Dear reader,
you, such a pretty rare and unique being!
These are my works. The word is deliberate. I call them works instead of books because some of them will be novels, yes, but some may become short fiction, essays bound together, screenplays if I ever manage it, pieces that refuse one shape and take another. A book is a container. A work is the thing that does not care what container it ends up in.
Of Love and Other Nightmares
Form: Short fiction collection
Status: Near completion first draft
Expected: End of Summer 2026, optimistic? Always!
A fevered thing. It trembles when I look at it, claws at the paper, speaks in dreams and demands to be born before the year exhales its last cold breath.
Stories. Mostly true, a few so not, especially the love parts (or so I tell myself, so I can sleep). Love and obsession and the small humiliations that pass for intimacy in this century. People breaking each other gently, or not gently, and calling it care. Some material comes from my childhood written memories and teenage diaries. I have reviewed, re-engineered and disassembled it. I wrote a lot, but I never found the courage or need to let anyone else in.
Also on the desk
I am shaping a series of novels, quietly, in parallel. Dystopian in shape, thriller in pulse, built around the kinds of questions most of us prefer to leave alone: what we might become when the machines know us better than we know ourselves, what ethics survive the future we are already building. I will say more when there is more worth saying. For now, it waits.
Until the first breaks its chains, you may hear its murmurs in what I write on the blog. If you listen close enough, you might even feel its teeth.