Why I Write (and Keep Writing)

It starts with a stack of notebooks in my parents' basement. They’re warped from camping trips and coffee spills—living proof of a kid obsessed with thoughts too big to keep in his head. One of those journals holds a groundbreaking fifth-grade short story about a talking deer trying to save its forest. It’s terrible. But even then, I remember thinking: this, right here, feels like home. Writing has always been my thing. If life's a crowded party, writing is the friend pulling me aside for a deeper conversation.

But why do I keep at it? Why do I sit down again and again, trying to translate the messy jumble of ideas in my brain into something coherent, meaningful, maybe even helpful? Truth is, writing feels as essential to me as hiking does after a tough week. Writing untangles the knots, sharpens the colors, and leaves me sure of my footing again.

And maybe you'll feel the same way after reading this.

The Stories We’re Afraid to Tell

Growing up in Boulder, surrounded by my parents' activist friends and a wilderness that always felt like family, I learned one essential truth: stories carry weight. The stories my dad told about dwindling wildlife corridors weren’t just data—they were eulogies, calls to action, even love letters. But on the flip side, there were things I didn’t hear. Adult whispers about my parents' financial struggles. The times my mom cried after an activist campaign didn't pan out. The life stuff, hushed but felt.

That stuck with me. Writing, in a way, became my way of filling in those silences. Of digging into the messy spaces people are too polite—or scared—to talk about. When I write about relationships—dating, love, loss—I'm not just putting words on a page; I’m poking the quiet spots, saying, “Hey, you feel this too, right?” And when someone messages me that I somehow described the exact thing they couldn’t put into words? That's alchemy.

If you're wondering what kind of stories you should be telling, here's my advice: write the things that scare you. Write about the first breakup that broke you, or how you’re 35 and still don’t know how to say "I love you" without sounding like you're auditioning for a ’90s rom-com. Trust me—that’s the stuff other people connect with.

Scrambled Thoughts Make the Best Omelets

People think writing is this romantic act of flow and inspiration—the Hemingway-at-a-bar stereotype. The truth? Writing is 80% staring at a blinking cursor while debating if that metaphor made you sound smart, or like you're trying too hard. But allowing myself to write messy changed everything.

Take my journaling. My scrawl looks like a squirrel broke into an espresso shop—it’s all over the place. But those messy entries taught me something about relationships, too: give space to the chaos. There’s gold in the imperfections.

The same applies for writing. You don’t have to start with polished prose. Start with the scrambled version, the jotted notes about how your second date awkwardly ended in shared fries and the realization you’re both bad at math. Write until it clicks or, at the very least, until it makes you laugh.

That awkward honesty? It’s where life happens. It’s the “you look better in person” of writing—it might sound strange at first, but people appreciate the realness.

Where Inspiration Lurks (Spoiler: It's Near You Right Now)

I used to think inspiration needed a grand moment—an epiphany atop a mountain. But some of my best writing isn’t inspired by alpine sunsets; it’s sparked by the human quirks that make life bearable. Like the fact that my neighbor leaves her Wi-Fi network open and named it “Free But Slow”—a microcosm of generosity and realism. Or the banter I hear when people-watching at Boulder Farmers Market:

“I thought you liked kombucha?”
“Not mushroom flavor!”
“Okay, what do you like?”
“You, when you’re not judging my food choices.”

That’s romance in a nutshell—flawed, specific, hilarious. Great writing doesn’t just copy that; it honors it.

So, if you’re ever wondering what to write about, look around. Your inspiration might be in your fridge, the barista's playlist, or the text convo where your crush responded with 126 emojis. Take the humor, the heart, and run with it.

Writing Takes You Back to Yourself

Last year, I found myself hiking Chautauqua's Royal Arch trail after an exhausting argument with my partner. I was mad, sure, but I was also wondering if I’d somehow failed. Were we just different people? Were we doomed? Mid-trail, I sat down next to a pine tree I’d probably passed a hundred times and—not for the first time—pulled out my journal.

I scribbled everything I felt. Even the really dumb stuff, like how I hate people who quote Aristotle during arguments. Slowly, my frustration loosened its grip. Writing didn't fix things, but it showed me the heart of them.

Relationships, like trails, aren’t linear. You loop back, re-examine, rewrite. Writing helps me do that. It’s a mirror when I need clarity and a map when I’m lost. It reminds me that we make meaning from moments, no matter how small.

Why I’ll Keep Showing Up to the Page

Look, writing hasn’t always been kind to me. Editors say no. Manuscripts get abandoned. Sometimes my brain feels about as creative as a beige sweater. And yet, every time I write, I learn something about myself, about the world, about how weirdly beautiful it all is.

And maybe that’s why—as much as I roll my eyes at articles with sappy endings—I believe every love story, every heartbreak, every rediscovery of yourself is worth recording. Not because it’s groundbreaking. But because it feels human. Writing is less about getting it “right” and more about showing up. Being honest. Taking the leap.

And isn’t that exactly what we’re all trying to do anyway? Whether it’s in our relationships, our daily lives, or a blank screen begging us to fill it?

So, here’s to sitting down again tomorrow and letting the words find me. Because maybe, just maybe, the right ones are worth the wait.