I started writing because my inner voice did not sound like my outer one.

On the outside, I was practical. Measured. Concerned with systems and work and the visible world. Inside, the voice was quieter and older. It asked different questions.

I began with family memoirs. I wanted to understand where we had come from, particularly the Celtic threads in my family’s history. The deeper I researched, the more I noticed something unsettling: history is rewritten. Again and again.

Older history was not written first. It was spoken. Passed through story, ritual, repetition. Through tradition and process. And I began to suspect that those older tellings may carry more truth than the polished accounts of monks, generals, and administrators who came later.

My novels grew out of that tension.

They explore what happens when myth is treated as superstition, when governance replaces listening, and when systems harden around stories they no longer understand. I’m interested in the moment when a community mistakes durability for truth.

These books are not arguments. They are working files. They carry my research, my questions, and the slow shift in how I see the world.

I write speculative fiction shaped by Celtic memory and modern science. I am drawn to the idea that myth may be degraded signal rather than fantasy — and that what we call dark matter, silence, or absence may not be empty at all.

I am still listening.