To Start Choosing Differently
On the Writing Life
June 23, 2026 — loft, tiny house, Charlotte, North Carolina
The final journal pages from the months that reshaped my life
Writing is how I make contact with what’s alive. And it’s how I let go of what’s dying.
Writing is having a relationship with life. I can put an equal sign where the “is” is, because it really is that direct.
Writing = having a relationship with life.
It slows your moments down. There is a concept in contact improv: move at the speed of your awareness. That is exactly what writing is—or, at least, what “good writing” is. A “good writer” notices things.
Where is the point of contact between your inner and your outer world? Where the pen meets the page. It is the third landscape, the plane where you draw it forth, where you pull what is alive from this moment and pin it down.
I always say I haven’t fully lived something until I’ve written about it. This is because writing slows down time to the point I can absorb the life I am living. Without writing, it’s as if life happened but hasn’t fully happened to me.
Writing really is a way of life, of paying attention. It’s about a certain kind of rhythm—a luxury of pace that lends texture, flavor, and ultimately discernment. It not only records life, but affects it. Because when you slow down to notice, you inevitably notice what you like and don’t, and you start choosing differently.
