literary fiction writer. sometimes essays. occasionally the space between.

i write about inherited silence-and the people who break it. about love as archaeological practice: careful excavation, patient brushwork, the terror of finding exactly what you came for. about families who hand down trauma like heirloom jewelry nobody wants and everyone wears.

current work: how memory becomes mythology; how tenderness survives translation; why certain sentences permanently restructure your breathing. i'm interested in the exact moment comfort becomes complicity. the temperature where hope crystallizes into delusion. the specific gravity of grief.

writing happens between midnight and dawn in atlanta, though the scandinavian blood keeps different time. a belgian malinois posts sentry; the neighborhood cats arbitrate distance-necessary gaps, chosen proximity.

influences: pessoa's heteronyms arguing in the margins. tokarczuk's tenderness toward the monstrous. rilke's solitude as method. dostoyevsky's fever logic. benjamin's angel backing into the future. baldwin's unflinching gaze. the particular silence after "i need to tell you something."

currently: a novel about three generations of women navigating the gap between survival and living. stories that map what we inherit versus what we choose. essays on the erotics of grief, the syntax of trauma, the kinds of love that require footnotes.

here for readers who know technical mastery is the price of emotional precision. every sentence is a choice. the best writing leaves you slightly more haunted-not by what it says, but by what it reveals you already knew.