I write stories about people under pressure. Sometimes that pressure comes from kitchens, sometimes from history, wilderness, obsession, memory, or simply trying to survive ordinary life without losing yourself completely.
Before writing full time, I spent years working in hospitality and commercial kitchens. Long shifts, loud extractors, printer tickets screaming through the night, burnt hands, sharp knives, strange friendships and the constant chase for perfection. A lot of that experience found its way into my writing. Not as glamour, but as truth.
I’m drawn to places that feel lived in. Damp bush tracks after rain. Old pubs. Coastal towns. Back rooms. Ancient battlefields. Ferry terminals at dawn. I like writing that smells faintly of smoke, saltwater, fryer oil, wet wool, or cold stone. Atmosphere matters to me as much as plot.
My work often sits somewhere between literary fiction, historical fiction and dark observational storytelling. There is usually humour in it, even when the subject matter gets heavy. Sometimes especially then. Life has a habit of putting tragedy beside absurdity and I try not to sand that down too much.
I’m interested in flawed people, quiet redemption, obsession, identity, burnout, survival, and the strange things humans do to feel useful or seen. I prefer stories that leave a residue rather than neatly wrapping everything up.
When I’m not writing, I disappear into nature, research odd historical details, experiment with fermentation projects that occasionally look medically questionable, and spend far too much time observing birds, weather, tracks, coastlines and forgotten corners of New Zealand.
I believe good writing should feel inhabited rather than manufactured. Something with fingerprints left on it.
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