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.
The Reaper’s Kiss
There’s a difference between watching somebody face death and being the person staring through the fucking door. Once you’ve crossed that threshold and somehow come back, mortality stops being an idea. Tomorrow isn’t promised. You know that in your fucking bones.
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.