Every writer has a noise problem. For me, it’s life itself—loud, chaotic, shrill, endless in its interruptions. But even in the static, there’s always a song beneath it. Different instruments, different tempos, but one refrain always hums beneath: survival, queerness, resilience.
And if you want to hear that refrain across every book I’ve written, you can find my full catalog right here on my Amazon Author Page. Do yourself a favor and bookmark it—you’ll find memoir, satire, thrillers, romance, speculative fever dreams, and more, all carrying the same heartbeat underneath.
A Catalog as Choir
When people ask how I can write in so many genres, I tell them the answer is simple: I don’t write genres, I write survival. Whether it’s memoir (Small Town Gayby), biting satire (Oil and Glitter), or a blood-dark thriller (You Fixed Me), the melody doesn’t change—it just plays on different instruments. You’ll see that when you scroll through my Amazon Author Page. It’s not a random sprawl. It’s a choir.
One voice might be singing about small-town queerness and chosen family. Another might be whispering horror through a cracked window at midnight. A third might be belting satire about politicians who deserve every sting I can give them. But together? Together they hum the same refrain: we’ve been told to be silent, but silence is just a rest note. The song goes on.
Memoir as Percussion
My memoirs are the percussion section—the drumbeat that grounds everything else. Books like Small Town Gayby or The Trauma Bible hit like the snare and bass, sharp and unrelenting. They’re about growing up queer in places that didn’t want me, surviving abuse, finding community, clawing out of closets that were never built for safety.
They don’t let you forget the rhythm of survival. And yet, even in the heaviest beats, there’s syncopation—humor, absurdity, tenderness. Trauma without joy is a dirge. Trauma with laughter is percussion you can dance to.
You’ll find those beats pounding under everything I write. That rhythm carries into my fiction, satire, even the most speculative worlds on my Amazon Author Page.
Satire as Brass
If memoir is the drumbeat, satire is the brass section—loud, irreverent, impossible to ignore. Oil and Glitter doesn’t just lampoon politics; it blares the trumpet right in the face of hypocrisy. My blog—where the bee with the stinger of receipts takes flight—comes from the same place.
Satire is how queerness survives in public: with sharpness, wit, and an ability to turn ridicule into shield and spear at once. The brass is messy, often too loud, occasionally off-key—but it cuts through the noise.
When you browse my Amazon Author Page, you’ll see how the brass keeps showing up, even when the genre shifts. In thrillers, the satire slips in sideways, as a line of dialogue or a sudden observation that exposes how absurd cruelty really is. In romance, it flickers like a muted horn, reminding you that love is most tender when it refuses to take itself too seriously.
Thrillers as Strings
The strings carry the ache. You Fixed Me is a thriller, yes, but it’s also a violin line stretched tight with longing, danger, and the unbearable beauty of human contradiction. Every page pulls a bow across the gut.
The strings are where queerness vibrates in its most fragile registers—desire, grief, obsession, survival. They sing what memoirs can’t and satire won’t. They bring the tremor, the suspense, the heartbreak.
Readers who click through to my Amazon Author Page expecting only thrill will find something else, too: the strings are never just about death or danger. They’re about how love and fear play the same notes, only a half-step apart.
Romance as Woodwinds
And then there are the romances—the clarinets and flutes, the unexpected sweetness, the melodies that sneak in when you weren’t paying attention. Books like Fake It Till You Mean It or The Fairy Godfather don’t abandon survival or queerness or resilience. They carry it gently, wrapping it in laughter, desire, and intimacy.
The woodwinds remind you that queerness isn’t just trauma—it’s also tenderness, chosen family, first kisses, late-night drives, ridiculous banter that saves you when everything else feels impossible.
When you explore my Amazon Author Page, you’ll see that romance isn’t a detour. It’s the counter-melody. It’s what makes the whole refrain listenable.
Speculative as Experimental Jazz
Then there are the books that don’t fit any easy genre—speculative fictions that bend rules and tilt realities. The Bitter Aftertaste, Shadow at Noon, entire worlds where queerness and survival play through unfamiliar instruments, almost like experimental jazz.
These books riff on history, dystopia, horror, and speculative possibility. They ask: what happens when survival itself becomes the instrument? What song do we play when the rules are broken?
The Amazon Author Page is full of these experiments—worlds that unsettle, disorient, but still hum the same survivalist refrain.
The Common Note
Different instruments, different tempos. But the refrain is always there: survival, queerness, resilience. That’s the song beneath the noise.
And here’s the thing—when you subscribe to Kindle Unlimited, you can listen to the whole catalog like a playlist. Every single book is there. Free for five days at launch, always free with Kindle Unlimited after that. And if you haven’t tried it yet, Amazon even offers a three-month free trial of Kindle Unlimited. Which means you can walk into the concert hall, sit down, and hear the entire set without paying a dime.
Imagine: sixty-five-plus books, every instrument, every genre, every refrain—and all you have to do is sign up, then click through my Amazon Author Page.
Why I Wrote Them All
Why memoir, satire, thrillers, romance, speculative? Because queerness is not one-note. Because survival does not sound the same in every room. Because resilience sometimes drums, sometimes sings, sometimes screams.
I write because silence was imposed on me too many times. And if I only ever wrote one genre, it would feel like bowing to that silence again. Instead, I wrote across them all. A sprawling chorus. A defiant refrain.
Every book on my Amazon Author Page is another instrument in the song. Some are heavy with strings, some with brass, some percussion only—but all hum the same melody beneath:
We’re still here. We’re still queer. We’re still singing.
Thank You for Listening
If you’ve made it this far, thank you for lending an ear to the song beneath the noise. Independent authors like me don’t have massive labels or publishers orchestrating our reach—we rely on readers who find resonance in the refrain and choose to keep listening.
So here’s what you can do: visit my Amazon Author Page. Try Kindle Unlimited’s free trial if you haven’t. Pick up a book or three. Read, hum along, and when you’re done—leave a review. Reviews aren’t just applause. They’re echoes. They keep the song alive.
Because noise fades. Songs last. And mine is waiting for you.