Dear Reader

If you’re reading this, welcome. Whether you’ve stumbled upon Plot Bunnies & Papillons by accident, curiosity, or because you’ve read something I’ve written and decided to stick around, I want to say thank you. Sincerely. Because if you’re here, that means you’ve opened yourself up to the kinds of stories I love to tell—and those stories are deeply, fiercely personal.

I write fiction, yes. But what I really write is feeling. Emotion. Mess. Hope. Love. Fear. All the things that make being human so heartbreakingly complicated and beautiful.

And at the core of all of it? I write trauma survivors.

Not as a plot device. Not for shock value. Not for the drama of it all. But because I am one. Because so many of us are. Because surviving trauma changes you. It doesn’t just affect what happened then. It bleeds into your now. Your future. Your relationships. Your self-perception. Your ability to dream.

I write survivors because surviving is not the end of the story—it’s the beginning.

I don’t dwell on the trauma itself in my books. I let it exist. I give it space to be acknowledged. But I never sensationalize it. I never let it become the star. Instead, I focus on what comes after. The clawing back. The fragile re-learning. The inch-by-inch reclamation of identity, power, and self-worth. The shaky, beautiful steps toward freedom, agency, and love.

It is not always clean. Or easy. Or linear. But it is real.

And that brings me to romance.

Why romance? Why not science fiction, fantasy, literary fiction, or thriller? I mean, technically, I write sci-fi romance, so I do love my faraway galaxies and futuristic rebellion, but love is the throughline. Every time. Always.

Because I’m a romantic at heart, sure. But more than that, I believe that the love we choose—the deep, soul-shaking, fierce love of a partner who sees us—can be life-altering. That kind of connection is not a cure. It doesn’t erase the trauma. It doesn’t wave a magic wand and turn someone into the version of themselves they wish they were.

But it can be the mirror we need. The lighthouse in the storm. The hand that doesn’t fix us, but that stays steady while we fix ourselves.

That kind of love is worth writing about.

That’s why I don’t write stories where the hero’s touch magically heals the heroine’s broken heart. I don’t write instant happily-ever-afters that gloss over pain. I don’t believe in romanticizing a partner into a perfect savior who never screws up.

Because that’s not love. That’s fantasy. And frankly? It does a disservice to people who are out here in the real world doing the messy, terrifying work of healing and loving and screwing up and trying again.

So I write messy characters.

I write couples who hurt each other sometimes. Who say the wrong thing. Who don’t always know how to help, but who keep trying anyway. I write stories where love is chosen. Nurtured. Fought for. Stories where characters grow both apart and together because that’s how lasting love actually works.

It’s not easy. But it’s worth it.

Because love, when it’s true and real and mutual, can be the most powerful force in the universe. Not because it saves you. But because it reminds you that you’re worth saving. That you deserve joy. That you can be seen, scars and all, and still be found breathtaking.

I also write about hope.

Sometimes, when you’ve been through hell, hope is the hardest thing to hold onto. It gets slippery. It dims. It disappears behind grief or pain or fear. But even then—even then—hope finds a way.

In my stories, it might come in the form of a partner’s gentle persistence. A friend’s belief. A moment of unexpected laughter. A song. A star. A memory that refuses to die.

Or it might come from within.

Because one of the most important things I want to show is that hope isn’t always given. Sometimes, it’s made. Sometimes, it’s dragged kicking and screaming out of the ashes by someone who refuses to give up. By someone who decides, in a moment of unbearable darkness, to keep going anyway.

Those moments? That decision to try again, to fight for the light? That’s what makes a survivor powerful.

That’s what makes them a hero. And I want my readers to see that. To feel it. Because maybe they’re surviving too.

Maybe they’re struggling in silence. Or healing. Or trying to forgive themselves. Or trying to forgive someone else. Or trying to love again. Or trying to believe they deserve to be loved in the first place.

If that’s you, I want you to know: You do. You do deserve to be loved. You deserve to feel safe. To feel wanted. To feel joy.

And if you don’t believe it yet? That’s okay. Let me hold that belief for you a little while.

Because my stories are not just about tragedy or trauma or love or sex or heartbreak. They’re about choosing.

Choosing to stay. Choosing to fight. Choosing to forgive. Choosing to risk everything for something that might just be worth it.

And every choice matters.

Every action ripples. Every word spoken or left unsaid builds or breaks. Nothing happens in a vacuum. And in a world full of chaos and cruelty and pain, the choice to love, to hope, to reach for something better?

That’s everything.

So, dear reader, if you take anything away from my stories, I hope it’s this:

You are not alone.

Your pain is not too much.

Your healing is not too slow.

Your scars are not a disqualifier for love.

Your journey—whatever shape it takes—is valid.

You are worthy.

And there is hope. Even in the ashes. Especially in the ashes. Because that’s where new things grow.

So… Thank you for reading. Thank you for letting me tell these stories. Thank you for letting them touch your heart.