Writing didn’t arrive gentle. It came to me in the demands of a hungry beast that’s lurked in my soul for as long as I can remember.
Mrs. Wineburg, my junior high English teacher, treated early scribblings like they mattered. She taught me to love the language, not just use it. Three close friends — also writers — sharpened my voice. We made each other better.
I believe many writers never scared themselves or pissed anyone off. I’m drawn to stories that expose the lie beneath the gesture, the tale behind the kiss. Not because I lived it — because I recognized its shape everywhere. I bypass tidy catharsis for moments that crack to let the truth slip through.
I write through the viewfinder with an instinct for the cut. A background in cinematography and editing taught me how performance, frame and rhythm either betray or enhance cinematic intention. I embrace silences and the electricity of space.