I Need More Words From You…

It may come as a shock to those who truly know me, but there was a time when I struggled to express myself out loud. Writing? That was always easy. Pen to paper felt safe. But if I had to actually say how I felt—voice an opinion, name an emotion—I’d clam right up.

When I was ten years old, we lost my mom’s uncle. I don’t remember him all that well, but his wife—my Aunt Anna, one of my grandmother’s sisters—was a big part of my life. I remember her sadness when Uncle Charles passed. 

I sat down and wrote her a letter. I told her that I loved her and that I didn’t want her to feel unhappy when she thought of Uncle Charles. I asked her to remember how he made her feel. I couldn’t say these words out loud, but I could place them carefully on blank paper. I left the letter on a pile of Mass cards at the wake.

Years later, my mom told me that letter made her cry. Aunt Anna had called to say my words helped her through a very dark time. Even then, I didn’t fully understand what writing could do—but somewhere deep inside, I knew it mattered.

Fast forward to my senior year of high school. I took a Creative Writing course taught by Eugene Murphy. He was so damn talented. A laid-back literary with the biggest head I’d ever seen—physically and intellectually. After my first three assignments earned nothing higher than a “B” or “B+,” he called me over after class one day.

He looked at me and said, “Eastwood, I need more words from you. You have more to say. Let it flow.”

That afternoon, I walked into town and bought a three-pack of marble notebooks and a fresh pack of Bic pens. That night, I started narrating everything. The new toothpaste in the bathroom. The gut-punch feeling of finding out everyone was invited to a party at Eleni’s house except me. The neighbors painting their house blue after it had been red for as long as I could remember. I wrote about everything.

Three notebooks turned into fifty. Typewriters were upgraded. White paper was bought in bulk. I dreamed of writing for television, though I never imagined success beyond Mr. Murphy’s classroom. I wasn’t writing for an audience. I was writing for me—and for the greeting cards I sent each year. Still, I kept dreaming.

When I created this blog, I kept it private. Then one day, I uploaded my first piece to Facebook. I nearly threw up when I hit “Publish” on WordPress. The kind of nausea that comes from vulnerability, not food poisoning. To my surprise, kind words came back to me. That wasn’t why I published it.

I write to express. I write to process. I write to share what I think and feel in the only way that has ever fully made sense to me.

And now, here we are—in a community of writers. I devour what all of you write and publish. Truly. It’s extraordinary to be surrounded by people brave enough to put their words out into the world.

So please—don’t ever stop writing.

As we wrap up 2025, I’ll borrow the words that changed everything for me and carry them with us into 2026:

I need more words from you.