One name. Three careers.

Here's the honest version: I can't stay in one lane, and I've stopped apologizing for it. These days I freelance — golf columns for an audience of thirty million a month, on my own schedule — while I wait to trade it back in for a regular paycheck the day the novel's out. Before that, thirteen years making sure billing cycles for aerospace and automotive clients closed on time and made sense to auditors. Neither job needed a shred of imagination. I brought some anyway.

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But if you ask the people who've actually watched me do it — my parents, my friends, my wife — they won't tell you I'm a writer. They'll tell you I'm a storyteller, full stop. Hand me a stray detail and I'll build you a scenario on the spot: complete, internally consistent, oddly convincing. Not embellishment — architecture. That's the one thing I've never needed help with, AI or otherwise. It's just how the brain runs.

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By night, most weekends, and honestly most lunch breaks, that same instinct built a universe called Naraka: two novels deep, prophecy and sci-fi tangled together on purpose. I write poetry in three languages because some things I need to say simply don't survive translation into English. And I sing most of my own songs — an AI voice steps in only for the handful of genres mine doesn't suit, like ghazals and dreampop — because directing a sound I can't make myself was never the plan; singing the ones I can is.