Why We Write
It was 3:00 a.m.
Two melatonin deep, and somehow wide awake.
I don’t know why these ideas always show up then—somewhere between sleep and whatever comes before it—but this isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.
My brain seems to do its best (or worst) work in the middle of the night, when there’s nothing to distract it but a ceiling and a running list of unfinished thoughts.
So I laid there, staring up, thinking about golf.
Not just the game itself, but the courses, the people, the moments that somehow stuck.
The random stories that don’t feel important at the time but refuse to leave later. The kind that only make sense when you look back on them.
Eventually, I gave up on sleep.
And like I’ve done before, I decided the only way to quiet it all down was to start writing.
I’ve had a strange relationship with golf for most of my life.
Not consistent enough to be good. Not distant enough to forget. But always there—somewhere in the background—waiting for me to come back to it. And along the way, I’ve picked up more stories than I realized.
Small ones, big ones, some meaningful, some completely ridiculous.
It occurred to me that if I don’t write them down, they’ll disappear.
Maybe slowly. Maybe all at once.
Either way, they’ll go with me.
So this is that attempt.
A place to unload all of it—the stories, the people, the courses, and the winding path that somehow connects them. There’s no real structure to it, and no grand plan behind it.
This isn’t the start of something calculated or carefully built.
It’s closer to word vomit, if I’m being honest.
But maybe that’s the point.
I don’t expect this to turn into anything.
No audience, no growth strategy, no end goal.
At best, maybe my wife reads it. Maybe a few family members stumble across it someday. Maybe it becomes a small window into how my brain works—though I’m not entirely sure that’s something anyone would actively want.
And if none of that happens?
That’s fine too.
I like to imagine, years from now, someone finding this—like an archaeologist uncovering an old scroll—only to read a few pages and become deeply confused about why any of it was written in the first place.
Honestly, that feels about right.