There’s a moment during an Idaho summer—not long after the tulips fade but before the foothills bake in the July sun—when you can sit by the Boise River, feel the cool rush of the current, and think about who you are in the greater scheme of things. For me, that’s the way writing feels. It’s grounding and restless at once, an act of discovery and connection. It’s mercurial, like flirting—sometimes coy, sometimes bold, never quite predictable—but it’s also comfort food for my soul, a way to make sense of the world.

Why do I write? The short answer is that I can’t not write. The long answer? Well, grab a craft beer from my parents’ brewery, settle in, and let me tell you.

Telling Stories (And Hearing Your Own Echo)

I grew up surrounded by stories. My grandparents would weave tales of farm life over stacks of pancakes on Saturday mornings—how my grandpa once outsmarted a potato thief with nothing but his dog and a shovel. At night, my dad would spin yarns about starting a brewery in a town still coming to terms with “craft beer” as a phrase, let alone a concept. Storytelling was a currency in my family—a way of saying “I see you, you matter, let’s connect.”

And that’s what writing feels like to me. Every time I sit down with a blank page (or screen, more often than not), I’m trying to say, “Can you see this? Do you feel this too?” Writing is a thousand love notes sent out to the world, hoping one will land in the hands of someone who’s been walking through their own fog.

Years ago, during a summer internship at the Idaho Statesman, I wrote a feature on Boise’s growing tech scene. After it was published, an older gentleman emailed me. He’d grown up in Boise but hadn’t been back in decades. My article, he said, made him feel like the boy who used to cycle downtown for 25-cent matinees at the Egyptian Theatre. That email became one of my most cherished possessions—and proof that the act of storytelling can echo far beyond what you ever imagined.

The Marriage of Curiosity and Creativity

If writing were a dating profile, its bio would read: “Incurable romantic looking for someone to share a lifetime of curiosity, creativity, and the occasional identity crisis.” Like a slow burn romance, writing keeps you on your toes—it challenges you, frustrates you, and makes you see the world in new ways.

Take journalism, for instance. I got my start digging into local stories: Boise startups, urban murals, and the rising population of downtown ducks (a saga I promise was worth my time). At first, I thought I loved the adrenaline of chasing deadlines and scoops. But what I really love is curiosity’s domino effect—that “what if” that transforms into “why,” and finally, “how.” When writing is good, it feels like cracking the code of existence, even if the solution is just that someone preferred the West End for their morning jog because it gets better sunlight.

Creativity is the other half of that marriage. Crafting essays or personal stories scratches an itch journalism just doesn’t reach—that yearning to take what’s raw, messy, and human in your life and polish it into meaning. I compare it to baking bread: you start with something sticky, knead it through your hands, and then wait for the dough—the narrative—to rise. It’s part science, part alchemy, and a whole lot of faith.

Writing Through Heartbreak and Joy

Writing can be both salve and scalpel, and trust me, I’ve leaned into both. After a particularly brutal breakup in my twenties, I channeled my anguish into a series of essays about everything from sourdough starters to Joan Didion. It was intoxicating and cathartic, like putting your tears into jars and selling them as artisanal jam.

But writing isn’t just for picking through the rubble. It’s also how I celebrate life. I’ve written breathless, silly posts about discovering my favorite indie band; achingly tender pieces about watching my niece train for her first marathon; and nostalgic meditations on gardening with my mom in our tiny North End backyard. Even the mundane moments can become kaleidoscopic through the right turn of phrase.

There’s a theory in relationships called capitalization, which is essentially the idea that sharing your joy with someone else enhances it. Writing is like that, too—an attempt to bottle lightning and then set it loose again, brighter than before.

The Inner Critic (Or, How to Outsmart a Nagging Voice)

Let’s be real—writing isn’t always sunshine and swooning. It’s messy, self-doubt-filled, and at least once a month, I seriously consider trading my laptop for a commercial fishing gig (less pressure, more flannel). The inner critic—whom I’ve named Denise—is always whispering venom in my ear. “This story isn’t funny, Leslie. Nobody cares, Leslie. Who gave you a keyboard, Leslie?”

But writing has also taught me how to keep Denise in check. Here’s how I win those battles:

  • Take the pressure off the final product. First drafts are like those cooking fails on TikTok: messy but educational. Let yourself be bad; clarity and beauty come with editing.
  • Write about what grips your gut. If it grabs you, chances are it’ll grab someone else. Follow the excitement or the ache—both are trail markers worth trusting.
  • Keep writing, even if it sucks. Some days the muse is an angel softly brushing your cheek, and other days she’s a two-bit hustler sneaking out the back door. Choosing to show up no matter what is half the battle.

Writing Is a Relationship All Its Own

If my life were a rom-com, writing would be my meet-cute, messy marriage, exhilarating reconnection, and quiet, everlasting love all wrapped up in one. Some days I think I’ve exhausted everything I want to say, only for writing to find me again—in the rain on a foggy Boise sidewalk, or in the simple joy of sharing campfire stories after a long hike.

Like the best relationships, writing teaches me about myself even when I don’t want to listen. It sticks through my bad moods and my good ideas, challenging me to be sharper and more intentional. It asks big questions, nudges me toward unexpected answers, and leaves me in awe of how the world—and the human heart—can surprise me again and again.

If you’ve been yearning to tell your own stories but feel like a fraud, that’s just your inner Denise talking. Be louder. Pick up the pen or the keyboard, tell the truth (even to yourself), and remember that “flirt to familiar” isn’t just for romance—it’s the key to falling for writing too.

Because at the end of the day, writing will never ghost you. It's a worthy dance partner, unpredictable yet steady, always encouraging you to take one more step toward who you’re meant to be.