My Amazon Catalog

For years I wrote in silence. I stacked drafts like dishes in the sink, submitted manuscripts into email voids, and told myself to wait for the mythical “right time.” The world kept spinning; the inbox stayed polite. And then, one afternoon, the light shifted. It hit the room at a slant and made the dust visible—every speck I’d missed, every breath I’d taken while trying to be less, quieter, easier to shelve. That dust in the sunlight wasn’t a flaw; it was proof of life. Proof I was here. I stopped waiting. I chose myself. I decided to self-publish on Amazon.

This work is raw, real, and deeply personal. It has taken years to make and a single click to release, and I am both proud and terrified to let it live where anyone can touch it. If you can, please support these books by grabbing a copy and leaving a review—it matters more than you know. And if money is tight, sharing a link is just as powerful. Writing is a long-form act of attention in a feed that refreshes every second; help keep it alive. You can browse everything on my Amazon author page, or dive in below.

I write about queerness, trauma, and the strange human rituals we invent to survive ourselves. But I don’t write “issue” books. The common threads are subtle—otherness, chosen family, the ache of becoming—not the spectacle. Like dust in the sunlight, they only reveal themselves when the light hits just right, shaping how you see the room without ever demanding center stage. That’s the promise across this catalog: the stories entertain first, but they carry a pulse you can feel if you lean close.

The beam starts with the memoir cycle that taught me how to tell the truth without apology. Small Town Gayby is a darkly funny, unflinchingly honest ledger of survival: conversion therapy in West Texas, cancer, heartbreak, a wrongful conviction, and the stubborn joy that insists on living anyway. The series refracts that light at different ages and angles. In Small Town Gayby: If You’re Perfect, I begin at the beginning—birth to fourteen—where disappearing is taught long before it’s chosen. Small Town Gayby: Rebirth Isn’t Painless returns to the rural camp that promised to “fix” me and delivered trauma wrapped in scripture. Healing gets complicated—beautifully, stupidly—in Small Town Gayby: Heal. Swipe. Live., where a man named August helps me learn that recovery can arrive wearing laughter, vape clouds, and road-trip playlists. And when compassion meets its limits, Small Town Gayby: Where The Scar Remains asks whether saving someone else can be done without losing the fragile peace you fought to build.

Grief casts its own weather, and the book that holds my softest storm is While You Were Here—a love letter to a dog named Daisy who saved a broken man’s life simply by refusing to leave. If you’ve ever grieved a soul that couldn’t speak but somehow said everything, this one will feel like a hand on your shoulder.

From there the beam widens and gets playful. I adore myths that pay rent in the modern world, so I rewired a few. Neverlanded is a modern queer Peter Pan that asks what it costs to keep pretending not to grow up when love is waiting at the door. Cinderfella is “magic that invoices”—a rent-era Cinderella where going viral, getting evicted, and choosing recognition over rescue becomes the only way the shoe ever fits. And for those who like their fairy tales candle-lit and consensual, Beau and the Blood offers cozy-gothic devotion: archivist meets ethical vampire; the town wants a spectacle, they build a life.

Rom-coms are my pressure valves—the place where banter is a flotation device and tenderness is the twist you didn’t see coming. Wasted begins after the blackout and asks whether love can thrive when the filter is gone. The Things We Forgot is for the slow-burn crowd: an ER nurse, a widower, and a town that doesn’t forgive easily. Lockdown romance gets ferociously human in Until Further Notice: two opposites, one biohazard roommate, zero chill. Forced proximity and grief turn enemies into something like home in Thanks for the House, Stupid, and destination mistakes become real feelings in AFTER THE TOAST. If you crave a hoax-turned-heart, Fake It Till You Mean It will hand you sunscreen and tissues; if weaponized branding is your flavor, THE SOFT LAUNCH plays chicken with the truth until it kisses back. For high-gloss chaos meets heart, Oil and Glitter turns a gala into a slow-burn battlefield. Bakers at war? Try Flour & Fury: A Sweet Rivalry. Midlife redo with sting and sweetness, Pour Out Start Over. Brujería, curses, and the choice to love before your luck runs out: Mojo Interrupted. Reality-TV second chances that absolutely refuse to stay on script: To Be Continued…. And for group therapy that turns into the most honest love story in the room, Daddy Issues Anonymous.

I also write what happens when power decides what the truth will be. Traditional Family Values is a queer political love story built on optics and betrayal—a speechwriter and a closeted candidate trying to survive the lie they’re both telling. If you like your satire with a shiv, Make Me President, Daddy plays in the war room where the closet is both weapon and wound. Espionage with a pulse and a price? A Necessary Betrayal breaks hearts in the ruins of Budapest. Washington secrets and the Republican party’s glass house crack open in The Closet Strategist, followed by the Harding Reports trilogy: Don’t Ask, Don’t Die., The Silent Code, and A Secret in the Air—journalism as resistance during the years when silence killed softly. These are the books for readers who understand that politics is just intimacy at scale.

Hospitals taught me everything I know about triage—of bodies and of truths. Holding Pressure lives in the ruptured heart of Parkland Hospital, where a locked-down attending and a battle-worn new hire find connection that’s both liability and lifeline. On the long-term care side, Sunset on Cloud Nine rides the med cart straight into a system held together by denial, duct tape, and a director of nurses trying to keep patients—and himself—from falling through the cracks.

Horror lets me distill dread until it gleams, then hand you a mirror. In the survival vein, The Bitter Aftertaste starts with a sugar substitute and ends with the dead refusing to stay put; No Sweeter Death asks what peace is worth when the town demands a sacrifice. Psychological horror gets intimate in The Blood Debt, while grief and identity hum like fluorescent lights in The Unspoken Cord, Beautiful Things I Almost Believed, and The Unstable Archives. If you prefer your terror with a technological edge, You Looked Cute Last Night and YOU FIXED ME tangle obsession, blackout memory, and love that could be salvation or motive. Those who want knives in the hands of institutions can follow attorney Cole Oliver through Beneath the Veil of Tears, Thin Blue Lie, and The Town Lake Killer—a justice-chasing arc set against Austin’s shadows. And if you’d rather watch a man try to outrun the ghost of his own résumé, The Killer Bee turns a CIA operative into a father who can’t go off-duty without breaking.

I grew up on speculative “what ifs” whispered after curfew, so there’s a seam of futurism running through my work. In near-future Texas, resistance goes underground in Salt and Static. Genetic “perfection” becomes a weapon in The Flawless Imperative. Grief gets digitized—and exploited—in The Lonely Algorithm. Queer YA takes a moral sledgehammer to the default settings in Wish You Were Queer and sings tenderness and revolt in A Queer Kind of Hallelujah. For anyone who has ever needed one reason not to disappear, Neon & Grit offers the softest rebellion: staying.

Fantasy is where I let the heart wear armor. The Bleeding Heart pairs a reclusive mage with a hardened scout to protect two magical children in a world still fissured by catastrophe; what begins as survival becomes a dangerous, necessary love. In the ashes of empire, Ravendios: The Weight of Purity pits outcasts against a queen who defines worth by blood. And if your taste runs sapphic and sugar-dusted, Flour & Fury: A Sweet Rivalry proves magic isn’t required to make sparks; a shared oven will do.

Not everything is epic. Sometimes the most operatic thing in the room is a misbehaving waffle iron. No Vacancy for Sanity is a riotously absurd hotel comedy set in a Texas Holiday Inn Express, for anyone who’s ever sworn they saw a peacock in the lobby and then had to comp a room about it. And because cities test you the way families do, Hell’s Kitchen Sink throws a scrappy queer found family into a decaying New York brownstone where loyalty sometimes looks like crime but feels like home.

And for those who like their romance sharpened on a fang, there are two ways to bleed beautifully. BITE MARKS DON’T HEAL RIGHT is a haunting queer vampire love story about choosing a person even when time is cruel; there’s also another edition of BITE MARKS DON’T HEAL RIGHT for readers who collect alternate covers and vibes. The point is the same: eternity isn’t the flex—choosing each other, now, is.

Across all of these, the dust stays with me. It’s what you almost don’t notice—the queer subtext, the survival instincts, the learned quiet—that shapes the light. I write characters who don’t perform for the room but still want to be seen. I write mess that cleans itself up just enough to try again tomorrow. I write laughter you can hear under the sirens and grief that doesn’t ask to be cured. If you find yourself in any of these stories—loudly or in the corner—I hope you feel less alone.

If you’re new to my work, start anywhere the light lands. If you want raw memoir, the entire beam of the Small Town Gayby cycle—Small Town Gayby, If You’re Perfect, Rebirth Isn’t Painless, Heal. Swipe. Live., Where The Scar Remains, and While You Were Here—will hold you steady. If you want romance with bite—literal or metaphorical—try Beau and the Blood, Fake It Till You Mean It, THE SOFT LAUNCH, Wasted, or AFTER THE TOAST. If you’re chasing dread, The Bitter Aftertaste, No Sweeter Death, YOU FIXED ME, and The Killer Bee will keep a nightlight on for you. Policy hearts and political junkies, your corner is stocked: Traditional Family Values, Make Me President, Daddy, A Necessary Betrayal, The Closet Strategist, Don’t Ask, Don’t Die., The Silent Code, and A Secret in the Air. And if you want to stand in front of the speculative wind tunnel, Salt and Static, The Flawless Imperative, The Lonely Algorithm, Wish You Were Queer, A Queer Kind of Hallelujah, and Neon & Grit will ask what stays human when power pushes the other way.

Here’s the practical piece. Every purchase and every review directly helps me keep writing. If you’re a Kindle Unlimited reader, all my books remain free to read there after their initial launch window—and I list new titles free for the first five days so early readers can jump in. If you’ve been curious about KU, Amazon is currently offering a three-month free trial for new subscribers; it’s a great way to sample widely and decide where the light hits you. And if budgets are tight, sharing a link from my Amazon author page is an act of literary CPR. Attention is oxygen in this economy; passing it along keeps stories breathing.

Self-publishing is a risk and a refusal. It’s me choosing to stop asking permission to exist on the shelf. It’s also a vote of faith in readers who can smell the real thing and don’t need a logo to guide them. If any book here finds you at the right angle—if a sentence turns like a key or a character reaches for your sleeve—let me know by leaving a review. Reviews are little prisms: they catch the light and scatter it to new rooms I could never enter on my own.

Thank you for being here—for reading to the bottom, for believing longform isn’t dead, for understanding that the dust in the sunlight is not failure but evidence. Evidence that we’ve been moving, living, changing the air. These books are my evidence. I hope one of them becomes yours.