I’m building what I couldn’t find—literary spaces for men who still believe in emotional intimacy, depth, and dark humor. I’ve been a solo parent, a grieving husband, a coach, a creative, and a man learning how to stay open without coming undone. What Remains is what’s left after the fire. It’s the work that survived—the writing, the stories, the sense of self I rebuilt from the rubble. These pieces live in that in-between space: between devastation and becoming, between silence and expression, between what was and what’s next. If you’ve ever wondered how to live after everything changes, this is for you. You’re not alone—and you’re not done.
When my husband died, everything fractured. I had to figureout how to make a living, parent two grieving daughters, and carry my own grief without collapsing under it. I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t feel brave. I just kept going because I didn’t know what else to do. No Proper Grief isn’t a guidebook. It’s a reflection of what it means to survive something you didn’t prepare for. It’s messy, uneven, and painfully human. I wrote it to remind myself—and maybe someone else—that even the smallest flicker of hope can be enough to keep moving. There’s no right way to grieve. There’s just your way. And that’s enough.
Buy on AmazonEveryone came back together. The wine flowed, the duck was perfect, and the ghosts didn’t knock—they were already seated at the table. This story isn’t about a dinner party. It’s about grief that lingers long after the casseroles stop arriving. It’s about what happens when friends forget who you are, and a stranger sees you too clearly. It’s about beauty, ruin, and the kind of tenderness that still dares to knock. I wrote The Dinner Party as a love letter to those of us who’ve tried to rebuild something sacred from broken friendships, fading rituals, and unspoken longing. It’s a story of grief, yes—but also of recognition. The moment when someone new reads your soul and you remember it’s still there.
This story is currently being submitted for publication and will be available soon.
After five years of routine, repression, and microwave dinners, Carl’s carefully constructed life begins to fracture when a smiling delivery driver knocks on his door—and unknowingly cracks open everything Carl buried to survive. What follows is a quiet, brutal unraveling of grief, shame, and the lies we tell ourselves to stay safe. The Death of Desire is a raw, literary portrait of a man learning that joy doesn’t have to be earned, and beauty doesn’t need permission. It’s a resurrection story, disguised as a quiet day in the suburbs.
This story is currently being submitted for publication and will be available soon.
In the stillness between longing and action, possibility lives.
Beau hasn’t spoken to the handsome stranger in the building lobby. He hasn’t introduced himself, hasn’t smiled, hasn’t taken the risk. But every day, he notices. Every day, he imagines what could be—if only he were ten pounds lighter, a little younger, a little more worthy.
Over the course of a single, ordinary day, Schrödinger’s Heart unspools the ache of suspended desire, the cruelty of self-image, and the brutal neutrality of time. With sharp restraint and quiet grace, it explores the cost of staying safe—and what happens when possibility disappears before it’s ever touched.
It might be a love story.
Or it might have been.
This story is currently being submitted for publication and will be available soon.
James came to Amsterdam to disappear. A fifty-something American novelist, he’s traded New York’s sharp edges for canal light and cobblestones—hoping to finally write something lasting, or quietly vanish trying. But when a much younger Dutch architect arrives to help restore his 300-year-old apartment, James is forced to confront a different kind of architecture—one made of memory, restraint, and the quiet ache of being seen after believing it was too late.
Set over the course of a single day, Resonance explores the beauty of imperfection, the intimacy of shared attention, and the subtle terror of daring to hope.
It might be the start of something.
Or it might be the last time he lets himself believe.
This story is currently being submitted for publication and will be available soon.
This was the first thing I wrote after Jayson died. I wasn’t trying to be brave—I was just trying to breathe. I wrote it because my world had fallen apart, and the only way I knew to survive was to speak the truth of what I was living. On the Death of My Husband is raw. It's uneven, like grief. It’s the sound of someone learning to walk again with half a heart. And yet, somehow, it’s also the beginning of everything I’ve written since. If you want to understand the through-line in my work—this is where to begin. Not because it’s polished. But because it’s real.
Link to MediumThis one is still working me. I’ve never written anything like it. It started with a woman burned at the stake and a man on the Gulf Coast who hears her across centuries—and it turned into something bigger. Queer legacy. Inherited grief. Southern magic. And what it means to choose healing when vengeance would be easier.
I’m still inside this story. Still listening. But I know it’s asking the same questions the others did—just louder, with more fire.
The Book of Men is coming. And whenit does, it won’t whisper.
Three hundred years ago, in the French countryside, a woman was burned for witchcraft by the man she loved. Her death wasn’t the end—it was the beginning. With her final breath, she bound a curse into a book no man could open. A grimoire forged in betrayal, blood, and fire.
Her name was Solène. She was never meant to be forgotten.
Now, along a salt-marsh stretch of the Texas Gulf Coast, archaeologist Evan LaFleur lives in quiet exile. Protected by an ancient presence buried beneath the marsh and haunted by a legacy he doesn’t yet understand, Evan unearths the very book that has burned generations of men before him. But when he touches it, it doesn’t burn. It breathes.
As Evan begins to excavate the curse, he finds more than history—he finds her voice. Her grief. Her rage. And a pattern in his own bloodline that only he has the power to break—not through magic, but through witness. Through choice. Through the quiet, radical act of saying, “I see you. I understand. You are for me.”
The Book of Men is a Southern Gothic reckoning—an atmospheric, emotionally devastating tale of inherited grief, queer identity, ancestral memory, and the healing power of choosing not to look away.