I do not write because I know exactly where I am going.

I write because there are worlds that insist on existing, and I am merely the hand that accompanies them as they take form.

I do not consider myself a professional writer in the traditional sense of the term. Not out of rejection, but out of conviction. I am an independent writer, a constant apprentice of a craft that is never fully mastered. I write because I enjoy it, because I need to, because it is the most honest way I know to explore the universes that are born in my mind and give them a body that can be shared.

My path was not the expected one. For a long time, I searched for the right doors—publishers, answers that never arrived. There were no formal rejections, only silence. And in that silence, I understood something essential: I did not want to keep waiting in the shadow of a third party to tell my stories. Self-publishing appeared almost like a ghost, a possibility I did not know existed, and through it I discovered that I could build my own path, learn every part of the process, and assume full responsibility for my work.

I write dark fantasy, psychological horror, and dark science fiction, though I did not arrive at those genres by conscious decision. I arrived there because my stories demanded it. My characters are not polished heroes or comfortable archetypes: they are beings who break, who learn through error, who carry the weight of their decisions as their worlds turn into dystopias that force them to choose without ceasing to be human. In my universes, light and darkness are not separate; they coexist, intertwine, contradict one another—just as the human being does within themselves.

All my stories are connected, though not in an obvious or linear way. They are not alternate versions or direct sequels. They are echoes. Events unfolding in different universes that give shape to shared concepts, to presences that cross realities under different faces. Some figures exist in all of them, redefining themselves, as if certain ideas could never belong to a single world.

I do not write with closed maps or rigid structures. I discover my stories as I write them. When one begins, I do not fully know my characters, their motivations, or the events that will shape their path. I observe them, as one who looks through a window, and bear witness to their existence. It may seem like a naïve act, but it is the most honest way I know to honor their experiences, even the simplest ones.

Dreams and emotions play an essential role in my work. In them, I have seen worlds that reality could not contain, and I have understood my own emotions through those of my characters. Some personal experiences are not narrated literally, yet they transform into understanding, into nuance, into an emotional truth that sustains each story.

I rarely rewrite large sections. I revise to clarify, to refine the language, to respect the form—but altering the essence of a scene unsettles me. I feel that doing so would suppress a part of the world I was allowed to witness. To honor that world, for me, is to let it exist as it first revealed itself.

I work alone. Each piece has passed through my hands from conception to publication: writing, editing, illustration, layout, editorial structure, website, dissemination. It has been a demanding process, but a deeply fulfilling one. Every step learned has been a form of growth.

My stories do not always have a clear beginning or a definitive ending. Some trilogies are closed, others are stand-alone works, yet the universes remain open. Not because something is unfinished, but because ideas continue to breathe beyond the page. That is why I explore different forms of narrative expression: text, illustration, audio, image. Not everyone arrives at stories in the same way, and I want each universe to find its reader—even if that reader does not define themselves as one.

For me, success is not a future goal. It is a present state. Having given form to these worlds is already achievement enough. Sharing them is the next natural step, not a need for validation.

If someone crosses this door, they will not find easy answers. They will find reflections. My stories do not seek to guide, but to invite introspection. Those who read them will witness characters confronting their own abysses—and perhaps, in that process, discover something of themselves.

I deeply believe that every person is the main character of their own story. Valuable not for their victories, but for their falls. My works are merely reminders that even in darkness, the experience of existing holds incalculable worth.

This is not a destination.

It is a threshold.