Some mornings, I wake up and swear my words have decided they’d rather spend the day frolicking by the marsh than showing up on my page. Writing feels impossible—and trust me, I’ve considered breaking up with it more than a few times. Yet, here I am. Pen in hand, heart wide open, professing my lifelong affair with storytelling. Why, you ask? Because for me, writing isn’t just something I do; it’s the way I love, learn, and leave a little trace of myself in this beautifully messy world.

Let me explain.

Stories Are My Inheritance

Growing up in Charleston, the humid Lowcountry air was thick with more than just the buttery scent of shrimp and grits. It held stories—layers upon layers of them. My grandparents would sit on the porch, weaving cautionary tales about the water spirits that live in the marshes or recounting how their ancestors turned scraps into masterpieces of resilience. “Ebony, you got to know where you come from to know where you’re going,” my grandmother often said while shelling peas. Those stories weren’t just threads from the past; they were lifelines that tethered me to something bigger, something unshakable.

It’s no surprise, then, that storytelling became my love language. Writing allows me to bottle those porch-side lessons and share them with the world. It can turn something as small as a memory into something as vast as hope.

Like that time my cousin swore up and down the family recipe for she-crab soup held the secret to conflict resolution. I laughed then, but later, I realized she had a point. Every recipe is a story—equal parts tradition, intention, and a little bit of salt. Writing, for me, feels a lot like stirring those ingredients together: blending human connection and cultural truth with a sprinkle of humor.

The Power of (Messy) Humanity

Here’s one thing writing taught me early: people are gloriously, stubbornly messy. Relationship drama? I’ve seen it unfold over family reunions faster than you can say “sweet tea.” Weddings? Let me tell you about the time Aunt Denise nearly started a fistfight over whether red velvet cake was inferior to pound cake. (It’s not.) And let’s not even discuss dating—if published awkward first dates were currency, I’d own half the Charleston peninsula by now.

But as frustrating or cringe-worthy as those moments are, they’re what make us human. Writing is how I make sense of them. It’s like putting the pieces of a shattered vase back together—not necessarily to make it look new, but to appreciate its crack-and-glue character. One of the most extraordinary things about stories—whether they’re about heartbreak, triumph, or both—is how they remind us that being human is a collective experience.

Writing doesn’t gloss over that unsightly emotional chaos. It holds the mirror up and says, “Yes, you’re angry, stressed, and crying in a Target parking lot over someone who’s ghosted you for the third time. And also, you’re whole. Still here. Still lovable.” That duality? That’s worth writing about.

Words Are Dating Advice I Didn’t Ask For

Confession: Writing has taught me more tips about relationships than I learned from rom-coms or high school hallway gossip. For instance: patience. You don’t rush a story, and you don’t rush love. (If you’ve ever tried to rush a Gullah Sunday dinner, you know what I mean. The crab boils don’t like to be hurried, and neither do feelings.)

Or vulnerability. Writing is like stripping down to your skivvies in public and praying no one laughs too hard at the Spanx. It’s scary, but it’s also freeing. Sharing your story is what draws others in—and isn’t that what every memorable relationship teaches us? Whether it’s confiding in a partner or writing about the time you tripped over your words and your drink on a first date, connection happens in the risk.

And then there’s consistency. Letting the page sit blank for weeks doesn’t fill it. Turns out, the same goes for relationships. Even if you aren’t writing Pulitzer-winning paragraphs (and believe me, sometimes I’m not), the act of showing up matters. It says, “I value this.”

Writing Is Like Jazz

If storytelling is innate, my years at Spelman and later Columbia taught me how to shape it. But let me be clear: storytelling modes aren’t rigid sonatas—writing, like love, is improvisational. Some days, an idea hits like a soulful Etta James note that spills from somewhere deep inside. Other days, it’s loose and awkward, like karaoke night with off-key Mariah Carey high notes.

I’ve learned to lean into both. Writing taught me the beauty of both jazz-like improvisation and disciplined craft. It’s taught me the value of embracing rhythm and flow—lessons I bring to all parts of life, from conversations to connections.

And sometimes, it’s okay to go off-script. Like that time my character, an enslaved Gullah boy, shocked me by taking a literal right turn off his written path … into discovering his freedom in a hidden church. It wasn’t planned, but it felt right. Writing reminds me to trust those moments of gut feeling over rigid plans.

Letters to Myself—and Maybe to You

Sometimes, my writing is a letter to myself, nudging me to remember that joy is an act of defiance, and despair an inevitable curve in the road—but never a destination. Other times, it feels like I’m writing for someone else—the reader I don’t know but recognize, the one searching for comfort in confusion, hope in heartache, or simply a laugh on a hard day.

Just last year, someone reached out after reading one of my fiction pieces about a girl learning to sew quilts from her enslaved grandmother. She said it made her cry because it reminded her of the love and patience her own grandmother showed her in teaching her to braid her hair. “You made me see her hands again,” she wrote. That, right there, is why I write.

We’re all looking for a little sense-making in this wild world, even when that world feels too big or too broken to process in a single sitting. Stories can shrink it down to something bite-sized, something you can swirl in your mind or sip, like an evening tea on a Charleston porch.

Why I Keep Showing Up

Writing is my therapy-slash-prayer-slash-journal-slash-matchmaker. It’s the friend I can’t quit. And sure, there are days when the blinking cursor feels like a personal attack or when I want to toss my laptop into the nearest tidal creek. But then, something magical happens: an idea bubbles up. A character whispers. A sentence, imperfect and defiant, spills out.

There’s power in putting pen to paper, in voicing the in-between spaces of life. Some stories are born to illuminate; others to comfort, and some simply to say, “I was here.”

So, if you’ve got stories bursting or simmering inside of you, stay with them. Write them, tell them, pass them on like heirlooms. The world needs them.

And for me? Thank you for reading this one. Now, I think a good cup of she-crab soup—and a second draft—is calling my name.