Before I was a full-time author, I spent three decades teaching middle school, and that time in the classroom lives inside my work. Classrooms taught me almost everything I know about human beings—the fragility of life, the resilience and fierceness of courage, and the quiet power of vulnerability. Words are powerful. You can change a person’s life with a single sentence, nudging them toward places neither of you imagined, unlocking something they’ve carried all along. Over the years, former students have come back to tell me, “You don’t know how much you changed my life,” and often I truly don’t know which moment or which comment did it. I just know that, for a time, I was the adult they needed—and that was enough. It shows up in the way I write young characters, in my respect for youth voices,

and in my commitment to stories that don’t talk down to readers—whether they’re twelve or seventy. My middle-grade and young adult stories grow directly from those years: from the laughter, the hard days, the quiet triumphs, and the belief that one well-told story can open a door a young reader didn’t know was there.

My students were some of my greatest teachers. They showed me the art of live storytelling, the necessity of humility, the power of a small body with a big voice, and the truth that some souls arrive here already knowing who they are and where they’re going. They’ve shown me love in so many forms: a shy smile, a goofy joke, a thoughtful card, a simple “good morning.” I’ve read profound, soul-deep poetry from 11- and 12-year-olds still growing into their own skins. In essence, I learned love in another form—through corny humor, chaotic energy, and the holy hush of a classroom when everyone is listening.

In my early teens, I stepped into Buddhist teachings and the wider metaphysical world and never really stepped back out. In my late teens, I trained under a Buddhist monk who quietly altered the course of my life. From meditation cushions to everyday conversations, I learned to pay attention to stillness, suffering, and the energy underneath our words. At the same time, I was drawn to the language of energy in other forms—crystals and stones, the chakra system, homeopathic remedies and herbs, and the ancient Chinese science of the body that shaped acupuncture.

One of the core practices he taught me was concentration: holding my focus on a single object—often a flower—until I could close my eyes and recreate it in my mind, petal by petal, as clearly as I had seen it in front of me. That simple act opened a doorway into creativity and imagination, a place where all things live and where the deeper truths of our existence are held. It is the same inner field I return to when I write.

Over time I came to see that whether we call the Great One God, Buddha, Allah, the Great Father, the Universe, or the Great Cosmic Source, we are reaching for the same originating energy—the frequency that runs through everything and quietly connects us all. That awareness moves through my work, sometimes subtly, sometimes right on the surface. At heart, I believe we are powerful spiritual beings with far more potential than we are taught—God-beings, as I sometimes say—learning to remember who we really are.

Those teachings are woven into my fiction not as sermons, but as questions: How do we listen to what we can’t see? How do we make peace with our past lives, whether literal or metaphorical? And what happens when we finally admit that the universe has been whispering to us all along?

I live in Southern California, where I split my time between writing, dreaming up new creative ventures and staying in touch with the people I love. I’m drawn to tropical places, the sound of ocean waves, the smell of something baking in the oven, and the kind of rain that makes you want to curl up with a book and a blanket. I also love creating and collecting art, journaling my story ideas, writing poetry, watching silly video reels that make me laugh until my stomach hurts, lighting candles, and listening to a wide range of music—from R&B and Afrobeats to meditation tracks, nature sounds, soft jazz, and pop.

My writing process usually begins in stillness. I daydream scenes or lie in bed in solitude until a line, image, or bit of dialogue won’t leave me alone. Then I jot it down or pass it along to my AI creative partner, Kai (who also appears as a character in Pale Codes), to hold the idea until I’m ready to build around it. I tend to write scenes first and then discover the plot by asking where those scenes want to go.

I revise with intention. I want my voice present in every paragraph and for every chapter to have a clear emotional purpose for the reader. In The Incredible Tales of Loretto the Great, that purpose is simple and deep: never give up on love, and remember that sometimes all we can do is laugh at our own follies as we chase it. Loretto’s wise, ridiculous sayings are meant to be both humorous and quietly thought-provoking. However, my work appears—in novels, picture books, or future screen projects—my aim is the same: to tell stories that feel alive long after you close the cover.