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Precocious and perfectionist, moody but self-modifying, severe yet silly, I can be many things, but if you’ll ask me seriously over coffee who I am, the most direct answer you’ll receive is “writer”. (Over a longer lunch I’ll add “poet”, “editor” and “academic”.) 

Ever since my discovery of the wordsmith-ing gene at the age of nine, my whole life has seemed a long tête-à-tête, both inside and outside my head, a boundary I challenge by activating and experiencing the world around me from more than just the overworked senses of sight and sound. I like to write about smells and touching the untouchable and words that sound like “syrup” and mean things like “onism”.

Life, like the stories that tell them, don’t have a beginning (empty) or end (also empty). They are both only full of the process in-between. 

Do you remember the first breath you took the last time you met someone for the first time? How does the color of your hands compare to water, the walls, the sky or anything else they come in contact with? Have you looked at a painting with such concentration that you were afraid you might fall in?

I’m a self-diagnosed over-thinker, and in blending the sensual with the scholarly I find myself preoccupied with those slice-of-life moments that are so discrete when they pass, they are almost slippable, or even worse, forgettable. The primary mode of being for my narratorial voices is a stream-of-consciousness as it exists in a seamless stream of time experienced in duration—distorted, unhurried and unmeasured. Articulating their abstract sensations as they live the lives they live comes to me lyrically, in an oeuvre that’s entirely romanticized. Through immediacy and intimacy, I am compelled to grant my characters the agency to reflect on their being and becoming in visual detail, inviting you, the reader, to be both onlooker and participant. The quirks and idiosyncrasies of such expressions are thoughts I believe we are all considering at a deep level of the self, if only we could learn to see what the overly complicated frame of a grotesquely simplified feeling looks like.

This is a naked peep into my early work in poetry, short fiction and interpretive essay-writing, as well as an inescapable glimpse into my sometimes peculiar process of writing literature.