The first time I saw my name in print, it hit me differently—a mix of Beyoncé-at-Coachella-level pride and “did I leave the stove on?” panic. It was the kind of moment where you hope time pauses for dramatic effect, but life keeps rolling, so you just roll with it. There I was, Marc Devonte Prince: Beaumont-bred, sociology geek, and perpetual over-thinker, finally published. And not just anywhere—this was in a local literary zine I'd been obsessing over for months after first stumbling across it in a coffee shop with creaky furniture and baristas who looked like extras from Selena.

The piece? A personal essay about growing up Black, gay, and slightly too obsessed with Destiny’s Child. The byline didn’t just feel like a dream come true—it felt like planting a flag on the moon of my messy, beautiful life.

Starting at Zero: Writing from the Margins

It’s wild how the smallest acts of courage often end up shaping your life in the biggest ways. Back when I was that nervous kid from Beaumont, stories were my lifeline. We’d huddle on the porch during humid Texas evenings, my cousins and I, swatting mosquitoes while my uncle told hilarious, unfiltered tales about his youth. Those stories felt alive—messy, yes, but bursting with truth. They taught me early on that there’s power in putting yourself on paper.

But writing my first essay for publication? That was less “storytime on the porch” and more “impromptu school presentation I forgot to prepare for.” Impostor syndrome hit hard. I spent hours hunched over my draft, questioning if I was funny enough, poignant enough, or just plain enough. You’d have thought I was applying for a role in a Tyler Perry movie the way I agonized.

Finally, I hit send, proud but fully prepared for rejection. To my surprise, the editor wrote back with encouragement and edits (God bless editors who understand how delicate a first-timer’s ego is). Weeks later, there it was—my thoughts, my voice, preserved in glossy print for anyone willing to pick it up.

Every Great Dream Needs a Nudge

That breakthrough didn’t happen in a vacuum, though. It was fueled by a tribe of cheerleaders, from my college professors who saw me even when I wanted to disappear, to my mom—a nurse whose tough-love pep talks could motivate you to re-shingle a roof in 102-degree heat. She didn’t fully “get” my writing, but she got me. “If this is what you’ve got to do to make life make sense, keep doing it,” she’d say.

A mentor once told me the best writing blends your truth with universal resonance—it’s intimate, but generous. That advice stuck with me, becoming a permission slip to be both boldly specific and emotionally reachable. It’s also why I turned to James Baldwin’s essays and discovered E. Lynn Harris’s novels, realizing representation is its own form of activism.

This, I realized, was my lane: Write the thing you wish you’d had growing up. Write the questions you still don’t have answers to. And above all, write as if someone out there needs to hear it.

That First Byline = All the Feels

When my article was published, it wasn’t fireworks or trumpets—it was smaller, quieter, but just as profound. My closest friends took me to dinner to celebrate, which mostly involved too much queso, hugs, and loud laughter when they jokingly called me “Marc Hemingway.” (A title I’ll gladly claim, queso grease and all.)

What really stuck with me, though, were the messages I received from strangers. One person wrote to say my story reminded them of their best friend in Texas, and they forwarded the piece as a way of reconnecting. Another said it made them cry in public (and not the bad kind of cry). It was humbling and surreal, like being told you’ve unknowingly joined a secret club of people feeling less alone.

With that one byline, my world opened up. I wasn’t just “living” my truth anymore; I was amplifying it, sharing it, and inviting others into it. That connection? It’s part of why I now write about relationships, dating, and the gnarly beauty of human connection.

Lessons from My First Byline

For all the tangible wins of publishing, what changed most wasn’t my career—it was my willingness to show up for myself. Here’s what I’ve learned since then. (And fair warning: call it advice, call it a pep talk, call it an Oprah moment—your call.)

  • Your Words Matter (Even If You Don’t Believe It Yet): I second-guessed myself way too much before landing that first byline. If you’re waiting for permission to share your story, consider this it. No one else can tell it like you.

  • Start Where You Are, with What You Have: Writing doesn’t require fancy résumés or cavernous MFA classrooms. My first essay started as a scribble in a dollar store notebook during my lunch break teaching high school. Doesn’t have to be perfect—it just has to begin.

  • Find Your Tribe: Seriously, do not underestimate the power of people rooting for you. Friends, mentors, chosen family—they keep you grounded, lift you up, and remind you why you started.

  • Own Your Specificity: Sure, my story includes late-night Luther Vandross listening sessions and figuring out my sexuality while debating The Fresh Prince vs. Martin. Maybe yours involves something entirely different. Guess what? That’s where the magic lives. Your unique experiences make your work irresistible.

Keep Writing Anyway

If you’ve stuck with me this far, I’ll leave you with this: My first byline wasn’t just about securing a line in a résumé. It was about proving to myself that I could take a chance, speak my truth, and trust that the world was listening—or at least someone out there was. That tiny corner of paper where my name sat? It became a stake in the ground, reminding me every day that we are worthy—of connection, celebration, and showing up for the life we deserve.

And if you’re feeling stuck or vulnerable or questioning whether your story has a place, let me say this with all the conviction of a Sunday church choir in full voice: It absolutely does. Write your first byline—or live your first moment of courage—knowing that you are seen, heard, and ready.

Now, go on. Plant your flag.