Why I Write (and Keep Writing)

Section 1: The First Sentence… And Everything After

There’s a moment writers talk about—when that first line finally takes form, clear and strong, like the sound of cicadas on a sticky Alabama summer night. For me, it’s usually doodled on the back of a grocery list or the edge of a receipt, a little messy and jagged. A half-thought that feels like it might just be worth chasing down.

That moment is why I write. It’s not just because I have something to say (although, believe me, after years of honeysuckle-filled childhoods and long Southern porch debates, I sure do). It’s because writing gives me the chance to wrestle with the things I don’t fully understand yet. The thorny parts of being human. The messy feelings we usually tuck into polite smiles, like worry about fading love or that bittersweet tug of knowing a perfect moment won’t last forever.

But this isn’t just about chasing metaphors. Writing, for me, is like trying to explain your chaotic dating life to your best friend over brunch—it’s messy, raw, hilarious, and a little bit too honest. You hope by the end of it, you’ve figured out at least one small truth.

Section 2: Storytelling is My Compass

Growing up in Montgomery, my love for storytelling started with the simplest moments. My family loved retelling stories until they were smooth and polished like river rocks. The same tale—Aunt Wanda and the time she accidentally drove into the lake (long story)—felt different every time, like layers of truth we peeled away slowly.

Writing became my chance to hold that storytelling torch. And believe me, storytelling feels so much like modern dating. In both, you’re constantly presenting a version of yourself—and hoping the important parts will shine through. When you piece together a story, there’s always the question of, “What did I leave out? What stays buried until the right moment?”

I learned this lesson while collecting oral histories across the South. These personal stories taught me that narratives aren’t clean, linear things. They’re giant casseroles of doubt, confidence, love, betrayal, pride—and writing gives me a way of organizing those casseroles, a way to dish out bites that make sense.

In a way, writing is my compass, guiding me toward understanding myself and others. It reminds me that everyone carries their own internal map, a network of truths they’re working through every day.

Section 3: Writing as Balancing Act—Like Love, but on Stilettos

Writing also mirrors the precarity of relationships. Ever tried walking in shoes two inches too high when your date strategically picked a cobblestone street? That’s me staring at a blank Word document—unsteady but determined.

Every sentence is an attempt to balance being honest with being accessible, bold without being too much. The same goes for relationships. You put yourself out there—not too vulnerable, not too aloof—but just enough for someone to understand the shape of you.

For example, one of my best essays came from addressing my fear of showing “too much” of myself, especially after a breakup left me feeling like all my open windows had been shut tight. Why did I feel like writing my romantic grief into words might make me less lovable, less valuable? Chipping away at those feelings on paper felt like finally stumbling into the soft, vulnerable parts of love that can actually heal you.

Over time, I’ve learned that writing and relationships share this funny knack for showing us where we’re still unfinished and a little terrified. But that’s where the good stuff lives.

Section 4: Writing is My Southern Love Letter

Being from Alabama, I’ve spent so much of my life sitting in the space between old traditions and modern reinvention. It’s a state where legacies loom large, but so do new beginnings. Writing feels like carrying that Southern tension with me, like thick clouds that promise rain but never deliver.

When I write, I think of my home—the sweet tea and Southern drawls, the barefoot summers and echoes of "yes ma’am"—but also its scars, its struggles, its contradictions. Writing lets me love on all of it, imperfections included.

In the same way, life stories—romantic or otherwise—aren’t built purely on the shiny parts. Writing reminds me that heartbreak deserves a space alongside joy, and feeling lost is just as worthy as celebration. I write to preserve these snapshots of love and living, the complicated bits and all.

Section 5: The Dream of Connection

At its core, writing—and reading—is about trying to close the gap between us. No matter how much we tell ourselves we’re good at being independent, we’re all creatures constantly searching for connection. We crave that moment when someone says, “Me too,” or “I get it.”

I wish I could say my writing process always feels poetic and purposeful, but a lot of times it looks less like a movie montage and more like me forgetting there’s cold coffee next to my laptop. Some days, the words flow like whipped butter at a country diner. Other days, it’s like pulling sorrow out of an old, reluctant well.

But even in the harder moments, knowing someone might read my words and feel less alone is what keeps me going. It’s like dating—exhilarating, vulnerable, and sometimes awkward. Writing demands that I stay open and hopeful, even if “open” sometimes feels like letting a stranger peek into my soul.

Conclusion: Why I Keep Coming Back

So why do I keep writing? The simple answer is this: it feels like coming home. No matter how unpredictable, awkward, or tangled life gets, the page is always waiting for me—like a screened-in porch where you can finally exhale.

I believe we’re all trying to tell a story, whether it’s about love, heartbreak, or who we hope to be one day. Writing is me figuring out who I am—one line at a time, one truth at a time. And if you’re lucky, my story might feel a little bit like your story too. And isn’t that what we’re all after? That moment of shared recognition, where we lean back and think, “Oh, that. I’ve felt that too.”