Plot twist: I’m not actually a fiction writer.

I thought I was. I wrote multiple novels. I created tragic characters, gave them complicated pasts, and sprinkled trauma on them like I was seasoning a roast. But then I finished my first nonfiction book and had an uncomfortable realization:

I don’t actually like making stuff up.

Every time I sat down to write fiction, I’d accidentally turn it into a therapy session. I’d be two chapters into a suspense plot, and suddenly someone’s inner child was getting validated and learning about the vagus nerve. 

It got weird.

Apparently, I’m not great at creating fictional chaos. Real-life chaos? Nailed it. But inventing it from scratch? Exhausting.

I don’t want to create chaos for fake people. I want to help real ones crawl out of it. Using actual science, psychology, trauma work, and the unfortunate amount of life experience I never asked for but now get to monetize.

Also: I was never really in fiction. I was squatting there. I started writing it during a grief spiral and fiction was the emotional Airbnb I booked when life imploded. But now? I want to live in my own house. With working plumbing and less metaphorical mold.

So it’s time for a pivot. (Read that again, but like Ross Geller)  I’m writing nonfiction now. Real stuff. Helpful stuff. The kind of stuff you Google at 2am when you’re spiraling but pretending you’re just “researching.”

And the fiction? It’s not going in the shredder. I’m turning it into bite-sized projects I’ll release independently. Like tapas but with murder and emotional baggage.

Going forward, expect content about trauma, healing, psychology, cold cases, writing, and probably some random thoughts about life at almost-50. Because apparently, this is when people figure out what they actually want to do when they grow up.

If it ever sounds like I’m losing my mind, don’t worry, I already did. I’m handling it well. 😏

Thanks for sticking around while I fumbled my way into doing what I was actually supposed to be doing. Took me a while, but here we are. Slightly disheveled, but with purpose.