I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember.
My grandmother read to me when I was very young, and I think that’s where it started. Stories were like the air I breathed, a fundamental part of life. I was always a bit ahead of my peers in vocabulary, especially back then.
In kindergarten we rotated through different stations during the day: Play-Doh, reading, and a computer station with those old IBM DOS machines and floppy disks. Of course they had names like Duck Station and Bear Station, which felt incredibly exciting to us at the time.
But the station I loved was the typewriter.
Every chance I got, I sat down and started typing stories. Then I’d share them with my grandparents when they came to pick me up.
I loved it so much that my mother eventually got me a typewriter at home so I could keep doing it there. I would tear pages out of a top-bound lined writing pad, cram them into a Fisher-Price typewriter, and hammer out infantile, naïve worlds as true to reality as a six-year-old could manage.
As soon as I could read, I understood what stories could do.
Books like Harry Potter, Sideways Stories from Wayside School, and Artemis Fowl ignited my imagination. Those authors built entire worlds you could step into for a while. They showed me that words weren’t just markings on a page. They were magic invocations that could make the unreal feel real, if only for a little while.
What they created made my childhood bigger and fuller in a way that’s hard even for me to put to words.
Very early on, I knew I wanted to do the same thing. To give that same gift to others.
Not necessarily for children. That’s not what I write now, but I wanted to create the same feeling: that moment where a story opens a door into another place. Someplace that feels more real than the world the book lets you escape for a moment. A place where you can sit the weight down for a while.
At this point writing doesn’t really feel optional.
It feels more like duty. And discovery.
Stories show up as fragments of thoughts, unbidden names, places, or strange ideas that refuse to quit pestering me until I pull on the thread and find out what it’s attached to.
So I write them down.
Sometimes they become novels. Sometimes they wind up as a balled-up scrap of paper in the trash. But the process is always the same: something appears, and I go looking for the rest of it.
This site is where I keep track of that process.