I was ten years old the first time I understood that words had power. My mother was standing in our kitchen on 83rd Street, reading Gwendolyn Brooks’ We Real Cool aloud like it was scripture. Her voice slowed on the last line, “We Die soon,” making the room feel heavier than I thought a room could feel. I didn’t completely understand what those words meant, but I could feel their weight. Somehow, those few lines had taken the hopes and heartbreaks of a world I only half-knew and handed them directly to me. That day, I decided I wanted to tell stories that could do the same.

Fast forward a couple of decades, and I’ve written books, essays, think pieces, breakup letters (some spicy, some tender), and yes—a few wedding vows (no, not my own—don’t get ahead of yourself). Through it all, one truth has stayed the same: writing, for me, is both a lifeline and a mirror. A way to make sense of life’s beautiful chaos and, sometimes, to create a little chaos of my own. What I’m trying to say, in one of those long, roundabout Midwestern ways, is I don’t just love to write—I write because I need to.

The Jazz of Writing: Finding My Rhythm

Have you ever listened to a live jazz performance where the drummer sneaks in an unexpected offbeat hit, and suddenly, you’re wide awake—grinning for no reason at all? That’s what storytelling feels like to me. It’s listening to the rhythm of life, experimenting, improvising, hitting the occasional sour note, and somehow landing back in harmony.

Growing up on the South Side, my inspiration was everywhere. The gossip sessions on Sunday after church felt like entire soap operas condensed between hymns and potato salad. The laughter between neighborhood uncles roasting each other on stoops might as well have been Shakespeare. And the kids in my afterschool program? Potential protagonists every single one of them. My city teems with stories: of resilience, of humor, of struggle, of love.

Writing, in this way, feels a lot like jazz—it’s unpredictable, it’s alive, and when you get it right, it moves people. Some days, the rhythm flows effortlessly, like a Miles Davis solo on a perfect summer night. Other days, it’s more like trying to convince your uncle’s janky record player to stop skipping. But no matter what, I keep showing up for it, because even the static has its lessons.

Why Writing Matters (Yes, Even in a Post-Swipe Culture)

Somewhere, right now, there’s a tweet going viral that someone spent thirteen minutes crafting. There’s a group chat blowing up over a meme someone captioned with surgical precision. There’s a first message on Bumble that’s hitting all the right notes—funny, specific, endearingly awkward. Writing doesn’t just live in novels or the New Yorker anymore; it’s in the very landscape of how we connect with each other.

We write to get hired, to make people laugh, to flirt, to plan weddings, to survive heartbreak. Sure, the mediums evolve. Back in high school, my friends and I debated love and Stevie Wonder lyrics across folded notes during math class. These days, people are doing that in Instagram DMs, but the motivation hasn’t changed: we write because it’s how we explore and express our humanity.

And look, I’m not suggesting we’re all the next James Baldwin just because we captioned our avocado toast with a Maya Angelou reference (#StillIRiseAndEatBrunch). But I am saying that even small, everyday writing holds power. It allows us to communicate not just who we are but who we want to be.

The Stories We Tell to Stay Human

One chapter of my life I often revisit in my writing is my semester in Paris, where I tried croissants, heartbreak, and existentialism in equal measure. Here’s the thing: I went there hoping my writing would suddenly become more cosmopolitan, deeper somehow, as if proximity to sidewalk cafes and the Seine would finally make me a “serious” writer. But what I found was that the Parisian sky didn’t make my words more profound; it just made their absence feel sharper. Without writing, I felt unmoored, untethered.

I remember one winter afternoon, sitting alone in a café, writing emails to friends back in Chicago who I missed so much it hurt. What started as a letter about missing Harold’s Chicken somehow turned into a meditation on what it means to belong. Those first letters became journal entries. Those journal entries eventually became the seeds of my first novel.

What I learned that semester is that writing grounds me. It connects me to the people I love, even when they’re thousands of miles away. It’s how I process not just where I’ve been but where I want to go. Whether I’m capturing the warmth of my grandmother’s hugs or the chill of a Parisian winter, it’s all part of the art of staying human.

Writing Is Like Dating (Hear Me Out)

Here’s the thing about writing: it’ll ghost you sometimes. And by that, I mean, there will be weeks where the words are stubborn, refusing to show up like somebody you met last Friday who promised to text but didn’t. And then, just when you’ve given up—when you’ve convinced yourself this isn’t for you—it’ll yawn, stretch, and deliver a line so good it makes up for all the missed messages.

Honestly, writing is like the longest relationship I’ve ever been in. It’s unpredictable, takes more work than I care to admit, and requires me to show up on my best and worst days. Some mornings, I’m head over heels with the process, scribbling in my notebook like a rom-com montage. Other days, it feels like sitting across the table from someone who keeps complaining about the appetizer while I try to make small talk. But the beauty of it is, I keep coming back—to the notebook, the drafts, the work—because when it’s good, it’s so good.

How to Keep Writing When It Feels Impossible

  1. Give yourself a deadline: Here’s a little confession—half of this article was written while I was procrastinating on another article. Deadlines may sound like the villain in the movie sometimes, but they’re the tough love hero in the end. No excuses allowed.

  2. Write ugly first drafts: Somewhere out there, a writer on their third espresso is crafting the most beautiful paragraph about sunlight dappling through autumn leaves. That writer is not me, and that’s okay! The first draft exists to be bad—let it be.

  3. Find your people: All writers need a hype circle. Mine includes fellow Chicago storytellers who don’t flinch when I send incomplete sentences at 2 a.m. Find people who will scream “KEEP GOING!” with the kind of energy that might make your neighbors reconsider their lease.

  4. Remember who you’re writing for: Whether it’s your ten-year-old self, the friend who needs cheering up, or a future “you” trying to relive some memory 30 years down the road, keep that person in mind. Writing is an act of connection, first and foremost.

Keep Showing Up for Your Story

At the end of the day, writing is my way of making sense of the world—of finding rhythm in dissonance, of creating a little light in the dark. It’s about documenting moments, preserving truths, and yes, occasionally writing my way out of awkward conversations on Bumble (we’ve all been there, right?).

Whether I’m weaving love letters to my city, crafting fiction that pulls heartstrings or just jotting down what made me laugh today, I write because the world is messy, funny, and heartbreakingly beautiful. And I want to remember—and honor—all of it.

So if you’ve got a story in you, start telling it. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s terrifying. Because trust me when I say: We real cool writers need you out here. Keep showing up for your story—because it’s the only one like it in the world.