I’ve always had a fascination with saving people, ever since I was a young parasite, no taller than the desk I work at now. This obsession started with saving the streets from litter bugs, and forcing my mother to head out with large trash bags and gloves scouring the roads, saving them from gross dirty things like used cans and food wrappers. Then progressed into wearing nurse scrubs as a Halloween costume, hoping one day to save people as a doctor. I soon realized that poking people with scalpels and needles felt like torture to help them, it’s a dirty job and someone had to do it, but that someone wasn’t going to be me.
So all my saving happened in my dreams, in my head, on paper, and in my stories. So I created my alter ego, a writer who used powerful, yet vulnerable, anti-heroes to save the world one person, one world, at a time. And what is a saving-the-world adventure without romance? Only half the story, if you ask me. The stories started out half of what they should be… short, scared, young, covered in dust, and locked away in an evil tower to save the world from their premature nature. Yet, like Rapunzel, they decided to escape using their own hair, just one yanked page at a time. Until with nurture and time, I decided they were ready to see the world.