What inspired you to become an author?
My grandmother preserved a picture book I created in childhood, its pages forever protected in plastic. Years passed without my pen touching paper (except for poetry), until mortality stared me in the face. There’s nothing like a brush with death to resurrect dormant dreams. As I struggled through physical therapy, Lisbeth Salander’s resilience in Larsson’s novels became my companion and catalyst. Now, not a day passes where stories don’t flow through my fingertips—the literary world no longer just a visitor but a permanent resident in my life.
Do you have a specific writing style?
My working outlines serve as flexible roadmaps, acknowledging that characters often veer from my initial vision. Once established, I segment this framework into chapters. The process begins in my notebooks, where I jot scene intentions at the top of each page before diving into the handwritten draft—typically one to three chapters at a stretch. Transferring these pages to digital form becomes my first editing pass. I then reassess the outline against what’s emerged, adjusting as needed. This cycle of writing, typing, and recalibrating continues until I have a complete manuscript worthy of my beta readers’ scrutiny. Their feedback shapes my final revisions before the manuscript meets my editor’s discerning eye.
Do you write in different genres?
Yes, but at the core of all of my stories is Grit, Magic, and Defiant Hope. I write fierce, heart pounding stories where women face impossible odds—across haunted houses, dystopian futures, ghost touched small towns, and rebellious 1920s and 17th century streets—and discover the magic, love, and courage that reshape their worlds. Whether it’s thriller, romantasy, or sci-fi my genre blending, emotionally charged, high stakes fiction is for readers who crave adventure with heart. I also include deaf/HoH representation in my fiction as I’m part of the community.
If this book is part of a series…what is the next
book? Any details you can share?
Welcome to Ghostly Returns, part of the Enchanted Travelers universe. This story connects to the Altered Helix series (where Austria and Josh battle supernatural forces at a haunted house), the Transformed Nexus series (set in the future, where Vienna confronts a mad scientist), and the Reincarnated Souls series (set in the past, featuring Cromwell’s magical minions). Throughout these interconnected timelines, our heroes and villains are reborn again and again, each time raising the stakes. Whether you’re returning or new to this world, I hope you enjoy this tale where absolutely everything hangs in the balance.
What book are you reading now?
Right now I’m toggling between an audiobook of Amy T. Matthews’ Someone Else’s Bucket List and a dog-eared paperback of Rufi Thorpe’s Margo’s Got Money Troubles. I didn’t choose them—they’re picks from my book club—but there’s something poetic about how one traces life’s beginning while the other circles its end. A coincidence with its own quiet beauty.
What books are in your to read pile?
Too many to list here (I have over a thousand books in
my home. Some are from when my grandma taught reading and were printed in the
1930’s.) But, I’ll highlight some of the books I’m most looking forward to
instead. Releasing April 7th, I can’t wait to read The Book Witch
by Meg Shaffer. While not a new release, I haven’t read Mind Games by
Nora Roberts and it is definitely high on my list. Also, a recent social media
post lead me to buy Isaac’s Song by Daniel Black.
Excerpt:
Three years ago, the small town of Ethel, VA, was rocked to its core when the lighthouse became a beacon for something an-cient and hungry. Every year since then, we’ve cast a protection spell, tying knots in rope while visualizing a protective shield, at the weathered tower a week before Samhain, our voices car-ried away by the salt-tinged wind. This year’s no different.
Cormac’s slender fingers intertwine with mine as we ap-proach Orla and Dave across the grassy shoreline. We’ve man-aged to mostly heal from the toxic tendencies of the past—the jealousy, the competition, the midnight arguments that left scorch marks on the walls. Magical abilities complementing each other have a tendency to do that, like puzzle pieces finally finding their fit.
The mid-October sunlight glints off Cormac’s long, blonde hair, turning each strand into spun gold against the blue sky. We don’t meet here at night anymore, not since the shadows began to move independently of their owners. She gently squeezes my hand in reassurance, slight crow’s feet crinkling around her eyes with a smile that blooms one of my own in return. She tries to continue her broody exterior by wearing a scuffed leather jacket with silver buckles, but her face is too full of light these days to continue the façade.
“It’s about time you two showed up,” Orla says as she wraps me in a hug, her dark curls tickling my cheek. Her automatic soul-possessing ability takes hold straight away, a warm honey-like sensation flooding through my veins. I feel her anxiety—sharp and metallic—and she feels mine. While hers is about the treacherous events three years ago, mine is about the small vel-vet box burning a hole in my pocket, holding a moonstone ring for Cormac.
I know she’ll say yes; I hear Orla’s thoughts echo in my mind like a whisper in an empty room. To assuage her anxiety, I push forward images of Cormac and me from earlier in the morning. We’d stayed in bed, all consumed with passionate kisses and bodies moving in rhythmic dance together; sheets twisted around our ankles, the taste of her still on my lips.
Okay, okay, you’re excused for being late, Orla sends through the connection, her mental voice tinged with amuse-ment. Then it’s gone as Dave, tall and broad-shouldered in his flannel-lined jacket, gently pulls her out of the hug. He com-plements her power as Cormac complements mine, his deep voice carrying over the crash of waves against the shore.
“Did you actually expect them to be on time?” he asks her, his breath visible in the chilly air.
Orla looks at me, her eyes sparkling, and we snicker like schoolgirls sharing a secret.
“Some of us know how to keep a woman in bed,” I goad Dave, watching his cheeks flush crimson.
Before he can respond, Cormac says, “Guys, I think you should come over here,” her voice tight with tension.
She’s rounding the other side of the lighthouse, her boots crunching on the path. I jog over to her, worried she might be in danger, the wind whipping my hair across my face. Once I’m next to her, I’m struck with frozen terror, my breath catching in my throat. As Orla and Dave’s footsteps catch up, I try to count the sleeping bodies sprinkled around the remnants of a bonfire.
Sprawled across the damp autumn ground lies a peculiar as-sembly of slumbering figures—some adorned in woolen cloaks and flowing medieval gowns; others draped in shimmering flapper dresses and tweed vests and flat caps. The incongruous sight sends a chill down my spine, conjuring memories of that haunted night years ago when phantoms in pheasant feathers and tarnished armor materialized from the mist. Could history be repeating itself? I draw Cormac closer, my fingers tightening protectively around her shoulder. A bitter wind sweeps through the clearing, rustling crimson leaves and stirring the strange visitors from their dreams.
“Oh, halloo,” calls a woman with cascading silver-streaked hair that catches the morning light. Deep laugh lines frame her eyes as she rises gracefully to her feet, brushing debris from her embroidered skirts. Her button nose crinkles above heart-shaped lips as she smiles warmly. “I’m Marie. We weren’t expecting anyone so early.”
“You’re days early for Samhain,” Orla informs her, her voice carrying across the clearing.
“Samhain!” exclaims a younger woman with stylish curls and bright eyes. She leaps up, clapping her hands together with enthusiasm, silver bracelets jingling at her wrists. “I’m Florian. I absolutely adore a proper shindig.”
Another woman glides forward, her tweed vest firmly hug-ging her body. She loops her arm possessively around Florian’s slender waist and extends her other hand, adorned with bangles that glint in the early light. “Kiersten,” she offers, her voice me-lodic but guarded.
“Molly, and this is Cormac,” I reply, mirroring Kiersten’s protective gesture by drawing Cormac against my side, feeling her warmth through her leather jacket.
“Might there be lodgings available in your village?” Marie inquires, her eyes scanning the distant rooftops visible through the thinning trees.
“Not anywhere that could accommodate a gathering of this size,” Dave responds, his weathered hands resting on his leather belt.
A tall woman with anxious eyes approaches Orla hesitantly. A man with sandy blond hair clutches her trembling arm as she nervously smooths out her skirt. Dave and I don’t miss her flinch with his touch, juxtaposing their closeness. It resurfaces memories from when Dave and Orla couldn’t touch. “Hello, I’m Claudia,” she murmurs, “and may I present Alex?” Her delicate fingers twist together nervously while Alex soothingly rubs her goosebump-covered arms.
“Orla and Dave,” Dave announces, nodding curtly. When Alex extends his hand to Orla, Dave intercedes and shakes his hand, so Orla doesn’t have to.
“Um, Orla,” Alex interjects, his deep voice surprisingly gen-tle. “Pardon our intrusion, but might Claudia ask you something rather personal?”
“Of course, what troubles you?” Orla asks, leaning forward with interest.
“Do you perceive others’ thoughts when you make physical contact?” Claudia whispers, her pale cheeks blooming with a rosy flush that spreads to the tips of her ears.
“Perhaps we should escort this assemblage to our home-stead,” Dave interrupts, clearing his throat. “We have several spare rooms. Not sufficient for everyone, but certainly prefera-ble to camping outside.”
“We’d be eternally grateful,” Marie responds, casting a con-cerned sideways glance at Claudia’s distressed expression. “A proper rest would benefit us tremendously after our... unusual journey.”
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