I didn’t always know what I wanted to do with my life—except that I genuinely loved being an aircraft mechanic. I love working with my hands, solving problems, fixing what was broken. But writing wasn’t something I planned. It started with one offhand comment to my husband: “I think I’m going to write a book.”

And just like that, everything changed.

I fell headfirst into storytelling. Into the joy of creating something from nothing, of pulling threads together and watching the pieces fall into place like a puzzle. Writing became the place where everything I felt finally had somewhere to go. It's where my imagination, my curiosity, and my need to make sense of the world came together. Every book I write is a piece of me, and every reader who connects with it makes that piece whole.

I’ve been known to get lost in my own plot twists, write emotional scenes that ruin me, and stare dramatically out windows like I’m in a fantasy novel myself. But at the end of the day, I write because I love it. Even when it keeps me up at night whispering, “just one more line.”

When I’m not writing, you’ll probably find me curled up with a cup of tea and my cats, crocheting something unnecessarily ambitious, or shamelessly bribing my husband to beta read just one more chapter. I love rainy days more than sunny ones, and stories that make me lose track of time.