I'm a writer and visual artist with an MFA in fiction writing and a background in studio art.
My work often explores inner life and the moments of transition, awakening, and recognition that shape who we become. The impulse behind everything I make is the same: to express what insists on being expressed and to tell what is mine to tell.
I've always been more interested in living from my inner guidance than following the expectations of the dominant culture. Creativity is how I understand the world, make meaning, and move through time.
My work traces the subtle and dramatic connections that flow through people, nature, and the unseen dimensions of experience. I hope to blend the personal with the universal and listen in on a conversation between the ordinary and the numinous.
CREATIVE LIVING DIARIES
I share my long form writing, video, and live events on my Substack.Creative Living Diari
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Stories that explore longing, transformation, and the unseen threads that connect us
Essays and reflections on creativity, intuition, and emotional resilience
Notes on what it means to be human
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That’s whereI share the process, the work in progress —the living part of creative living. You’ll see more of me in the form of videos, recordings, and artwork.
And maybe that is why we revisit stories together, sifting through shards of memory, comparing field notes and evidence. Maybe that is why my impulse is to walk through the same memories, the same stories, over and over again, piecing together a narrative, attempting to make sense of it, linking one memory to another like a paper chain.
Sometimes I wonder if being a romantic is a sort of haunting, a way of being haunted. I walk through the world attuned to its invisible layers, not just the people and places lost, but the emotions that once informed them. The way curtains move in morning light. A record sleeve in my hands. The way a line from a song can hold my whole life inside it.
That year, I changed. I slowly reverted to the clothing I liked to wear. I let my hair be straight and unsprayed. I started wearing a perfume oil called China Rain, sweet with a dark undertone. I spent hours in the campus library reading poetry collections instead of studying for my classes. I read Marge Piercy and Anne Sexton. I studied their work and feverishly wrote my own poems.
On Valentine’s Day in 1969
in a small college town in Kentucky, my mother had a craving for a hot fudge sundae, so my dad drove her to the Dairy Queen. I imagine it was snowing, she sat next to the window, the chocolate was particularly delicious. Early the next morning, I was born, a little late and a little small. My body, I am told, was bright red except for a patch of pale white skin over my right eye. My skin tone evened out, but my right eyebrow, a patch of hair at my right temple, and a streak on the back of my head, grew in white.