When Fiction Gets Too Fucking Real
I started revising a story in Undertow because I'd written something that was a little too close to reality and not nearly fictional enough. So I decided to explore what could have happened instead of what actually did. That led me down a rabbit hole researching what happens to transgender women in New Mexico's criminal justice system. And holy fucking hell. What started as an exercise in creative writing turned into something deeply personal, frightening, and infuriating. Sometimes fiction forces you to confront realities you'd rather not think about.
What the Fuck Am I Trying to Say?
I'm finally getting serious about publishing Undertow, my collection of short stories. But somewhere between thinking about cover art and waiting for my fucking omelet, I started questioning what the collection actually says. These stories are fictionalized versions of very real experiences from my life as a transgender woman. They're painful, uncomfortable, and not particularly happy. But does a collection need a happy ending to have meaning? After dying three times in 2022 and nearly dying again in a motorcycle crash in 2025, I've become obsessed with impact and legacy. I'm not writing simply to publish another book. I'm writing because I need my life, and my words, to fucking matter.
The Final Chapter
My day job woke me up. My writing career kept me awake. Somewhere between midnight emails, publishing expenses, Undertow, and another book I haven’t fucking written yet, I realized writing isn’t just something I’m doing. It’s what I intend to carry with me to the final door.
We Wanted R2-D2. We Built Fucking C-3PO.
We spent decades imagining artificial intelligence as R2-D2: the competent little machine that quietly rolls over, plugs into the problem, saves everybody’s ass, and shuts the fuck up. Instead, we built C-3PO, a know-it-all that desperately wants to explain everything. George tried to fucking warn us.
Thanks for the Material, Asshole
The danger of putting your work into the world is that everybody has a fucking mouth, and the internet gave everybody balls. One anonymous asshole decided to make fun of a tooth I’m still dealing with after nearly dying in a motorcycle crash. Unfortunately for him, he picked on a fucking writer.
Dear MS Copilot, I Can Fucking Write
I’m fucking Gen X. I learned to write by hand, type on an actual typewriter, build an outline, stare at a blank page, fuck it up, crumple it up, and start again. AI can be an incredibly useful tool, but I’m not convinced we should outsource the basic human ability to take a thought out of our own heads and turn it into a fucking sentence.
Apparently, I’m an Author Now
I fucking hate marketing. I hate self-promotion. But apparently, somewhere between making sell sheets, sending books to festivals, volunteering at booths, and planning a motorcycle trip to Tucson around a fucking book festival, something changed. I finally stopped treating writing like something I do and started accepting that being an author is part of who I am.
Cosmic Voicemail
I haven’t written much this week, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped. If anything, I’m more convinced than ever that the words matter. I survived cardiac arrests, a motorcycle crash, and enough reminders that tomorrow isn’t fucking promised. So I’m writing like I’m leaving a cosmic voicemail behind.
The Algorithm Was Clearly Written by Men
ChatGPT keeps trying to murder the American paragraph. When I finally called it out, the resulting conversation was fucking hilarious, and inadvertently proved that artificial intelligence has mastered another distinctly human skill: admitting you’re right without ever actually apologizing.
Show the Fuck Up
Writing is as important to my soul as riding. But if I’m serious about making it as a writer, inspiration isn’t enough. Eventually, I have to quit fucking around, open the manuscript, and do the fucking work.
No, You Don't Get a Comment Section
You are completely free to disagree with me. You're free to complain about me, tell your friends I'm an asshole, or buy a domain and write an entire fucking dissertation explaining why I'm wrong. I'll defend your freedom to do it. What you're not entitled to is space on my website to do it. I paid for my little corner of the internet. I built it. I fill it with my words. And I'll decide what fucking goes there.
Apparently, I'm a Victim Now
Apparently, writing about shitty things that happen to you means you've embraced a victimhood mentality. Except there's a pretty fucking important difference between acknowledging what happened and surrendering your agency because it happened. Sometimes you're a victim of circumstance. Sometimes somebody genuinely does something shitty to you. That's where the story begins. What you do next is the part that matters.
The Guy Code
There are rules among men that nobody ever writes down, but everyone seems to understand. Veterans, bikers, and blue-collar guys have a habit of testing each other with sarcasm, insults, and relentless ribbing. As a transgender veteran, I don't always know which set of social rules I'm about to be judged by. Last weekend reminded me that sometimes the hardest part isn't surviving the test, it's explaining to the people you love why the test existed in the first place.
Forever
Sometimes the people who think they know your story know the least about it. While searching for what might become our forever home, an unexpected text dredged up old assumptions, old accusations, and old ghosts. Instead of reminding me of the past, though, it reminded me just how far Dawna and I have come, and how lucky I am to be building a future with the woman I love.
My Life. My Rules.
A mortgage application isn't really about buying a house. At least, not for me. It's about finally choosing to build the life I want instead of the life everyone else thinks I should have. Almost dying has a way of clarifying things. I'm done waiting for retirement to start living. The life I want begins now.
Three Things
Sometimes life has a funny way of reminding you what actually matters.
I thought I was leaving for Colorado on one motorcycle. Instead, a text message changed the entire weekend. Nyx was ready. The repairs were finished. The upgrades were done. And somewhere between picking up my bike and twisting the throttle for the first time, I realized my life had quietly become much simpler than I ever imagined.
There are only three things that truly matter anymore.
I Came Back
You spend years building a career, convinced that one day you'll finally earn a seat at the table. Then one morning you realize you've been standing outside the conference room the whole time.
I left an organization years ago because I believed it had become a good old boys club. Fifteen years later, I came back believing it had changed. This is the story of what happens when the place you wanted to finish your career starts feeling painfully familiar again.
Artificial Intelligence, My Ass
I spent forty-five minutes arguing with an artificial intelligence about my writing, only to discover that the thing computers have been good at for eighty years, counting characters, was apparently too much to ask. If I wanted confidently wrong answers, I already know plenty of humans.
A Healer’s Words
For years, Kerry has been helping put my body back together. Now she's telling me that my words might help put someone else's spirit back together. That's a humbling thing to hear from someone who has dedicated her life to helping others heal.