Biography

This website bears my name, which means it should be about me. And in many ways, it is. I created this space to express myself—unfiltered, sometimes unedited, and entirely personal. But in truth, it’s also about someone else. It’s about my grandmother. But let’s start at the beginning.

Ever since I read my first book, I wanted to be an author. That’s not such an uncommon origin story among writers, and much of what follows probably isn’t either.

As a kid—and even as an adult—I lived in my own world. Or rather, many worlds. I never actually published anything for a very long time, but I did write. Slowly, privately, just for myself. Dozens of unfinished manuscripts and notebooks filled with fragments of ideas—never meant for anyone else’s eyes. I wrote for years, not because I wanted an audience, but because the stories refused to stay quiet.

“I’m not good enough.”

“That story isn’t intriguing enough.”

“Where would I even find an audience for something like this?”

“Others have done it before—and better.”

Those thoughts stuck with me for a long time. No website, no fan fiction, no publishing. Just doubt. That changed in 2016. I had a story I believed in—at least enough to try. Still young and naive, I thought I could manage everything on my own. So I self-published.

It was a mess.

I found an editor, arranged for print-on-demand, and even placed copies in a few small bookstores. I sold a few. I didn’t make a profit, and it certainly wasn’t a commercial success. You could call it a flop.

But the few people who read it? Most of them loved it. Even now, years later, I still get asked, “When is Xenoforming 2 coming out?”

Time passed. Life happened. New priorities pushed writing aside. But I never really left the world of Xenoforming. I carried it with me—refining it, expanding it—while waiting in lines, during long walks, while falling asleep. I just never found the time (or energy, or courage) to return to the page.

“No time.”

“No funds.”

And so on.

In 2022, everything changed.

My beloved grandmother died unexpectedly on May 25th. She was the one who raised me. My parents are wonderful people, but they worked long hours to provide for us. So much of my childhood was spent with her—being cared for, shaped, and loved.

Her life was hard. She grew up in a small village, where owning a television or car was a luxury. She dreamed of becoming a doctor, but her mother opposed it. Still, she studied in secret and became a nurse. She raised two daughters and then, when her husband died young, she raised them alone. Later, she found love again—but he too passed away when I was barely five.

She spent the rest of her life alone.

Her health declined in her later years, and eventually, she was gone. And with that loss came a flood of realizations.

“I should have spent more time with her.”

“I should have taken better care of her.”

“I’m never going to see her again.”

But the most important realization was this: I had to keep writing.

While sorting through her belongings, we found something displayed like a trophy. My book.

She didn’t care about its flaws or the fact that anyone can self-publish these days. To her, it was proof that I had made my dream come true. That I was an author.

She’s the reason I returned to writing—and this time, I’m staying.

Traditional publishing? It’s too slow, too uncertain. I’ll always find a reason to hesitate. That’s why I’ve chosen to embrace self-publishing. It gives me creative freedom, full control, and the ability to bring my stories to life without compromise.

I write in English not just for reach, but because these stories belong to the world. I don’t know if I’ll ever be considered a “real” author in the eyes of the literary world—but I’ll keep publishing.

And maybe, if there’s an afterlife, she’ll be able to read what I write next.