🌙 A Brief Introduction to an Extremely Unbrief Person
I’m a writer, a witch, a Hufflepuff, a shieldmaiden of Rohan, and a woman who has somehow accumulated enough lore to require footnotes.
I like my aesthetics soft goth, my favorite color green, my fictional men emotionally damaged, and my stories complicated enough that I occasionally need diagrams to remember what the hell I did. I can build an entire fictional family tree, political system, trauma history, romantic arc, and neighborhood infrastructure because one side character walked into a scene and looked interesting.
I write because apparently having one reality was not enough.
Most of the time, there is an entire movie playing in my head. Sometimes it becomes a short story. Sometimes it becomes a novel. Sometimes it becomes 87,000 words of fanfiction lore involving characters who were absolutely not supposed to become this important. I get attached. I overthink. I rewrite. I research bizarre things at ridiculous hours. I will spend twenty minutes choosing the perfect sentence and three days emotionally recovering from something I personally decided to make happen.
I love strange things, dark things, magical things, ridiculous things, and stories about people who are messy enough to feel real. Give me ghosts, monsters, witches, villains, complicated heroes, doomed romances, second chances, haunted places, terrible decisions, and somebody standing in the rain looking emotionally devastated. I’m listening.
I’m equally capable of discussing character psychology, witchcraft, horror movies, My Hero Academia, Tolkien, weird little creatures, astrology, tattoos, grief, trauma, love, mortality, and why a fictional man with terrible coping skills deserves happiness.
I’m powered primarily by Dr Pepper, cigarettes, insomnia, stubbornness, curiosity, and the dopamine produced when two imaginary people finally admit they’re in love.
I believe people are more complicated than the worst thing they’ve ever done. I believe kindness and accountability can exist in the same room. I believe chosen family counts. I believe stories are allowed to hurt, but the hurt should mean something. I believe there is usually another side to the story, another door in the hallway, another strange little path through the kudzu.
I am deeply sentimental and wildly irreverent. I will cry over a photograph and then make an inappropriate joke thirty seconds later. I collect memories, characters, quotes, trinkets, ideas, unfinished projects, and approximately fourteen thousand thoughts I swear I’m going to write down later.
I’m a little spooky, a little nerdy, a little feral, extremely imaginative, occasionally chaotic, and almost always working on something.
Somewhere in my head there is probably a witch standing under a willow tree, a villain getting a redemption arc, a scarecrow walking away from home, a dead boy in the kudzu, a purple-haired doctor refusing to give up on anybody, and at least one deeply exhausted fictional man who desperately needs a nap and a girlfriend.
Welcome.
There is no short version.
I have lore.
