For as long as I can remember, I've had a book in my hand. At the age of seven, I'd often read to my mother at night around the fireplace. A fond memory I'll forever cherish. My origin is Monroeville, Alabama, but at nine-years-old, I moved to New York City—a stark contrast to my natal roots. The Deep South remains firmly ingrained in my soul as I craft worlds from my city dwelling. Often, I've evoked memories of a carefree girl who climbed trees, ran barefoot on Alabama red soil, lolled on green pastures, and traipsed along wooded paths picking blackberries. When I came to live in New York City with my aunt, an actress and educator, I traded tomboy ways for an artistic existence.

I live and work on the Upper East Side of Manhattan where I share my life with family and good friends. But every so often, a familiar aura of sultry breezes, dusk, pitch-black, and haunting Alabama spirits, unseen in the cloak of night, whisper their stories, a place that calls to me when I write. Hopefully, one day I'll capture those experiences on paper.