People love to ask writers why we do what we do. It’s usually right up there with “where do you get your ideas?”—a question no writer really knows how to answer without sounding like a fortune-teller or a philosopher. But when someone asks me why I write, I don’t hesitate. I write because it’s impossible not to. I write because every story, every memory has the potential to become a wildflower blooming in the cracks of a dirt path. Writing is how I’ve made sense of the world, how I’ve understood the world, and occasionally (okay, frequently) how I’ve run from it.

Here’s my take: writing is a lot like dating (stay with me here). Sometimes, both are a little messy. Both require a mix of vulnerability, optimism, and a good dose of humor to make it through. And just like dating, the reason we write is never as tidy as a back-cover synopsis. So here’s why I do it—and why I keep at it, through writer’s block, self-doubt, and deadlines.

1. To Find Something True

Let me tell you about the first time I truly fell in love with words. I was 13 years old, galloping my horse, Dakota, across my family’s ranch as a thunderstorm rolled in over the San Juans. The smell of sagebrush and ozone was sharp in the air, and I remember thinking, I need to write this down. Not just the storm, but how it felt. I needed to preserve how my chest swelled, how the mountains in the distance seemed alive. Writing became a way of faultlessly bottling up the truth—the kind of truth that can’t be pinned down in casual conversation.

This instinct is probably why I’m still writing about love and relationships today. After all, what is dating, if not an endless quest for truth? The truth about who’s a good match, the truth about what you want, the truth about who you are when someone else is watching. Writing—and good storytelling—cuts through the noise. It gets people nodding in recognition, going, “yes, that’s exactly how I feel!”

So often in relationships, finding truth is tricky. People text in ellipses and mixed emojis, rather than saying what they mean. Lovers throw phrases like “it’s not you, it’s me” around like confetti, and before you know it, you’re spiraling on Google, looking up toxic behavior patterns like they’re baseball cards to collect. But on the page? In writing? There’s no room for fluff. You find the words that matter, and you make them count. That’s why I write: to find those words, to sort out the mess, and sometimes, to spark a revelation.

2. To Tell the Stories That Would Be Otherwise Lost

Growing up in Telluride as one of the only kids still riding a literal horse to the edge of town, I sometimes felt wedged between two eras. My parents ran an outfitter business, taking tourists on horseback rides, and they’d spin tales of mining accidents and wayward pioneers like they were sharing family gossip. It was the alchemy of storytelling: to take root in what seems small or forgotten and let it bloom into something universal.

Dating makes for great material here, too. I mean, come on—what’s more fun than an awkward first date story? Or the tale of the one guy who showed up to dinner in hiking socks and Chacos, claiming his phone died so he couldn’t Venmo you? Dating, like life on the frontier, is crowded with highs, lows, and bewilderingly bad decisions that make for incredible stories later on. Writing lets me dig into those stories, dust off the rough edges, and try to make sense of what it all means.

If you’re reading this, I bet you have your own versions of these moments. Maybe there’s a conversation with an ex that you replay in your head like a weirdly addictive Netflix drama. Maybe you’re mentally narrating your roommate’s bad Tinder date in a way that’ll leave your group chat in stitches later. Either way, the instinct is there: to take what happened and make it into something worth remembering.

3. Because Writing is the Best (and Cheapest) Therapist

Listen, I’m not saying journaling away your romantic anxieties will fix every relationship hiccup, but it sure beats drunk-texting your ex. Writing has been my go-to confidant since my teenage years, when figuring out my identity felt like trying to decode a treasure map written in invisible ink. Do I write because I think I’m wiser or a better storyteller than the next cowboy? Of course not. I write because it helps me process life in all its absurd glory.

This applies even more when I write about dating. Putting perplexing thoughts into words forces you to reckon with them. Why did you chase someone unavailable? Why do you keep picking fights about nothing? Why did you stand in the doorway of that first apartment you shared with your partner and feel like crying even though everything was fine? Writing is an act of untangling, of teasing out patterns you didn’t see before. Once the mess is on the page, it’s no longer as scary. It becomes material—a puzzle to solve, a plot twist to navigate, a bit of wisdom for next time.

4. To Celebrate the Awkward, the Beautiful, and the Painful Moments

One of my favorite things about writing is that it doesn’t demand perfection. Thank God for that. The charm of a story—the thing that makes people lean in—is never how flawless it is. It’s the quirks, the stumbles, the relatability. A strong opening sentence is a lot like a solid first date: a little awkward, but promising—an exchange that says, “Hey, let’s see where this goes.”

It’s the same for dating, of course. I was once on a date where the woman in question, sensing I was new to online dating, asked with brutal honesty, “So, what’s your tragic flaw?” The look on my face must’ve been priceless. I remember laughing, telling her, “I’m one impulse purchase away from complete financial ruin, does that count?” We dated for a while—turns out gallows humor really is my love language.

What I’ve learned as both a writer and a semi-awkward human is this: there’s joy in the imperfections. Yes, the vulnerable moments sting, but they’re also where you find magic. When I write, I get to celebrate those moments—the ones where plans fall apart or characters stay for one last drink they probably shouldn’t have. It reminds me that life, and love, aren’t about getting it all “right.” They’re about showing up to the messiness and finding beauty anyway.

5. To Connect

To bring this full circle, let’s address the elephant in the room: writing is lonely as hell sometimes. You sit at your desk looking out at a snow-drifted mountain (or, more likely, your neighbor Steve’s sagging trampoline), and you’re acutely aware it’s just you and that blank screen. But here’s the kicker: the moment you toss your words into the world, like a handmade paper airplane, something magical happens. People catch it. They read it. They tell you how much it resonated, or how it showed them something they hadn’t thought of before.

It’s the best feeling in the world, and oddly, it’s not unlike the connection you feel when you’re on a really great date. You witness someone else seeing the world through their lens, and it changes you—just a little, but enough. That’s why I write: to spark those connections, even if we’ll never sip coffee together or exchange bad breakup stories in person.

The Last Line

If you’re still wondering why writers do what we do, let me distill it down to this: writing isn’t so different from life or love. There are risks, quiet triumphs, and, sometimes, total flops. But when it works—when you’ve wrestled all those thoughts into something real—it’s a little like standing at the top of a mountain: breathtaking, humbling, and worth every step.