I write strange fiction about grief, memory, loss, and the slow disintegration of people who pretended they were okay for so long they forgot they weren’t.

I’m easily upset — a paperweight, a strange noise, a chipped tooth — and then I spiral into talking too much.

So far, I’ve written Stuff and Notown. Stuff is about ghosts, trauma, and broken love. Notown is about the friends I never replaced.

Doctors say I’m clinically depressed. I’ve tried therapy, antidepressants, and walking it off. Nothing helps. Could be my fault. 

I can’t fix anything. But maybe I can distract you before you tighten the noose.

If any of this resonates, there’s more in the books. Or the dispatches. Or maybe just between the cushions of an old sofa.