Writing about me's suck

I’ve spent most of my life in and out of hospitality—which, if you’ve ever worked in it, you know is just code for organized chaos with a side of caffeine. But honestly, I loved it. Every place I worked had its own pulse, its own people, and a story to tell.

For almost ten years, that story took me to Yellowstone National Park, where I got to do something most people only dream about. I spent my last four years there at Old Faithful Inn, overseeing operations and keeping an eye on that beautiful, creaky piece of history. I grew up walking those same halls, so being trusted with her safety felt like the universe handing me a full-circle moment I didn’t even know I was waiting for. And yeah—there may have been a middle-of-the-night fire alarm or two that had me evacuating hundreds of sleepy guests in their pajamas, but that’s hospitality for you.

Eventually, life pulled me out of the mountains and dropped me in the desert—managing a stunning RV resort just a short drive from Las Vegas, my favorite city in the world. Different kind of wild, same love for the people passing through.

All those years in hospitality taught me a lot about people—and maybe even more about patience. Every late-night check-in, every burst pipe, every stranger with a story reminded me that real life is just a series of characters trying to make sense of their own chaos. Turns out, that’s exactly what I write about now.

It all started with reading.

Back in 2018, between seasons in Yellowstone, I fell headfirst into paranormal romance and didn’t come up for air for six months. I binged three authors who’d built massive worlds, and somewhere in the middle of all that reading, a story started clawing its way into my head.

Then life shifted—my husband and I left Yellowstone, and the “real world” took over. Reading went quiet for a while.

Four years later, between jobs again (apparently that’s when inspiration likes to strike), I shot up at 11:30 one night with a wild idea: an all-female wolf pack. The characters showed up before their names, and the names showed up before their backstories. I might’ve done it backwards, but it worked.

Now I’m writing their stories—finally making sure the day job never gets in the way again.

My roots are like bamboo—still close to the surface, growing fast, and digging deep. Wild, stubborn, and finding their strength with every book.

If you’ve made it this far, welcome to the pack. 🐺

I don’t write tidy stories. I write the kind that bleed, bite, and sometimes make you laugh when you shouldn’t. My style is a mix of show, don’t tell, smart banter, and the kind of emotion that sneaks up on you when you think you’re safe.

I write in third person, but I like to crawl deep enough inside my characters’ heads that it feels like first. It’s a weird hybrid—half cinematic, half confessional—and I stopped apologizing for that somewhere around draft seventeen.

You’ll find humor in my darkest moments and heartbreak hiding in the jokes. My women are fierce, flawed, loyal, and just a little unhinged. My men are complicated, usually brooding, and absolutely not ready for the women they meet.

If my stories feel alive, it’s because they are. I don’t plot them—they drag me along. Half the time I’m just the person typing while the characters argue, flirt, or blow something up.

And here’s the thing—I’m still getting better. Each book teaches me something new. Readers who’ve been with me since Reign of the Desert Wolf will see the growth, the sharper edges, the deeper dives. That’s the best part of this whole journey—watching the stories evolve right along with me.

So yeah, my writing is messy. Honest. Wild. And 10% me. 90% Red Rocks.