In the Margins

I wrote three books. That still feels strange to say out loud. For so long, writing a novel was just something that lived in the back of my mind—somewhere between everyday life, responsibilities, and the constant thought of “maybe someday.” And then somehow… someday happened. Three times. And now I’m sitting here, staring at them, wondering what comes next. Because no one really talks about this part. The part where the writing is done, but everything still feels uncertain. W

I don’t write soft, easy love stories. Not because I don’t believe in them—but because the ones that stay with me… the ones I think about long after I close the book… are never the easy ones. They’re messy. Complicated. A little broken in places. They’re the kind of love that makes you question everything. The kind that pulls you in, pushes you away, and somehow still refuses to let go. Because that’s real, isn’t it? Love isn’t always gentle. It doesn’t always come wrapped in

I probably shouldn’t admit this… but I like fictional people more than real ones most days. There’s just something about them. They’re intense, complicated, a little broken in all the right ways—and somehow, they make more sense than reality ever does. They feel everything deeply, say the things most people won’t, and live in a world where emotions actually matter. And maybe that says more about me than I’d like to admit. I’ve always been drawn to stories that don’t feel easy