maybe there’s something here.

I write because even on the hard days, it gives me something nothing else can: the ability to see the world through fresh eyes. When I struggled through heartbreak (turns out Chardonnay doesn’t actually solve everything), it was writing that helped me find humor in the absurdity of crying into risotto. When I started feeling stuck in small-town routines, it was writing that pushed me to chase fresh stories, new perspectives, and yes, more stamps in my passport.

Writing isn’t always easy, but isn’t that true of any great relationship? It takes work, patience, and sometimes reading your own draft a dozen times before you realize it’s trash and treasure—the diamonds just need a little polishing.

How Writing Mirrors Relationships

There’s a quiet parallel between writing and relationships—one I think about often when staring at a blank page or the remnants of a bad date. Both are messy acts of trying to connect, of stumbling through mismatched expectations and ill-timed metaphors in the hope of reaching something authentic. Both rely on vulnerability, persistence, and humor to get through the awkward chapters.

Consider the editing process: when you first fall in love (with a partner or an idea), everything feels shiny and perfect—like that honeymoon glow when even their bad jokes seem endearing. Then reality sets in. You notice the clunky sentences, the typos, and the way they chew cereal too loudly. You’re faced with a choice: do I scrap it and start over, or do I stay and revise? The brave among us choose the latter, knowing that the payoff—a deep, layered story or a lasting connection—is so much more rewarding than a surface-level fling.

But here’s the kicker: sometimes, the story doesn’t work. The characters fall flat; the dialogue is off. And just like in relationships, letting go is hard, but it’s necessary. I’ve learned that walking away isn’t failure; it’s courage. It means you’re clearing space for something better.

Lessons Writing Has Taught Me About Life (And Love)

There’s this idea that writers have some magical wisdom to offer, that they sit on their porches with cups of French-pressed coffee, jotting down aphorisms about the meaning of life. (Spoiler: we mostly sit in sweatpants eating cheese crackers and despairing over Microsoft Word crashes.) But if I’ve learned anything from my years as a writer, it’s this:

  • Say what you mean, but leave room for interpretation. Whether it’s a love letter or a sonnet about sourdough, the best writing strikes a balance between clarity and mystery. The same goes for relationships—sometimes, the beauty is in what’s unsaid.

  • Rejection is inevitable. I’ve had editors tear apart my work (politely, mostly) and readers tell me my articles aren’t their cup of rosé. And guess what? I survived. So will you, whether it’s an unreturned text or a failed first date.

  • The details matter. A good story doesn’t just happen—it lives in the unexpected, like the prick of black pepper in a strawberry tart or the way someone’s laugh catches in their throat. Noticing these details—noticing them—is where true connection begins.

  • Messy drafts don’t define you. First drafts are ugly. They’re unfinished, awkward, and full of missteps—and that’s fine. The same is true of life, love, and all the parts we’re still trying to figure out.

Why We All Need Our “Thing”

At its core, writing is more than an art form or a career for me; it’s my grounding force. It’s my way of showing up for myself, of working through the good, the bad, and the weird. Every time I write, I uncover a little more about who I am and what matters to me—whether that’s choosing the perfect wine for paella or realizing that unapologetic self-love is non-negotiable.

Not everyone needs to write, of course, but I do believe we all need something. Maybe for you, it’s painting, running, or creating TikToks about your Fresca obsession. Whatever it is, chase the thing that makes you feel alive. Follow it when it’s fun, cling to it when it gets hard, and never stop showing up for it—even when the spark flickers. After all, the magic isn’t in finding the “perfect” thing; it’s in the commitment to keep going.

Final Thoughts: Pour Another Glass, Keep Going

Writing, like love and like life, isn’t perfect. It’s unruly, temperamental, and occasionally drives me to drink (responsibly, of course—this is Napa). But it’s also the thing that brings me the most joy and connection. So here I am, pen in hand, ready for the next chapter. Because at the end of the day, the words are always worth it—even the bad ones.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a glass of Pinot calling my name.