My works 

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I never anticipated what these books would grow into. What began as little more than a whim gradually unveiled itself as a journey far more profound, raw, and life-altering than anything I could have foreseen.

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As the stories unfolded, I began to understand that Ms. Diva wasn’t just some character I’d conjured she was me, a buried, suffocated part of me clawing her way to the surface. She had been entombed beneath decades of judgment, desperate survival, raw longing, devastating loss, and willful forgetting. With every chapter, every scene, every sentence I wrenched from the depths, I wasn’t merely writing her, I was resurrecting her. No...I was resurrecting myself. I was becoming the woman I had always been beneath the wreckage, the woman who refused to die. Every character burning through these pages is another shard of my fractured soul, another voice screaming to be heard.

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That is what these books came to mean for me though I still wake at 3 AM wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake. They became a way to excavate myself, even as I feared what I might unearth. To recover language for feelings I had not been able to name, and sometimes wished I could forget again. To reclaim all of myself—the beautiful and the monstrous through pleasure that sometimes felt like betrayal, agency that terrified me, hunger that shamed me, tenderness I didn’t believe I deserved. In writing these stories, I was not escaping my life, though God knows I wanted to. I was meeting it. I was learning to cherish myself by creating something that allowed me to feel what had once been inaccessible to me, even when every instinct screamed to run.

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I offer these books, then, as a companion to those who stand where I’ve stood knee-deep in their own wreckage, gathering fragments that cut their fingers as they work. To the woman who writes poems between shifts, who sings lullabies through tears, who stitches together scraps of herself while the house sleeps. To her who has begun, perhaps just yesterday, to wonder if the cracks running through her life might let in light rather than simply mark what’s broken.

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Should you find in these pages an invitation to descend beneath the surface of your life, to name desires you’ve hidden even from yourself, to reclaim what you’ve surrendered then I’ve done what I set out to do.

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In writing her story, I became her. Or rather, I became myself. And there lies the real beginning of these books, not in some moment of inspiration, but in the slow, painful birth of a woman who refused to remain buried.