I followed a dream and it took me down long roads stained with ink where my eyes would search the edges until I found new hidden paths.

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Fiction has been that road I have travelled since I was old enough to print. Cold days spent waiting in the car for my parents to come back from one task or another as my breath fogged the windows of the van. My warm finger the pen that I used to scribble stories out onto the glass before my "paper" would fade and I would create fresh sheets with the steam of my breath. The van was my own secret space where no one but I could read the stories.

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And that's how fiction came to me. In a parking lot, on cold winter days, with whispers of stories lingering no longer than a breath. ​Today, the stories are captured for much longer, as explored in this portfolio, but the magic of those moments still remain, encouraging me toward stories still trapped inside.