Christmas Day, 1990. Bucharest. One year after Ceaușescu's execution, Romania held its first free Christmas in four decades. I arrived that morning.
The timing matters. I grew up in a country learning to speak again after decades of enforced silence. Every adult around me carried two vocabularies: the public one they'd used to survive, and the private one they'd kept hidden. Stories were survival tools before they were art.
I write fiction. Short stories most of the time, novels when the idea demands more room, serialized work that lets me stretch a single obsession across months.
The goal is simple: make you feel something you can't unfeel. A sentence that stops your breathing. A scene that visits you three days later while you're doing dishes. Fiction that leaves marks.
I publish a new short story every week. Novels and longer work appear when they're ready. Everything lives here.
If you want writing that stays inside the lines, I'm not your author. If you want something that might rearrange the furniture in your head, stick around.