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.