Hello, reader.

We’ll keep this section pretty short and get right to the point. 

When I was six, my teacher wanted to hold me back a grade because I was struggling to read. My mother rolled up her sleeves, puffed out her chest, and prepared to get me whipped into shape over the summer. No child of hers was being held back a year – it was unthinkable!

After a couple weeks of trial and error we made a terrible discovery.

I didn’t have trouble reading at all. Evidently I looked my mother straight in the eye, wrinkled my nose, and told her ‘I don’t want to read those books. They’re booooring.’ I have no memory of this, but she swears it’s true. Thus diagnosed with chronic little-shit-ism, I proceeded to white-knuckle Thomas Locker’s Water Dance, Ursula Le Guin’s Catwings, and set up my personal altar to The Boxcar Children. I was blessed with a vivid imagination, the sort that turns pool noodles into lightsabers and molehills into monsters. 

Unfortunately, somewhere in the Satanic Panic of the 90s, my literary passion got lost and my mother forgot the lesson. 

Harry Potter turned you into a witch. Dungeons and Dragons taught you to summon demons. The names of Pokémon were actually dark and ancient gods. (JIGGLYPUFF R’LEYH WGAH’NAGL FHTAGN!) I remained safe from all these dangers – and also completely disinterested in the literature being bandied to me as alternatives. I never had issue with reading comprehension, but I certainly didn’t consider it a hobby of mine. 

Then, when I was fourteen, we read The Illustrated Man in school. I chewed through it in one night. I couldn’t wait to get to English class so I could talk about it. I still remember the story of the man on Venus, wandering helplessly through a world soaked by rain and bled of color. The imagery of his friends giving up and dying as they stared up into the sky was haunting in the best way: that toothless fear of watching a thriller from the comfort of your couch. I spent every afternoon after class stealing snippets in the library before one of my folks came to pick me up. It may sound silly that I viewed sneaking peeks at science fiction and fantasy as somehow taboo or illicit, but that was definitely the idea. I graduated to renting them out and hiding them in my backpack, emulating the cliché of a kid under the covers with a flashlight and a novel. 

One day, my mother found one of my books. When she held it in her hand, I could see all the portals to my other worlds winking shut. 

The dramatic showdown went as follows.

‘What’s this?’

‘Just some story, mom.’

‘Oh, alright. I’m glad you’re reading!’

So it turned out that as long as some hell-happy preacher didn’t expressly forbid a title, my mother didn’t care about it. Harry Potter was of the devil, but my folks spent their evenings secretly watching Charmed. Don’t ask me how any of that makes sense, but I didn’t care about the logic. I proceeded to spend a grand old time exploiting this bizarre loophole. I googled whatever the evangelical talking heads had worked themselves into a froth over and designated them strictly to after-school-library time. Everything else I could enjoy in the open, without a care of consequences from the authorities. 


I can’t say at what point I decided I wanted to try my hand at creating the stories I loved. I think it came from a fanciful notion of my words being the ones to draw other kids through their respective portals and setting imaginations on fire. I wanted to be the person that helped somebody like me realize the vastness and color that the world could hold, even if it was ‘just fiction.’ I credit those books to expanding my horizons, to making me more well-rounded, to opening my mind to rich cultural diversity and strong, capable female characters that revealed I could strive for anything I wanted and more. 

I’m certainly not a kid anymore. Thankfully the reading has stuck with me – I have a more diversified palette now, which I count as a great thing. The writing has evolved, but the goal remains the same. I don’t have fanciful expectations of becoming one of the greats, but I figure if I manage to capture even one person’s attention and help give their thoughts some wings, I’ll be content with that. 

Welcome to my website, dear reader. I hope you enjoy what you see. 

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