I’ve always been drawn to creating things—music, sketches, photos, splashes of color and sound—but writing? That one snuck up on me.

I didn’t grow up thinking I’d be a writer. I didn’t carry a journal or dream of publishing a book. But over the years, I started noticing little stories piling up—between mariachi gigs, painting sessions, and school lunch duties. Not all of them fit in a sketchbook. Some of them needed words. This is how writing found its way into my life—quietly, unexpectedly, but with purpose.

I don’t think of myself as a writer—not in the traditional sense. I didn’t grow up filling journals or dreaming of novels. But I’ve always had ideas, and I’ve always had stories floating around in me. I just told them differently.

Sometimes I’d jot down a quick note in my sketchbook. Other times, I’d send myself an email with an idea—something that popped into my head during lunch supervision or at a high school football game. Even during leadership meetings. (I am paying attention, I promise.)

On weekends, I play mariachi music. Some gigs are fancy, some humble. Weddings, baptisms, quinceañeras, even the occasional backyard cookout with someone’s dog howling along. It’s not just music—it’s memory. You’re helping mark a moment in someone’s life. Some day they will tell that experience as a story.

In between that and the work week, I find time to paint, draw, or sneak off with my camera. A streak of rust on a tin roof. A woman selling tamales from a cooler in the back of a van. A row of boots left outside a trailer door. Or a sprinkler, popping out of the earth with a crown of grass chilling on its head. Behold the Lawn King. Sprung from the spray, crowned by chlorophyll—the monarch of Sprinkler Island and sovereign of soggy kingdoms.

These are the images that catch my eye. That stay with me. These are stories in the making.

But lately, I’ve started thinking—some stories don’t quite fit into a song, or a photo, or even a sketch. Some stories linger. They want more room. They want to be written… and told.

Not long ago, I started playing around with words—just little things. A paragraph about the pile of wood my dad keeps around “just in case” (years go by, and it just gets shuffled and restacked). A memory of my first time on stage, sweating under a big sombrero, holding a trumpet too nervously to play. A quiet morning in Calexico when the light made everything look like a painting.

And in writing those down, I felt something shift. Like I was opening up another window. Another way for me to tell a story.

Backtracking a little—about twenty years ago, when I was teaching writing, I’d tell my students that writing is like sitting around the family lumbrada. That’s how my family passed down history: through stories. Stories about “back in the day.” And it hit me—those stories need to be told. And maybe, just maybe, I’m the one to tell them.

These days, my work as a high school administrator doesn’t leave much time for writing. So I started blogging. That seemed like the most realistic way to get thoughts down and out into the world. Blogging can feel a bit lonely when no one’s reading—but every now and then, someone tosses you a like, or a nugget of feedback.

Let’s be honest: my blog sucked. It became a dumping ground for half-baked thoughts—undeveloped, unorganized, sometimes incoherent to everyone but me. Mostly random observations about teaching or world events.

But I was writing.

And recently, something clicked. I started finding rhythm in the words. And even if my writing time is fleeting—five minutes here, two minutes there, a half-hour in the middle of the night—it’s producing little bits of clarity.

As a teacher, I made sure my students wrote every single day. It didn’t matter what subject, or how much. What mattered was the act itself—showing up to the page. Every class began the same way: a writing prompt on the board, and five uninterrupted minutes to write. No concern for spelling, grammar, or punctuation. Just write.

The only rule? Keep writing until the timer went off.
And to make sure they bought in, I wrote with them.

The goal wasn’t perfection. It was fluency. Treating writing as a practice, not a performance. Just like musicians rehearse scales and athletes build muscle memory, writers need to write freely and often to find their voice.

In art school, I had a drill-sergeant of a teacher. Her favorite form of torture was dragging us to the local shopping center with sketchbooks in hand. “Go find a spot. Observe people. Get your burns in.”

Burns were 30-second, full-page sketches of people going about their business. The goal wasn’t precision—it was presence. Just capture what you could and move on. We only did it for 15 minutes, but in that short window, you could crank out a surprising number of pages. Back in class, we’d flip through a few, get feedback, and then choose one to refine into a polished piece.

That’s what my writing routine has become.

When time permits, I revisit my quick writes. When one resonates, I work it into something fuller. Sometimes, a blog post worth sharing emerges. Sometimes, a narrative begins to take shape.

Does this make me a writer?
That guy in the mirror says no.

For me, writing is just another form of expression. A creative outlet that extends what I do with music, art, and photography. They’re all connected.

So no, I don’t call myself a writer. But I write.
Not because I have to. But because some stories don’t leave me alone until I find the words.

If you ask me what inspires me, I’ll tell you: life does. The details, the quiet moments, the music and light and laughter.

And if you ask what it takes to be a writer, I’ll be honest—I don’t really know.

But the creative in me says this: do your thing.
If art moves you, draw.
If music stirs you, play.
And if a story taps you on the shoulder, sit down… and write it.

I write the way I play mariachi on weekends, or snap photos of rusted signs and lone palm trees—because it helps me hold on to something fleeting.

Some stories don’t sit still.
They tap.
They hum.
They wait.

And if you’re lucky enough to catch one, you owe it to yourself to listen—and maybe even tell it.