“What do you even do all day?”

It's the question I hear most when I tell people I'm a writer who focuses on relationships—with a background in philosophy and hospitality, no less. Depending on the crowd, the query is either born of genuine curiosity or laced with a hint of side-eye skepticism. Am I reclining on a sun-drenched Greek terrace, sipping ouzo and casually scribbling on a notebook? (Sometimes, yes.) Or am I stewing in a heartbreak playlist, conjuring up the perfect metaphor for ghosting? (Also sometimes, yes.) Apparently, when your "job" involves talking about love, people think it’s either a cakewalk or some kind of endless emotional therapy session.

Let’s clear the air: the role of a relationship writer isn’t just champagne dates and translating "love languages" into pithy advice. It’s a lot more layered, surprisingly unsexy at times, and, yes, absolutely rewarding. So, grab a cup of strong Greek coffee—or something stronger—and let’s unpack the myths about my job.

Myth 1: Writing About Love Is Just About Giving Advice

Ah, if only. People seem to think I spend my days doling out foolproof tips like, "Text them back after two hours, not one," or “Men love women who wear red.” Let me tell you something: this archetype of the all-knowing love guru? Pure fiction. Trust me, I live in Greece, a place that worships Aphrodite but still hasn’t figured out how to make romance simple.

Sure, advice is part of the gig—but it’s not “advice” in the magic-bullet sense. Writing about relationships often means digging into the messy, unfiltered humanity that underpins them. It’s about reflecting on what connection even means and how, frankly, we tend to overcomplicate it. One minute, I’m piecing together research about attachment styles and the evolution of courtship rituals; the next, I’m scribbling notes on how the smell of fresh-baked bread at my family’s taverna once turned a blossoming romance into a lifelong memory. (Spoiler alert: carbs, not candles, might be the ultimate aphrodisiac.)

And let’s not forget the self-reflection required. Writing about relationships forces you to confront your own quirks and mistakes. Ask me to ghostwrite “texting etiquette”? Sure. But don’t ask me where my own unread DMs are hiding.

Truth Bomb
Real advice about love isn’t about prescribing actions—it’s about inspiring self-awareness. I’m not Cupid. I’m just someone with a pen (and a little life experience).

Myth 2: It’s All Grand Gestures and Big Feels

Here’s the funny thing about relationships. While mainstream media might have you believing it’s all serenading under balconies (à la Romeo) or slow-motion airport kisses (thanks, rom-coms), real love tends to hide in the quiet, in-between moments.

This same principle applies to writing about relationships. My best insights rarely come from the flashy, headline-worthy dramas. Instead, it’s the subtleties of everyday interactions that matter: the way someone raises their eyebrows during an argument, or the way they offer you an extra olive from their plate even though they love olives, too. (Mediterraneans will get this.)

For example, I once spent two weeks either avoiding or agonizing over an article about breakups. I thought the piece would culminate in some cinematic moment of catharsis—storming out, tears streaming, “it’s not you, it’s me.” Instead, I realized that most breakups play out in less dramatic fashion. Sometimes, they’re about people sitting side by side on a couch, quietly deciding they’re no longer a fit. Writing that? Far harder—but also far more meaningful.

Life Lesson
Grand gestures are good theater. But it’s the small stuff—patience during miscommunications, hand-squeezes at the kitchen sink—that nurtures both relationships and writing.

Myth 3: Writers Have Solved Relationships

This one gets me every time. People leap to conclusions: If you write about love, surely you’re holding the secret recipe for ever-present fireworks and drama-free anniversaries. Spoiler alert: I don’t. (If I did, my exes might have something to say about my marketing strategy.)

Knowing about relationships is not the same as nailing them in your personal life. Just ask Aristotle, who waxed lyrical about virtue and temperance while reportedly spending years trying to deflect drama at his own dinner table. Writing about love often means untangling universal struggles, but that doesn’t mean I’m immune from stumbling through my own. I’m just as prone to insecure texts, worse-than-it-sounded jokes, and overthinking Sunday brunch plans as anyone else.

Here’s the twist: Our mistakes are the ultimate resource. I may not have perfected conflict resolution, but I’ve certainly cataloged enough awkward moments to fuel five essays about learning to live with imperfections—others’ and my own.

Myth 4: Writing About Love Is Too “Soft”

Some folks hear what I do for a living and start picturing pink Post-It notes dotted with cartoon hearts. “Oh, so you write about, like, feelings,” they say, with an eyebrow raised so high it's practically on Mount Olympus.

Let’s clear that up: writing about relationships isn’t as fluffy as it sounds. It forces you to dive headfirst into psychology, sociology, and even neurobiology. For example, why does a casual compliment from a stranger feel more impactful than a routine “you look nice” from your partner? (Spoiler: it’s connected to how our brains interpret novelty and validation.) Why do fast-paced cities have higher rates of romantic burnout? Hello, overstimulation and decision fatigue.

And let’s not even start with cultural nuance. Writing on this topic when you’ve lived in places as different as Athens and London is like juggling two worlds: one where families insist the person you’re dating must enjoy grilled octopus, and another where people throw side salads into romantic metaphors like they’re trying to impress Freud.

Bottom Line
Love writing? It’s as crunchy as baklava. Sweet on the surface, sure, but layered, intricate, and occasionally sticky.

Myth 5: Romance Is Universal

Yes—and no. The universal truth of romance is that we’re all fumbling toward the same thing: connection. But how that plays out? Let’s just say cultural context can turn flirtation into a PhD-level challenge.

Case in point, one summer on Crete, I watched a tourist—clearly smitten—attempt to woo her local waiter. She tried undermining his raki-pouring skills (rookie move) while he politely smiled through the faux critique. She didn’t realize that a Greek man interprets this less as light banter, more as a red flag for future kitchen squabbles. Conversely, try playing coy in London and you may be mistaken for thoroughly uninterested.

When you’ve hopped between cultural codes in work and life, you start to notice how deeply love is shaped by context. Which is why my approach to writing is simple: curiosity first, conclusions later.

Takeaway
Romance may be universal, but behaviors? Hyper-local. And that’s what makes connection both maddening and magical.

What You Can Take From All This

People love to romanticize (pun intended) the concept of a relationship writer. But at its core, the job is no different from other creative pursuits: curiosity, craft, and a willingness to sit with questions you may never fully answer. In a way, writing about love mirrors being in love—it’s messy, unpredictable, and rewarding when you let it be.

So, the next time you’re navigating a relationship, whether with a partner or yourself, remember: everyone’s making it up as they go along, even the so-called "experts." The world of love, like a good Greek wine, is best approached with patience, an open mind, and a healthy appetite—whether for answers or for olives.

Cheers (or, as we say in Greece, yamas).