Writer, fighter, bigot-smiter, romancer, dancer, necromancer — I’m the broad your mama warned you about, sweet as pie one day, the devil’s own handmaiden the next. As to the rumor that I’m the love child of William S. Burroughs and Sylvia Plath, I’ll neither confirm nor deny.

I wrote my first short story at ten — a pulpy little adventure that convinced me words could bend reality — and I’ve been chasing that magic ever since. Some of my stories landed in local papers and scholastic magazines; others, my mother loved so much she had them bronzed. From there, I’ve written just about everything under the sun: advertising copy that made CEOs blush, political speeches that made senators sound almost human, screenplays that almost got made, and novels that did.

My work wanders the map — one day it’s a gritty psychological thriller, the next it’s an erotic romance or a speculative fever dream. Genre, for me, is just another dance floor. I follow wherever the music takes me.

I believe in stories that make you feel something — lust, fear, laughter, rage, or recognition. The best ones, like the best people, leave a mark. So I keep writing, not for fame or fortune, but because it’s the only alchemy I’ve ever trusted: turning life, heartbreak, and chaos into words that bite back.