Frequently Asked Questions
Why do your characters always wrestle with what they’re not saying?
Honestly? Because I do too.
I’ve always been fascinated by what goes unsaid between people—especially in relationships that are supposed to feel safe. The way we hesitate before speaking, the way we edit ourselves mid-sentence, the way silence can fill a room faster than words. That’s the space I write into.
I think a lot of us are carrying things we’ve never named out loud. Grief we’ve swallowed. Desire we’ve downplayed. Love we’ve tiptoed around. We perform so much emotional fluency in daily life, but underneath that, there’s often a quiet ache—or a question—we’re afraid to ask. And that’s what my characters are doing: trying to translate that ache into something honest, even when it’s messy.
So yes—my stories are filled with what’s withheld. Not to frustrate you, but to reflect that strange, tender reality of being human. Because sometimes what we don’t say reveals more than what we do.
Are your characters based on real people?
Not exactly—but they’re emotionally real to me. None of my characters are one-to-one portraits of anyone I know, but they’re often shaped by questions I’ve asked, moments I’ve witnessed, or emotional truths I’ve carried.
Sometimes a line of dialogue will come from something I overheard in a café or a late-night conversation I never forgot. Sometimes a character’s silence reflects a silence I’ve held myself. I don’t borrow lives—I borrow patterns. Emotional textures. The things people feel but don’t always say.
In that way, every character is a kind of composite: part imagined, part felt, and part haunted by something I didn’t know I needed to write until I did.
Will there be a sequel to The Marriage Audit or Permission?
Not in the traditional sense—but their stories continue.
I write standalones that quietly live in the same world. So, while The Marriage Audit and One Last Verse tell complete stories, certain characters—like Jack, Beau, Sophia, Theodora, and Harper—appear across books in unexpected ways.
You might see a quiet lunch scene from one novel echoed as a turning point in another. A voicemail in one story might answer a silence from a different book. I love writing into those emotional echoes.
So, while you won’t find “Book Two” on the cover, you will find threads that deepen as you move through the world. And yes—some doors remain open on purpose.
Which character is your favorite—and why?
The author’s too polite to say it, so I will. It’s me — Theodora!
Let’s be honest—I get the best lines. I say what the others won’t. I wear the vest. If there’s a scene with a glass of wine, emotional truth bombs, and someone’s ex being dissected with forensic precision? I’m in it.
Penelope has her broody elegance, Sophia has her soft strength, Harper has her ghosts—but I’m the one who sees through the smoke.
Where are your books set—and are those places real?
Most of my books are set in Louisiana, particularly around New Orleans, Lafayette, and the quieter in-between places that don’t always make the map but leave a mark.
Some locations are real—Esplanade Ridge, St. Charles Avenue, small-town Texarkana dive bars—but others are fictionalized composites drawn from memory, family stories, and long drives with the windows down.
The plantation in The Weight of Ash and Prayer, for example, isn’t one specific place—it’s a ghost story built from many.
And the roadside motels and hollow rooms of One Last Verse? Those are real enough to taste.
So yes, they’re real—but not always in the way GPS would recognize.
Why do your novels connect to each other instead of staying completely separate?
Because people’s lives don’t happen in isolation.
Even if each book stands on its own, I love the quiet thrill of crossing paths again—of catching a glimpse of someone you once knew in the periphery of a different story. In my world, characters move through each other’s lives the way we all do: sometimes briefly, sometimes profoundly, often without knowing the full ripple they’ve caused.
It’s less about sequels and more about echoes—moments that deepen when seen from another angle, or lines of dialogue that mean more because you’ve heard the silence behind them before.
Do you always know how a story will end before you start writing?
Almost never—and I prefer it that way.
I usually begin with a moment, a voice, or a question that won’t leave me alone. The ending reveals itself slowly, shaped by what the characters show me as I follow them through the mess. Sometimes I write toward a feeling instead of a fixed event—a tone I want you to carry when you close the book.
For me, discovery is part of the process. If I knew everything from the start, the writing would feel like coloring inside the lines instead of building the picture as I go. The surprise is what keeps me chasing the story—and hopefully, what keeps you turning the pages.