Why I Write (and Keep Writing)

When people ask me why I write, I usually want to respond with something profound, like, "Because words are my oxygen, and storytelling is my heartbeat." That wouldn’t exactly be a lie, but it’s also not the whole truth. The simpler answer? I write because I can’t not write. It’s less Hallmark-channel romantic and more of a compulsion, like biting your nails during a cliffhanger episode of a favorite TV show. And if I’ve learned anything about myself—and Las Vegas taught me plenty—it’s that no story ever feels complete until you’ve put it out there, shared it, and dared to see who might catch the spark.

Starting with Sparks: Where the Love Began

Growing up just outside the Las Vegas Strip, I learned early on that every light hides a story. Like the glitzy marquee promising top-notch entertainment? There’s a stagehand like my dad crouched behind it, cursing because the bulb in the "T" just blew. Or the rhinestone-clad showgirl strutting amid applause? My mom likely stitched that costume through three sleepless nights, only to make it shine for someone else's moment. It was mesmerizing—and messy. That back-and-forth between theatre spectacle and quiet, behind-the-scenes grit stuck with me.

As a kid, I told stories the way most kids make macaroni necklaces: enthusiastically, sloppily, and with a lot more heart than skill. I’d scribble scenes about secret tunnels under the casinos or leave slightly creepy notes around the house detailing what I believed went on in Elvis impersonators' off-duty lives. My parents alternated between humoring me and hiding the Sharpies, but somewhere deep down, I think they got it. We were a storytelling family. Their world was showbiz; mine just leaned a little harder on the words.

Writing in a City That Never Stops Talking

Las Vegas is a city that never learned to shut up. Every blinking light, spinning slot machine, and Elvis vow-renewal chapel is making its pitch. It’s a tough place to grow up with an "inside voice," and you can forget about blending in. All of this gave me a strange advantage: when storytelling is in the air you breathe, you learn that it's okay—even freeing—to speak your mind and lay yourself bare.

But writing isn’t just about saying something loudly—it’s about saying it true. And in Vegas, where most things are wrapped in sequins and sparkle, truth can feel as rare as a two-dollar buffet that doesn’t give you food poisoning. I realized early that writing gave me a chance to carve beneath the gloss and glitz, to poke at what was real: how much the blackjack dealer loves (or loathes) their Saturday night crowd, or why couples clink champagne glasses in rented limos while knowing the fairy tale ends by checkout. My writing became my way of asking, “What’s really going on here?”

Why Writing Feels Like Dating

In some ways, writing and relationships aren’t so different. Both require vulnerability, patience, and a certain tolerance for rejection. Ever sat on your couch refreshing your inbox, waiting to see if someone likes your pitch? It’s disturbingly similar to waiting for that post-first-date text to somehow vindicate your humanity.

Crafting a story, much like navigating the early stages of a relationship, is a dance between attraction and uncertainty. You start out all excited, scribbling the first line that might make or break the whole thing, like writing a flirty opener to someone you swear could be “the one.” Sometimes the words flow, the chemistry's there, and you're deep in a late-night groove; other times, you're staring at the blinking cursor (or silent phone) and wondering where the spark went.

But here’s the thing: you learn to keep showing up. Good stories don’t come from waiting around for inspiration to strike any more than healthy relationships come from waiting for the “perfect” person to land magically in your DMs. You write, mess up, write again, tweak, revise, and—somewhere between the overthinking and the existential dread—something magical takes shape.

What Keeps Me Coming Back

But why keep going? Why write (and rewrite, and revise, and cry into my iced coffee) when no one asked me to? The answer’s simple: writing makes sense of what doesn’t. Life, love, heartbreak, yearning—all the beautiful, complicated stuff suddenly feels less overwhelming when you process it on a page. It’s cheaper than therapy, more reliable than that “self-help” podcast I stopped halfway through, and endlessly creative in the way it allows me to twist reality into something new. Even if no one else reads it, it’s a way to understand myself. And when others do read it, and it resonates? That—that feels like magic.

A few years ago, I wrote a short story about a casino waitress trapped in a conversation with an ex who couldn’t stop trying to rewrite their history. It wasn’t a grand success or anything (translated: no one but my very patient writing group read it), but you know what? It helped me figure out what annoyed the hell out of me about a recent breakup.

Writing also gives me permission to keep peeking behind life’s metaphorical curtains. To ask questions like, “What if?” and “Why not?” and “What does it really mean to fall madly, wildly, confusingly in love—whether with another person, a city, or an idea?” Growing up in Las Vegas taught me the value of bold curiosity, of looking past façades and saying, “But what happens after the curtain call?” Writing lets me keep digging.

Why You Should Write Too, Even If You're Not "a Writer"

Here’s the secret no one really tells you: you don’t have to call yourself a “writer” to write. That’s like saying you can’t call yourself a “romantic” unless you’ve nailed the perfect grand gesture (hello, unrealistic rom-com expectations). Writing, like love, works on its own terms. It doesn’t care if it’s polished or perfect. It just asks you to show up.

Whether it’s journaling about your meh first date at that karaoke dive bar (to clarify: Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” is truly a terrible couple’s duet) or penning an email that gets a little too introspective, your words are a way to open a door and invite yourself into your own story. You might discover something unexpected—or, at the very least, laugh at yourself later.

If you’re like me, you might be afraid to share your writing because it’s personal. But here’s what I’ve learned along the way: when you show someone your story—flaws, quirks, odd tangents, and all—it’s like standing in front of a crowd without stage makeup. Scary, yes, but also liberating. And when someone reads it and says, “That was me too”? Trust me, it’s worth it.

Writing Is Like Falling in Love with the World—Again and Again

Every writer has a why. For me, it’s about trying to make sense of the weird, wonderful world around me and letting other people know they’re not the only ones fumbling through it. Stories bridge the messy in-between, whether it’s figuring out how to heal after heartbreak or wondering why your ex’s new partner looks like an evil twin crossed with a B-list movie villain. Writing is less about solving these puzzles and more about saying, “Same. Let’s figure this out together.”

So here’s my advice: put your words out there. Scribble them on napkins, hammer them out on keyboards, or even jot them on your phone’s Notes app after one too many vodka sodas. Writing doesn’t care how you present yourself—it only cares that you tried. And who knows? Maybe someone will read your story and feel seen. Or maybe that someone will be you.

We’re all just learning how to connect—first with ourselves, then the world. Writing, like love, teaches us how to keep trying.