I found my first typewriter discarded by the curb when I was a kid. It was old, loud, but still worked. I fed that thing page after page of notebook paper and started typing whatever came to mind. The ideas haven’t stopped since.

Even now, I’m not sure exactly where they come from. They just…show up. Some whisper. Some scream. But they all want the same thing: to be brought to life.

I write them because I see how beautifully horrific they can be. And every day, I try to become the kind of writer they deserve.

If bringing them to life ever haunts you—I’m sorry. But if they do… I hope it’s in the best way.