Why I Write
I write about the ugly parts of love. The price of it. The things that are not pretty and were never meant to be.
Not because I love darkness for its own sake — but because I have never trusted a story that looks away. The polished versions lie a little. Everyone knows it. We nod along to the tidy endings and keep our real lives hidden somewhere beneath them.
I am drawn to human tragedy because tragedy is where people become most human. Grief does not perform. Obsession does not flatter. Shame keeps telling the truth long after composure has learned to smile. When life leaves its marks in us, it also leaves the truest record of who we are — and of who we become afterward.
So that is what I write: the stories we survive but rarely speak about. Love as something that can save and consume. The quiet violence that hides behind care. The people we become when life sets its marks in us — softer in some places, sharper in others, and never quite who we were before.
If my books hurt, it is because they are honest.
If they stay with you, it is because some part of you already knew.
I write for that part.
A Girl Made of Elsewhere
A lyrical memoir about loneliness, imagination, and why I have always been drawn to the dark. I write of sorrow, ruin, longing, and the broken places in people — not because I wish to remain there, but because I have always needed to understand what survives beneath them.
A reflection on childhood solitude, invisible wounds, and the inner worlds that became both refuge and voice. Tender, haunting, and deeply personal — a story about turning pain into language, and finding beauty in the places I once thought I would not survive.