I’ve always believed that great stories don't just unfold in words—they breathe, stretch, and twist like grapevines under the Mediterranean sun. I grew up in Athens, where storytelling was less of an art and more of a daily occurrence. In our family restaurant, dishes of moussaka were served with side orders of fiery debates. Someone would argue about Socrates, another would counter with their grandmother’s secret recipe for baklava, and by dessert, the story of both the meal and the conversation had taken on mythic proportions. I guess you could say love for storytelling is baked right into me—like phyllo pastry layers, impossibly rich and complex.

But why write, and why keep writing? Because, my dear reader, life is absurdly full of clichés, and yet, writing allows us to peel them back, layer by layer, to something truer. Let me explain.

Writing Is Like Falling in Love (but Without the Ghosting)

Have you ever started a first draft and thought, "This is THE one"? The kind of draft that keeps you up at night, crafting sentences and swooning over metaphors? You scribble away in a dizzying frenzy, convinced that every word you pen is flawless. And then—inevitably—you revisit it the next day, stone-cold sober, only to think: “This is a disaster. Was I drunk on espresso and hubris?”

Writing is like dating in that way. You meet an idea and chase it like the thrill of a first crush. Sometimes, things click, and other times, the vibe fizzles. My early writing career was filled with crushes on halfway-decent drafts that I desperately tried to turn into masterpieces. Some had all the sparkle of a Greek summer romance, and others were about as exciting as unsalted fries. But here's the thing: every failed love affair, every uninspiring draft, brings you closer to writing something meaningful.

The Dinner Party Rule

Writing—especially about people—has a cardinal rule. Let’s call it the "Dinner Party Rule.” Imagine you’re hosting a dinner party (and because I’m Greek, this involves eight different kinds of meze, homemade tzatziki, and at least three uncles debating whether Zeus would thrive in today’s stock market). What makes it unforgettable isn't just the food—it’s the storytelling. Around the table, people recount their awkward first dates, their grander-than-life travel mishaps, or their cousin who tried starting a kombucha business and ended up with nothing but vinegar. Every guest brings something relatable, emotional, or downright absurd to the table.

Writing, too, is about inviting your reader to that “dinner party.” No one shows up for a lecture or a PowerPoint presentation at your meze-laden table. They want a story they’ll savor—a small truth wrapped in layers of humor, honesty, and vivid imagery. They want to leave feeling like they’ve been seen. So, that's what I aim for every time I put pen to paper: to craft a story that tastes just as rich as my grandmother’s pastitsio but leaves enough room for the reader to add their spice.

Why Writing About Love (And Everything Else) Matters

When I left my hospitality career to start writing full-time, I noticed something funny about how we talk about love, attraction, or connection. We throw around phrases like, “find your better half” or “spark your soulmate.” But real relationships aren’t symmetrical, like some picturesque Instagram feed. They’re messy and complicated, like my favorite wine-stained tablecloth—imperfect yet so full of character I wouldn’t trade it.

The truth is, writing about relationships isn’t just about romance—it’s about everything in between: the quiet stretches, the cultural differences that surprise us, and those fleeting moments that feel as universal as they are uniquely ours. For example, an Italian I once dated insisted on calling every red wine “Chianti,” no matter where it was made. A mild debate turned into a 45-minute argument, followed by an impromptu trip to a Santorini vineyard to “settle it”—a memory I still laugh about today. Writing lets me immortalize these quirks—the tension, humor, and connection that make relationships worth celebrating.

The Perks of Philosopher Brain (AKA Why I Overthink as a Writer)

When you grow up in Athens, surrounded by ruins and Rebel Without a Cause posters, you either become a philosopher or…well, someone who wants to sound like one. Studying Plato and Aristotle taught me the itch to question everything—What is love? What is truth? Did I leave the oven on? Writing gives me the freedom to channel all that questioning into narratives that make sense of the chaos.

I mean, can’t we all agree that life would be better if first dates came with user manuals? For instance:

  • What They Appear As: “I’m really into long walks on the beach.”
  • What That Means: “I once went to a beach but got bored after 15 minutes. I mainly scroll TikTok.”

Through writing, I unpack these everyday puzzles—the ones about why we think, behave, or feel the way we do. Sometimes, philosophy collides with pop culture (Looking at you, rom-com tropes), and you get something unexpected: an honest laugh, a shared epiphany, or a conversation starter worth bookmarking.

When Writing Feels Like Dancing Barefoot on Crete

I’ll let you in on a secret: some nights, you’ll find me at the edge of a Greek shoreline with my laptop precariously perched on a stack of books. To me, writing isn’t stationary. It’s movement, energy, surrender. Much like dancing zembekiko barefoot—awkward at first, but magical when you stop caring about how you look.

One summer evening, while visiting Crete, I started writing about the tiny moments people forget. Like a quick touch on the wrist during an argument or the way someone’s smile curls differently when they laugh too hard. I didn’t have a goal in mind at the time. But before I knew it, I had a story that shaped itself—no pretense, no forced conclusion. It became one of my most shared essays and taught me this: when writing, like dancing, give yourself permission to be unrefined and fully human. Readers will feel the difference.

Here’s Why You Should Keep Writing Too

I often hear from readers, “But what if I’m not good at writing?” To which I reply: “But what if you are?” Just like relationships, writing will never be perfect. Scratch that notion entirely. The goal isn’t perfection—it’s honesty. Writing is about celebrating your unique view of the world, whether it's through poetry, an angry Yelp review, or a heartfelt letter to someone you admire.

  • Feeling uninspired? Write what annoyed you today. Chances are, it’ll resonate with someone.
  • Unsure how to begin? Start with dialogue. Even your cat’s sarcastic thoughts about your cooking can spark something (been there).

Writing is like collecting sea glass. Over time, rough edges smooth, and what felt fragmented turns into something unexpectedly whole. And unlike sea glass, writing multiplies: the more you share your words, the more they quietly connect with others.

Conclusion: Write, Dance, Repeat

So here’s my manifesto: I keep writing because I can’t imagine not writing. I write to capture the messy beauty of human existence, to make a stranger out there laugh or pause, and to (hopefully) weave a connection between us across the digital void. Words are all we have sometimes—and in this fleeting world of one-swipe-goodbye, that’s enough.

Whatever your story is, share it. Dance barefoot with your sentences. It doesn’t have to lead anywhere; sometimes, it’s enough to just write because you can. Or, as I like to say after finishing a good draft: S'agapo, my muse. Let’s do this again tomorrow.