“Why did you become a writer?” People ask that like it’s a question with a neat answer—like choosing writing as a career was as simple as picking chocolate over vanilla or deciding between The Notebook and Bridgerton for a Friday night cry-fest. (Why not both, honestly? We’re here for the tears.) But if I had to sum it up? Writing wasn’t a profession I chose. It was the messy, love-hate relationship I kept coming back to, even when I swore I was done.

Growing up in Montgomery, Alabama, I was surrounded by stories. Not just bedtime stories, but deep, complicated ones: the ones told by my parents, who were both teachers and had a knack for storytelling; the ones whispered during family reunions under the sweltering Southern sun; and the bigger ones—the stories etched into the red clay of Alabama itself, as vivid as its azaleas and just as thorny. History wasn’t just in books. It was in our soil, our food, and even the way my grandmother’s hands moved as she showed me how to knead dough, offering life lessons alongside biscuit recipes. (Pro tip: Don’t overwork the dough—or, well, yourself).

The thing about growing up Southern is that life—the good, the bad, the way-too-complicated—is soaked in stories. And when you’re a naturally curious kid like I was, you start collecting them. People, after all, spill their guts to folks who know how to listen. And Lord knows I listened.

The Fork in the Road: Biscuits, Archives, and Self-Discovery

There were moments I thought I’d do something else with my life. I majored in Southern Studies at Auburn because I was endlessly fascinated by the tangled history of the place I called home. (Plus, it made for the kind of dinner conversation that could put even the nosiest relative to sleep over turkey and dressing.) Later, as I worked toward my MA in History, I imagined myself spending my life in archives, quietly cataloging dusty documents and buried testimonies—a kind of historical matchmaker bringing untold stories back into the light.

Don’t get me wrong: I loved my time as an archivist. It was like being handed the keys to a treasure chest. Diaries, love letters, handwritten church minutes—you name it. These weren’t just papers; they were something alive—the delicate heartbeat of someone’s truth. But there were also days I felt something greater tugging at me, a little whisper saying, “Carrie, your place isn’t behind the scenes. Get out there and tell the dang stories.”

And writing, well, it lets you do just that—it sits on the line between listening and speaking, between taking the world in and putting something of yourself back into it. What I really wanted, I realized, was human connection. All of us crave that in some way or another—it’s the thread tying together love, heartbreak, late-night phone calls, and even the awkward silences on a first date. It’s the way we hope people see us, accept us, know us.

Putting Heart (and Sass) into Words

If history is my bedrock, relationships are my North Star—whether romantic or platonic, fleeting or lifelong. It’s the way people come together, fall apart, and sometimes find each other again. The raw, unpolished truth of connection is endlessly fascinating to me. And dating? Lord, dating is where you see humanity in its most unfiltered form. The big, life-changing moments and the downright absurd ones. (I once had a guy declare “Our auras are incompatible” and walk out of a coffee shop. I don’t even know what that means, but, sir, safe travels to your aura.)

Relationships always boil down to two big questions: "Who am I?" and "How do I show up to others?" That’s it. Whether you’re swiping right, sitting through an awkward wine-and-cheese pairing date that feels more like a job interview, or watching your partner fold laundry the “wrong” way after five years together, those questions echo.

As a writer—and just as a human—I’ve learned that those questions often don’t have neat answers, but the way we ask them matters. It’s in moments of humor, vulnerability, and yes, even awkward silences, that we figure out who we are. And humor? Humor’s the secret sauce of it all. (Did we learn nothing from the B.J. Novak and Mindy Kaling rom-com dynamic? Banter builds bonds, y’all.)

From History Books to Heartbeats: Why I’m Here

So why do I write about relationships now? History gave me a lens for understanding how people fit into the broader story of humanity. Writing about relationships lets me flip that lens inward, focusing on the small moments that make us, well, us: the fluttery “did they text back?” thrill, the gut punch of a breakup, or the peaceful, quiet minutes spent beside someone who knows your worst quirks and loves you anyway.

But here’s the thing—it’s not just about me telling you my stories. It’s about showing you that yours matter too. It’s about helping other people feel seen and validated—in the same way I felt when I first read Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird or listened to gospel choirs sing their truth so clearly it gave me goosebumps. Whether you’re unsure how to navigate the rough terrain of a new romance or are working to rebuild your relationship with yourself after heartbreak, I want to be the voice that reminds you: You’ve got this.

Lessons from a Southern Upbringing (and a Few Bad Dates)

Writing about relationships is, strangely, not so different from the lessons I learned growing up in the South:

  1. Tell your story—don’t be afraid to take the mic: Southern porches are where small-town philosophers gather, and if you don’t speak up, you might miss your chance. Life is short. Tell that someone how you feel. Write that awkward text. Start that scary conversation.

  2. Embrace the messy: Southerners know you can’t rush meaningful things—like slow-cooked barbecue or healing after heartache. Sometimes life doesn’t turn out the way you planned, but the beauty is in finding grace amid the mess.

  3. Own your quirks: Whether it’s a family recipe or an offbeat sense of humor, life is too short to be anyone but yourself. If someone doesn’t like your weird laugh or the way you quote Sweet Home Alabama in casual conversation, they’re not your person anyway.

Let’s Keep the Conversation Going

At the end of the day, writing—and living—is about connection. It’s about daring to share our messiest truths, our brightest dreams, and our quiet hopes. Maybe I became a writer to make sense of my own story, but along the way, I found something even better: little moments where my stories ripple out and spark something in someone else.

So, let’s keep swapping tales. Let’s ask those big questions. And when it comes to love and life? Let’s steer clear of perfect answers—and just enjoy the journey, biscuits and all.