Growing up in a Jamaican American household in D.C. meant there was one unspoken rule: every story had a purpose. Whether it was my mother recapping her shift at the hospital or my father weaving tales from construction sites, there was always a larger truth wrapped in their words. “If you’re going to talk, make it count,” my dad would say. As a kid, I didn’t think much of it. Now, I’m convinced that’s why I write—and why I keep writing.
There’s no shortage of reasons to tell a story, but for me, it boils down to three things: connection, clarity, and catharsis. Those three Cs have pulled me through Capitol Hill memos, political thrillers, and even a disastrous first date where my storytelling skills saved me from complete humiliation (more on that later). Let’s break it down.
1. Connection: Why We Tell Stories to Be Understood
You ever meet someone who talks at you instead of to you? It’s like being on a bad date where they list their resumé instead of asking your favorite dessert (and by the way, it’s tres leches for me—fight me on this). Writing, for me, is the answer to that problem. It’s a way to reach across the table, catch someone’s attention, and say, “Hey, I see you.”
Back in my Georgetown days, I’d see this play out constantly. Freshmen from every corner of the country or the world would congregate in common rooms, desperate to connect but unsure how. And then someone would tell a story—a wild hometown adventure, an embarrassing school crush—and suddenly, the room would light up. Eyes would meet. Laughter would ripple. That’s the magic of storytelling: it bridges the gaps we can’t cross with small talk alone.
Now, as a writer, I aim to do the same thing on the page. Whether I’m creating a fictional senator plotting their next chess move or breaking down why flirting’s just as much about confidence as it is about chemistry, my goal is always the same: connection. Because the truth is, nobody wants to feel alone out here, navigating life, love, and the messy middle ground in between.
2. Clarity: Untangling the Knots of Life
Life can be confusing—relationships even more so. And while I wish I had a magic wand to sort through every “Wait, what are we?” conversation, I’ve come to see writing as the second-best tool. For me, putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) is like dumping a jigsaw puzzle on the table and tackling it one piece at a time.
I learned this during my years on Capitol Hill. Writing policy memos taught me to make even the most convoluted problems (budget reconciliation, anyone?) digestible. How do you explain something to someone who isn’t an expert? You write like they’re your best friend in the middle of a texting marathon: clear, concise, and with just enough humor to keep them from zoning out.
But here’s the thing: this lesson doesn’t just apply to politics. Take relationships. Writing—even journaling—can help untangle the knots of ambiguity that show up in love. Case in point? A friend of mine once asked if I thought her boyfriend’s “I’m not sure I want a future with anyone” text meant they were breaking up. I told her to write her feelings down, as unfiltered as she wanted. Only then, with the mess in front of her, did she realize how little room the situation left her to feel secure. She told me later that dumping him felt less like a breakup and more like editing her life down to its essentials.
Clarity in writing = clarity in life. It’s not a perfect formula, but it’s close.
3. Catharsis: The Power of Letting It All Out
Do you know what’s more therapeutic than rage-texting your ex? Writing about them with fake names, paper-thin pseudonyms, and the full fury of a hurricane. Okay, maybe that’s dramatic, but you get my point. Writing lets you unload what’s weighing you down—and redirect it into something meaningful.
When I wrote my first political thriller, I poured all my exhaustion and frustration from Capitol Hill into the protagonist. Stress over deadlines? Gave it to them. Complicated working relationships? Dumped it into the supporting cast. It felt like finally taking a deep breath after months underwater. Writing did what therapy couldn’t: it turned my emotions into fuel.
On a lighter note, catharsis can come in unexpected places. Like that time I accidentally spilled jerk chicken gravy on a woman during a first date. She laughed it off until I tried to make a joke about it, which only made things worse. So, what did I do? I turned the whole thing into a comedic short story later that week. No, it didn’t save the date, but it saved my ego—and reminded me that our most cringe-worthy moments are often the best material.
Catharsis isn’t just feeling better; it’s about finding the gold in the mess. And for me, that gold is what keeps the pages turning.
The Ink That Binds Us
At the end of the day, writing is how we make sense of this wild ride called human existence. It’s how we tell the world, “This is who I am, this is what I think, and this is what I want you to understand.” Whether it’s a love letter, a novel, or a quick text that makes your crush grin at their phone, words have power—real, gritty, life-shaping power.
When I write, I channel my parents’ storytelling: purposeful, vibrant, and unapologetically honest. I think about sitting in D.C. kitchens, hearing laughter over steaming pots of curry goat, or listening to a Bob Marley record spin on lazy Sunday afternoons. And I remind myself that every word has the potential to connect, clarify, or heal—all I have to do is commit to putting it out there.
So, why do I write—and keep writing? Because every story teaches me something new. Because the world is confusing, beautiful, frustrating, and worth documenting. And because, let’s be real, what else am I going to do after spilling gravy on my date again?
