Late Bloomers, Loud Lives: Why I Write What I Write

Look, not everyone comes out of the gate fabulous. Some of us trip at the starting line, spill our iced coffee, and only realize years later that we weren’t even running the right race. Hi, it’s me.

I wasn’t born loud—I learned it the hard way. I spent my 20s and 30s trying to play it safe, be “respectable,” and fit into rooms that wanted me quiet, straight, and small. And let me tell you: I sucked at it. Picture a six-foot-something ginger trying to fold himself into a polite little origami swan. Tragic.

Now? I write about bulldogs who fart at weddings, chaotic queers who turn breakdowns into viral content, and men who finally figure out they deserve to take up space. Because honestly, once you’ve spent decades shrinking yourself, the only reasonable comeback is to get loud enough that your neighbors question if you’re running a karaoke bar out of your living room.

Being a late bloomer doesn’t mean you missed the party. It means you are the party. You just showed up fashionably late, wearing Crocs, carrying emotional baggage, and refusing to apologize for any of it.

So yeah, my books aren’t tidy. They’re messy, horny, loud, occasionally unhinged, and deeply human. They’re the kind of stories that smell faintly of lube, dog treats, and glitter. Why? Because that’s real life, babe. And because the quiet version of me already had his turn. Spoiler: he was boring.

This version? The loud one? He’s writing. He’s living. He’s late. And he’s not shutting up anytime soon.