I have loved fairytales of and fables for as long as I can remember. Not because I believed in magic literally, but because myth has always felt like one of the oldest and most direct ways to reach the core of things. In beautiful form, it speaks about longing, fear, power, love, and loss without diminishing them.

That is why I write the way I do.

Where the Ashtrees Dream

This is not a classical novel or a simple anthology. I chose mythic language because it provides the room to hold contradictions - to heighten what feels unspeakable and soften what might otherwise be too exposed. Symbols and archetypes allow emotional truths to stand with dignity, preserved without needing to point at specific faces.

The prose cycle came first, intense and inward. The play followed later, grounding those same forces in a contemporary world. 

I needed both: the inner landscape and the public one. One speaks in images, the other in dialogue.
Together, they ask what remains when illusion falls away - and what it means to choose life without erasing oneself.

In my professional life, I move in environments that require clarity, structure, and decision. Perhaps that is the quiet link.
I have always been drawn to how patterns form, how presence shapes a room, and how meaning emerges
when tension is held rather than avoided. Writing feels like tracing those same lines, only on a more intimate scale.

When I step away from the desk, I return to simple rituals: strong coffee, music that shifts the atmosphere without asking permission, and the enduring value of a long discussion over good food and wine.

This is my first completed literary cycle. It carries myth on its surface, but beneath it lies something very human: 

the attempt to understand how we grow, how we choose, and how we love without losing ourselves.