​I am a pretty private person, more of an avid listener and observer than a verbal sharer, but in my writing, I am walking the world buck naked for all to read. I’ve had a library’s worth of books in my head since I was fourteen—ideas and words swirling in pandemonium, torn pages, burned edges, cursive pencil scribblings, poem after poem, and incomplete thoughts hidden in dozens of notebooks. For two decades, nothing really made much sense, but I kept writing. A few years ago, I started to become legible to myself. The chaos began to settle into clear collections of essays and stories. Today, I am writing those books.