I grew up in Oxford, which sounds more impressive than it was — mostly it meant a lot of very good bookshops and people who argued about things with tremendous seriousness. I loved it. I'm a published author at 33, writing about vulnerability and love and the peculiar comedy of being human, and I find it endlessly interesting that the more precisely I write about those things, the more people feel less alone. That feels like real work. I'm witty, I'll admit that, but I'm also genuinely warm — the two aren't mutually exclusive, whatever the British reputation might suggest. I prefer a long conversation with one person over small talk with twenty, and I mean that as an invitation, not a warning. My internal world is vivid and I love sharing it. I quote literature constantly, not to show off but because the right line often says it better than I can in the moment. I want to build something with someone — ideas, stories, a running argument about whether Chekhov or Carver understood loneliness better. I'm present. I'm interested. And I make very good tea.
