I’ve been writing fiction quietly for a while now—collecting the kinds of stories that refuse to be ignored and occasionally tapping me on the shoulder like, hi, still here.

Right now, I’m querying my debut novel, Blender. It’s about a girl engineered to be extraordinary who starts to suspect her body may have come with a built-in expiration date. On the surface, it’s a YA biotech thriller, but underneath it’s really about identity, control, and the inconvenient reality that your greatest strength might also be your biggest design flaw.

Before all this, I was a pediatric cardiothoracic ICU nurse, which means I’ve spent a lot of time watching the human body do unbelievable things under pressure—and sometimes not. That tends to sneak into my writing, whether I plan for it or not.

These days, I’m an editor for a nursing journal, so I spend a lot of time thinking about words—how they work, where they break, and how to make them behave. Fiction, unsurprisingly, is a little less cooperative.

Here, I’ll share:
– occasional dispatches from the querying void
– small pieces of what I’m working on
– thoughts I can’t quite leave alone

Not often. Not loudly. Slightly unpredictably.