I didn’t set out to become an author. I set out to handle life, which turned out to be a full-time job with terrible management and no instruction manual.

Meanwhile, stories kept showing up uninvited.

They arrived as strange ideas, impossible scenarios, half-formed characters, and questions that refused to leave me alone. What if a goblin moved into a suburban neighborhood? What if a haunted house had emotional baggage? What if a superhero was completely useless? What if two scientists fell in love while trying to understand the universe?

Most people would probably have these thoughts and then continue folding laundry.

I wrote books.

A lot of books.

More than thirty of them in less than two years, which is either evidence of remarkable dedication or a symptom that should probably be discussed with a medical professional.

Along the way, life threw a few plot twists of its own.

There were victories and setbacks. There were moments when everything seemed to be working and moments when it felt like the universe had accidentally misplaced the instruction manual. There was even a traumatic brain injury that changed my life overnight and forced me to rethink who I was, who I wanted to become, and how to keep moving forward when the road suddenly looked nothing like the map I’d been following.

That experience taught me something important.

Nothing is guaranteed.

Not time.

Not health.

Not tomorrow.

If you’re going to create something, create it now.

So I did.

I built an independent publishing company. I learned cover design, formatting, marketing, websites, advertising, crowdfunding, and approximately eight hundred other skills that nobody warns you you’ll need when you decide to become an author.

I made mistakes.

Spectacular mistakes.

The kind of mistakes that make excellent stories later.

And through it all, I kept writing.

Some of my books are romantic. Some are emotional. Some are strange. Some are deeply weird. A few are all of those things simultaneously.

What connects them isn’t genre.

It’s curiosity.

I’m fascinated by people. By relationships. By the ridiculous ways we stumble through life trying to find meaning, connection, love, purpose, or at the very least a reasonably functional coping mechanism.

That’s why my stories are often funny.

Not because life is easy.

Because life is hard.

Humor is how we survive it.

Today, I write from Colorado, where I live with my husband, my family, an ever-growing collection of story ideas, and what I can only assume is a permanent state of creative chaos.

I publish through Grayschens Press. I write books that range from heartfelt to hilarious, romantic to ridiculous, and occasionally all of the above at once.

Mostly, though, I tell stories for people who feel a little out of place in the world.

People who appreciate intelligence without pretension.

People who believe that wonder and absurdity can comfortably occupy the same sentence.

People who aren’t afraid to laugh at themselves.

Because if I’ve learned anything from this journey, it’s that life is far too strange to take seriously all the time.

The stories we tell—and the ones we choose to laugh through—are often what carry us across the strangest chapters.

And in the end, the weirdest stories are usually the true ones, which means reality has been quietly outdoing fiction all along.