I have a confession to make: I don’t write to flatter my readers. I don’t set out to craft love stories dressed in “neat little packages” or polished bows. Instead, I am drawn to the raw, messy edges of emotion—the places where longing feels “raw, unfiltered, and humiliating.” In my literary world, I have come to believe a singular truth: discomfort is the art.
The Honesty in the “Nuts”
When my first book, The Dog Walker, was released, it sparked quite a divide. One critic famously called the protagonist, Sarah, “absolutely nuts” for her humiliating attempts to connect with a man while navigating her grief. They labeled the book a “narrative failure.”
When I read those words, I actually smiled. That reaction meant the story had done exactly what I intended. Sarah’s flaws, her delusions, and her awkwardness weren’t mistakes; they were the story. I believe that awkwardness is the honesty of the human condition. If you felt uncomfortable reading Sarah’s journey, it’s because real longing—the kind that isn’t sanitized for a movie screen—is inherently cringeworthy and painful.
Sitting with the “Lead Apron”
This philosophy of intentional discomfort followed me into the kitchen in The Chef. Here, the discomfort isn’t just about social awkwardness; it’s about the “lead apron” of depression. I wanted to force readers to sit with Kevin as he performs the role of a confident, Michelin-starred chef while his “inner world was crumbling.”
There is a profound unease in watching someone we want to root for disappear or fail to answer a message because the weight of their own mind is too heavy. But I refuse to tidy that away. True connection doesn’t happen in spite of our brokenness; it happens because of it. Intimacy is not a “flawless performance”; it is the quiet courage to show up—hungry, imperfect, and willing to be fed.
The Labyrinth of “Tomorrow”
In Fever Dreams, I explored a more modern form of discomfort: the “existential claustrophobia” of the digital age. I wanted to capture that “shimmering mirage” of belonging we feel through dating apps, which often only deepens our solitude.
The discomfort in Dev and Mira’s story comes from the blurring of reality and illusion. I purposefully created a “delayed tomorrow,” a loop where meeting in person is a mirage that perpetually recedes. It’s an unsettling space to inhabit, both for the characters and the reader. It asks a question we are often afraid to answer: Is our “online self” an accurate reflection of identity, or just another mask that keeps us from being truly known?
Embracing the Cringe
As an author, I am basically daring you to embrace the cringe. I want you to squirm a little, to recognize the unvarnished parts of yourself in my characters’ humiliations and their “nuts” behavior.
We live in a world obsessed with digital validation and curated perfection. By leaning into discomfort, I hope to create a “pathway to connection” based on our shared human imperfection. Thank you for having the courage to walk with me into these shadows; I hope that in the awkwardness, you find a spark of recognition for your own quiet courage.
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