I woke up this morning a Palma. On the fifty-fourth anniversary of my grandmother's death and the third of Joshua's, I walked to the water at sunrise carrying a name that is mine again. Here's what I know about palm trees: they're designed for hurricanes.
fiction
What the Fire Couldn’t Touch
Mama Marci mailed me a letter last week. It was in Joshua's fireproof lockbox—one of the things he chose to protect from everything that could destroy it. I didn't know it existed. He never told me he kept it.
The Book I Didn’t Know I Was Writing
In October 2024, an acquisition editor told me I didn't have the platform publishers need. Fifteen months later, a VP publisher said the same thing. They weren't wrong—I hadn't earned the trade publishing route. But in those fifteen months of waiting, I discovered something: I would have published the wrong book.
Writer's Growth 