The real reason I write? Writing is my gift.
When I started writing this essay in August 2025, I had a whole plan for what it would be.
Start by thanking Jonathan Nott for inspiring me to think more deeply about my why. (Thank you!)
Share a list of reasons I write, including the more unexpected ones I uncovered while journaling. Maybe include a short explanation of each one.
End with an invitation to comment with your own reasons for writing.
The result would be an essay that was a little bit vulnerable and a lot helpful. It would be interactive and quotable—the kind of essay, I hoped, people would want to read and share.
It took one ten-minute writing session to realize this was not going to be that kind of essay.
For one, I didn’t actually want to write that version.
I started my Substack to practice writing, experiment with my creativity, explore ideas and characters, and ultimately have fun. I’m here to write and share words that are more honest, more bold, and more unique to me—not to write listicles growth gurus and the algorithm approve of.
Second, I wanted this essay to be a continuation of the work I’ve already done.
I think of my writing journey as just that: a journey. Everything I write is a next step, a contribution to my evolution as a writer. A static list felt like a statement that the work is complete and I’ve figured out this whole writing thing. The truth is I still have so much more to learn.
So I nixed the original version of this essay. Asked myself, “What is the more honest version? What’s more true, more vulnerable? What would you be proud and maybe a little scared to write?”
This is my answer.
The real reason I write? Writing is my gift.
When I was young, my mom taught me that God gives everyone a gift. Something that’s unique to them—an interest, a talent, a skill, an idea that only they can bring to life. Sure, there may be other people out there doing similar things with similar gifts to yours, but only you can do it in your specific way. Your gift is unavoidable; even if you choose not to use it, it will always be part of you, calling to you.
By my mom’s explanation, God reveals our gifts to us when the time is right. I always thought it would come to me all at once, a kind of grand vision. Not so. Writing presented itself to me in tiny glances and glimmers. The more I noticed and moved toward it, the more I understood that writing was the thing I was meant to be doing.
Here are a few of the stepping stones that led me to discover my gift of writing:
I didn’t always know I was a writer, but I liked reading, so I studied English in college, where I got a lot of praise for my ability to write papers and essays. I started to believe I was actually good at writing.
I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my English degree, but I knew I wanted to be near books, so I got a job in publishing. I didn’t even consider becoming a professional writer, but being near other writers appealed to me.
I didn’t know what I was going to do when I was let go from a job eight years later, but I knew I wanted to write more than I edited, and I knew I wanted to help people, so I started writing about writing as a tool for self-love and growth and teaching other queer people how to use it.1 This eventually led to my first copywriting client.
I don’t think I realized what was happening in the moment. But in hindsight, I can tie these moments (and many others) together to form a clear path from not writing to writing for the rest of my life. I can see how every step toward writing led toward even more writing. Opportunities came more easily, more ease-fully, and they felt more aligned with my values and interests.
My mom and I don’t agree on everything. Or even most things. And I know this may sound too spiritual, too woo-woo for some of you. But this lesson—that writing is my unique gift—is one that’s stayed with me well into adulthood, even as I’ve distanced myself from my mom’s religion.
Because I can’t really justify my unwavering obsession with writing any other way. It helps me understand my unexplainable love of writing, my need to write, the way I am drawn to it even when there are arguably a thousand other better things I could be doing with my time and energy. It helps me trust this feeling that I must write, that I have to do it, that I will always do it the same way I will always breathe and eat and sleep.
I know that not every writer thinks of writing as such a sacred thing. That’s okay.
But for me, writing feels necessary to my survival, and believing that it’s my gift helps me sit with that strange truth more easily. It helps me take it more seriously. If writing is my gift, then there’s no reason to downplay my interest in it. If writing is my gift, then it only makes sense to lean into opportunities to write and be paid for my writing—even if they’re way out of my league or experience.
Besides, I’ve read enough fantasy novels to know that you can’t run from your gifts. Your destiny will always find you. Your fate will always follow you. What you avoid today will circle back around again and again until you acknowledge it for what it is.
If writing is my gift, then my success as a writer is inevitable. I may as well lean into it.