20 years of writing

On two decades of playing with words.

Jun 28, 2025

I’ve been writing ever since I started scribbling stories with my friends in fourth grade. But in June 2005 – 20 years ago this month – I finally became a Writer.

That was the day I started as a reporter at the Advisor and Source Newspaper. I was 25, and I would put that moment up there with my wedding day and the births of my children as one of the most important and memorable of my life.

A long-winding path

As I said, I started writing as a kid, when I discovered I could create sequels to my favorite movies and books and plug my friends and me in as the heroes. While other kids played baseball or flirted with girls, my buddies and I wrote stories about ninjas. Lost to time are at least a dozen spiral notebooks filled with these adventures. I can’t tell you whether they were good or bad – it was middle school, so take a guess – but it was my first experience with storytelling.

I had about a dozen ideas of what I wanted to be when I grew up. Baseball player, animator, scientist, chef … I entertained all these paths. But once I discovered writing, my brain clamped shut. I knew that my future would be wrapped up in playing with words. I wouldn’t need math or science anymore1.

In high school, there were fewer notebooks filled with potential novels, but I enrolled in newspaper class because it gave me an excuse to write for an hour every day. Unfortunately, it also required interviewing others – a challenge when you have social anxiety. I’d love to say I persevered and struck up conversations, but the truth is I found a way to weasel out of it. I sat in a back room and wrote movie reviews. On one hand, it meant I spent three years in the same class with a group full of girls and never once broached more than a nervous “hi,” which I still kick myself about today. But at least it gave me an origin story. I wrote my first review – for John Woo’s Broken Arrow – in that classroom, and I was so proud of my exclamation that “so much stuff blows up.” Ebert, eat your heart out. It didn’t help my grade, but this marriage of writing and the movies would pop up throughout the years and is, of course, why this newsletter exists at all.

I enrolled in college with the intent of studying English and becoming a novelist. My parents, being pragmatic, encouraged me to major in journalism so that I could have a steady career2. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide behind movie reviewing, but I enrolled in a journalism class in community college anyway. I figured I’d muddle through while I buckled down and focused on that novel.

But the movies intervened again. For my first story, I interviewed a student who had written and directed his own indie vampire movie and premiered it at a local theater. I talked to him the day before he flew to Cannes to sell the movie to Troma. Later, I wrote an article about the rise of megatheaters with full menus and stadium seating popping up in the Detroit area. I was proud of those pieces, and I had a blast doing them. Journalism, I thought, might not be a bad gig.

I transferred to a four-year university to finish my bachelor’s. I’ll admit it was a mixed experience, which was completely my fault. I did a bit of writing for the university’s paper and I found I had a good handle on features and (surprisingly) sports writing, but I completely half-assed it. I just wanted to get the degree, not the experience. I worked part-time at an unrelated job and spent most evenings with friends, so I didn’t put in the extra effort that would have helped me stand out. I was too intimidated to ask my professors for advice, and I put off an internship until my final semester. For whatever reason, I chose one at a PR firm instead of a news organization. The internship started on Sept. 10, 2001, so you can probably imagine that the rest of that semester went off the rails. I graduated with fine grades, but nothing special, and I was unprepared and unmotivated for anything more.

I figured that was fine. I had a good-paying job working in a call center for a cellphone company (it rhymes with Smerizon), and some reorgs there meant I could move from part time to full time right after graduation. My parents were happy I had a job. I was happy to be done studying. I graduated in December 2001 figuring I’d write my novel on the side while I answered people’s questions about cellphone bills. I’d worry about journalism later.

A “real” writer

Even though I grew to absolutely hate working in a call center and being screamed at by customers for eight hours each day – I’m fairly certain that the stress contributed to a stroke in 2002 – it was steady work, it offered benefits, and the pay and bonuses were good enough that I moved out of my parents’ house and into an apartment with a friend. But the job’s tensions kept eating at me and eventually, after several long weeks of people screaming at me and uttering death threats because I couldn’t take off their roaming fees, it wore me down. I had anxiety every time I walked into the office. Sometimes, the fear and depression were so bad that I couldn’t get out of bed and called in sick3. On a few occasions, it was hard to keep composure. I had a pleasant voice on the phone, but I’d slam down my fist on the desk loud enough for my coworkers to notice. Eventually, I stopped going in on time and circumstances eventually led to them having to fire me4.

I’m not proud of that – but it was two decades ago, so I think I can put it behind me. But I also know that as I sat there and heard the HR rep say “we have to let you go,” the biggest feeling in my mind was a relief that I didn’t have to come in the next day. I called my Dad and he, knowing how I’d struggled with that job, said “I think this is probably the best thing for you.”

I went home, put my resume together and planned my next steps. Years of blogging on Xanga had kept my writing active and built a voice, even if that voice was just a bunch of single-dude angst and Ain’t It Cool News-influenced movie reviews. I reached out to some friends at local papers and picked up some advertorial work. I met with one of my professors, who gave me tips on compiling clips and putting together a resume, and popped a bit of my pride by advising me to look at weekly papers instead of dailies. Even as my parents and others advised me that customer service would be my best career bet, I kept my sights set on journalism. I applied, I interviewed, and I got turned down.

About four months into unemployment, I crashed and burned in an interview for a part-time reporter position at a local paper. But my customer service background impressed the HR rep, who asked if she could keep my name in case there were any needs in the circulation department. Instead, she called me two weeks later to tip me off about a full-time position at another weekly. I immediately contacted the editor and sent him my clips and resume. Three weeks later, I had a job offer.

The salary was so low that I had to ask my editor for a calculator in the interview to determine whether I could live on it, but it was one of the happiest days of my life. I left with a start date and the expectation that after a few years in the job world, I was actually embarking on a career as a writer.

It was, to this day, the greatest professional experience I’ve ever had. I worked late covering city council meetings. I showed up at the police station on Monday mornings to check the weekend logs. I covered mayoral races. I wrote about senior citizen artists and talent shows. I went to murder trials. I wrote about boa constrictors, foxes and peacocks that had gotten loose. When our favorite burger joint burned down, I wrote about the fire and the building’s reopening. I climbed a tree in my suit to take pictures of wild ospreys on a hot summer day and then immediately drove to city hall for a one-hour interview with the township supervisor.

As a previously sheltered Baptist boy, I had my views challenged by coworkers who didn’t always share my beliefs. I became close with them and still am today; one of them stood up in my wedding. And because I had to fill up an entire section of the paper, my editors encouraged creativity. I also wrote features so long that I heard our assistant editor swear in his office when he saw the word count5. I dabbled in opinion pieces and columns. I interviewed Joel Osteen in one of the most surreal encounters I’ve ever had. The greatest moment in my career came during a Society of Professional Journalists event when the same professor who’d advised me I was best-suited for weeklies reviewed my updated clips package and told me I was ready to apply to daily papers.

And, of course, in what was probably the most formative part of this career, I was encouraged to play the role of our paper’s film critic. It started about a year into my time at the paper, as I wrote about whatever I had seen over the weekend. Shortly after, my editor got me on the list for press screenings. In an act of great timing, that was also when Detroit was founding its first film critics society, in 2007 – a great year for cinema that included The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Hot Fuzz, No Country For Old Men and There Will Be Blood. Detroit was still a hot spot on the movie press circuit, and I had the opportunity to interview the cast of The Visitor, Diablo Cody and Jason Reitman for Juno, Danny Boyle for Slumdog Millionaire, Rainn Wilson, Luke Brian, and Saoirse Ronan. For a kid who grew up being called Entertainment Tonight by his friends’ parents, it was a dream come true. I planned to eventually move on to a daily paper or a magazine. Maybe I’d even go to New York and write for Entertainment Weekly.

Instead, I went to the Army.

Still playing with words

To this day, I’ve never had as much fun or felt as fulfilled in my work as I did at the paper. But the pay was $10K less than I’d been making at the call center, and I was working a second job at a bookstore just to pay rent (which still didn’t work; when my roommate moved out in 2006, I moved back with my parents for two years). As much as I loved the communities I covered and my coworkers, I knew I’d have to eventually move on. It didn’t help that the company that owned our paper had a habit of slashing budgets, and we’d often show up on Monday wondering whether there would be a padlock on our office doors.

I sent my resume larger papers, including the big ones in Detroit. I mailed clips packages to papers in Tennessee and Virginia, areas I thought it might be fun to live and work. I flew down to Florida one weekend to interview for a writing position in The Villages – I was the runner-up, and I still wonder just what weird adventures would have awaited me. But this was when the end was starting to be in sight for newspapers, and jobs were either drying up or paying a pittance. I was offered a full-time news writing position at a daily paper an hour from my home, but it paid even less than my job at the weekly.

In early 2009, things were getting dire. I’d moved out of my parents’ house and into a nice apartment of my own, but I was barely getting by on salaried work and the part-time job. One winter weekend, the transmission on my car went out. I dropped it at the mechanic across the street from the newspaper and was told it would be $2,500 to fix; I had about $200 in my bank account. That same day, I received a call from a communications agency I’d interviewed with months earlier. I had been told the position was filled, but apparently another had opened up and they wanted to know if I was interested. It paid significantly more than I was making at the paper; coincidentally (or not), I received this offer on Feb. 2, 2009, four years from the day I was fired from Verizon. I went back in, asked my boss if I could borrow the company car while we figured out a solution and gave my two-week notice6.

I went to work as a communications contractor with the Army at a vehicle research base in the Detroit area. Because I was largely writing magazine and newsletter articles, it was a good stepping stone from journalism into marketing. I had a hard time acclimating. After the loose atmosphere of the paper, it was hard to adjust to the strictures of a more corporate office. It was a sometimes very stressful environment and working with Army higher-ups was nerve-wracking. For the first year or two, I was a puddle of anxiety, and I hated it. I felt like I was always on the verge of being fired (although my reviews were good and I was one of only a handful spared from mass layoffs). But after a while, I got into the groove, and I spent two years really enjoying the job. We put out publications I was proud of, I liked my coworkers, I occasionally traveled, and I project managed an award-winning annual report. It was crucial to shaping my thinking as a strategic communicator.

After a few years, an opportunity opened up in the marketing department of the university from which I’d graduated. I’ve been there nearly 13 years – three times as long as I’ve worked anywhere. A few years ago, I left to try something a bit more corporate; it was a horrible fit and after four months I called my old boss to see if I could come back, and I’ve never regretted my decision.

It’s not the paper; nothing ever will be. To be honest, I spent several years wondering whether I had thrown my dreams away. I’ll likely never do full-time journalism again. The media landscape has changed, and for about 10 years after leaving the paper – right up until the start of the pandemic – I wrestled with that. A big part of the reason I got my master’s – besides the fact that it was free as a university employee – was because I thought concentrating on media arts and studies might equip me to be a full-time critic. But that’s not the world in which we live.

But, I have peace with that these days. After all, the promise of starting that reporter position wasn’t because I was driven by passion for journalism or a desire to only cover film. It was because I wanted to be paid to write. And I’ve been blessed to do that for two decades now.

I have a great job, one from which I could very well see myself retiring. I get up every weekday and play with words. I spent this past week writing magazine articles. I craft web copy, emails, advertisements and scripts. Is it always sexy? No. But I’m good at it, I like it, and I get to help other people be better at it. I work for a university, which is much more fun and fulfilling than writing for a business, where the goal would be to make shareholders or CEOs wealthy. I often considered whether I wanted to move up and into higher levels, but the truth is, getting my hands dirty and doing the work is where I’m happiest. Being “just” a writer means I can turn off my computer at 5 p.m. and on the weekend. It’s good work, it supports a cause I believe in, and I’m proud of it.

And it allows me to maintain my creative outlets on the side.I still get to dabble in journalism through some freelance work with a local magazine. I’m proud of this newsletter and thankful for a subscriber base that keeps growing; the past three months, I’ve seen readership skyrocket. I think the work here is some of the best film writing I’ve ever done, and I get to do it on my terms. If I want to write long about a movie, I can write long. If I need a break, I can take one. If I want to write 2,000 words on The Muppets, no one’s stopping me. I’m on the leadership board of a film critics guild, and I don’t have to sacrifice time with my family or obligations at church.

And when it’s time to walk away, I can.

What’s next?

I’m going to be 46 next month. It’s far from old, but it’s also far from the age I was when I first walked into that newspaper office. If I’m blessed, I’m probably about halfway through life – that said, if I made it to 100, I wouldn’t complain. And, that means, I’m also halfway through my career. My parents are on the cusp of 70 and thinking about retirement; I’d like to get there a bit sooner.

I recently read David Brooks’ The Second Mountain, and it got me thinking about shifts I want to make to ensure that I can have a happy and fulfilled back half of life. I’ve already felt my ambitions shift – I’m good at my job and do good work when I’m there, but I’ve started trying harder to keep it “in its box,” as a friend of mine said. I don’t want a funeral filled with co-workers and speeches about my writing. As someone with a tendency for workaholism, I’m trying to set better boundaries. Most things can wait until the next morning (or Monday), and the truth is that it’s usually only me putting the pressure on to solve it immediately. By keeping balance, I’ve been able to focus more on family, faith, friendship, service and hobbies, and I feel peace and happiness that eluded me for years. By keeping work in its right place, it’s made me more focused when I’m there, and actually more invested and happier about what I do; when anxiety isn’t pressing in and you don’t resent it for encroaching on real life, you enjoy it much more.

But just because I keep it in the box doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter. And I’m starting to think more about what I do in the future to keep playing with words. Like I said, I could retire from my job in 20 years and be happy. I’m doing fun, good work. If that’s my future, awesome. But I’ve also wondered if a Ph.D. and possible teaching or research work make up the back half of my career. It’s not a big enough itch to scratch yet – and my wife is about to embark on grad school and my kids will have college soon enough – but I can feel it. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s something. We’ll see.

There’s the continued question about if and how I keep writing about film. About once or twice a year, I wonder if it’s time to hang it up. It takes a lot of time for very little tangible reward. But I’m like my dad, who swore that every year of softball would be his last; I can’t quit it. I love film, and part of loving it, for me, is writing about it. It’s like the C.S. Lewis quote about worship – sometimes, you praise something because you want to share it with others. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t changes I might want to see. I lament during these busy movie seasons that I don’t write about more personal things, and I do dislike that I’ve gotten off the track of writing about faith. So, I’ll occasionally shift and experiment. It’s what I love about having my own platform; this conversation can go anywhere. Right now, I don’t feel any inclination to hang it up and sign off.

While I can definitely see myself retiring, I can’t imagine I’ll ever stop writing. I could see myself late in life picking up freelance gigs to write magazine features. Maybe I’ll finally write that novel or screenplay. I’ve talked with my wife – who was also a community reporter once upon a time – about the dire state of local news, and we’ve pondered whether there’s a grassroots approach in the future where we could use platforms like Substack to keep our communities informed. Maybe we’ll be those old folks at city council meetings, taking notes and then writing it all up for our neighbors to read. Writing is like oxygen to me; I can’t exist without it. It’s not just how I communicate to others – it’s how I process things and learn what I think. And I’m very blessed to have done this for 20 years in some fashion; here’s to at least 20 more.