When I was a wee person, I wrote all the time. There are probably still pages and pages of stories packed away somewhere, penciled in childish letters onto paper torn from one of those tablets with the racist name that we all had as 80s kids. In the 3rd grade, I entered a Thanksgiving short story contest and I WON! My prize was a pin in the shape of a turkey and it made gobbling noises. It was the coolest thing ever and I knew it meant that I was destined to be a famous author.

We all see how that turned out.

I never really stopped writing, exactly; I mostly stopped sharing. I had some stuff published in my high school’s literary magazine, and won second place in a short fiction contest in college ($50! woohoo!), but I never really went anywhere with it. Life happened, and between moving and pets and getting married and having a kid and more moving and more pets…putting words on paper (metaphorically: after all, it’s the 21st century) wasn’t a priority.

That could have been the end. Depending on what you think of my work, some of y’all probably wish it had been the end. However, a couple of events occurred that led to where we are now: I turned 40 and I started taking brain pills. Not at the same time, mind. In fact, I started meds for anxiety and depression months before my birthday. But between the two, they were the ass kicking I needed.

With my crazy at least somewhat controlled, stuff didn’t get under my skin quite as much. And since hitting that arbitrary age milestone, I’ve found myself with fewer and fewer fucks to give when it comes to what other people think about how I live my life. And that is how I became the intermittently happy, relatively healthy nonbinary disaster bisexual wrecking ball I am today.

My goal is to give you all the trashy queer superhero romance, smutty sci-fi, and gay af miscellany your little heart desires.