I started writing a book.

That sentence feels bigger than I expected. Heavier. More exposed. Like once I say it out loud, I don’t get to hide behind “maybe” anymore.

It didn’t start with a plan or a timeline or some big announcement. It started quietly. I told myself it was just for me. Just something to get the words out. No pressure.

And then somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling casual.

Now it feels like something I owe attention to. Like a story asking to be taken seriously, even on the days I don’t take myself seriously at all.

It started as a feeling, then a scene, then a character who wouldn’t stop tugging at my attention while I was editing photos, folding laundry, or sitting in the pickup line at school.

This book is a work of fiction.
A romance. A coming-of-age story. A place where tenderness and heartbreak coexist.

And still, it carries pieces of truth.

There are old memories woven in quietly. Subtle nods to things I’ve lived, felt, or watched others move through. Not in a literal way, but in the emotional undercurrent. The way longing sits in the chest. The way growing up feels both beautiful and disorienting. The way young love, life and friendships can shape who you become.

Photography taught me how to observe. To notice the moments people think don’t matter, to pick up on body language and to anticipate emotions. Writing feels like that same instinct, just translated into words. I’m not documenting real life here, I’m building a world, but it’s made of familiar textures.

What surprised me most is who this book feels like it’s for.

Yes, it’s for me.
But it’s also for my girls.

I want it to be the kind of story they can get lost in one day. The kind you read under the covers with a flashlight. The kind that makes you feel seen without quite knowing why. A soft place to land while you’re figuring out who you are.

Some days the writing feels steady and natural. Other days, imposter syndrome creeps in and asks who I think I am to do this. And then I remember, I’m not trying to be anything. I’m just telling a story.

This isn’t an announcement. There’s no timeline, no pressure, no promise of what comes next.

Just this quiet truth:
I started writing a fictional story that matters to me.

And I think I want to let you witness it as it unfolds, unpolished drafts, emotional detours, and all.

Unposed. Always.