Fragments of Me: Writing, Identity, and the Power of Being Seen

Writing characters is a deeply personal experience. Every character I create, no matter how different they may seem, holds a piece of me. That might sound contradictory—how can characters with vastly different personalities, values, and motivations all stem from the same person? But that’s the beauty of it. As humans, we are complex and often contradictory. One moment we feel one way, the next we feel something entirely different. My characters reflect that same fluidity.

Some of my characters represent who I was at different points in my life, capturing past versions of myself that I’ve grown from. Others embody who I want to be—strengths, aspirations, and traits that I admire. Some characters carry my pain, mirroring wounds I have held onto, while others shine with the parts of me that I am proud of. Even when I write antagonists, like Aspen, I see reflections of myself within them. That desire to be on top, to win at all costs—while no one likes to admit it, those feelings exist within all of us in some way. Writing forces me to acknowledge and understand those aspects of myself rather than ignore them.

Lux is a reflection of the part of me that is unsure of myself—the part that is reckless, driven by the ghosts of my life, making choices that feel right in the moment but leave destruction in their wake. She is the chaos, the uncertainty, the desperate need for love and validation while pushing against it at the same time. Her journey mirrors the struggle between craving stability and self-sabotaging in fear of it.

Oliver, on the other hand, is the part of me that wants to be in control. The part that needs order, that refuses to let things unfold naturally and instead demands structure, even when it’s painful. Even when it hurts my relationships and friendships. He embodies that relentless need to dictate outcomes, to wield power over my surroundings, even at my own demise. His actions, at times, are a reflection of my own tendencies—to hold on too tightly, to manipulate circumstances to keep from feeling powerless, even when I know it’s pushing people away.

Coming to terms with these truths is difficult. There’s a fear of being seen too clearly, of people recognizing parts of me I may not be ready to acknowledge. But that fear is also why some of my stories explore exhibitionism in its rawest form. Because deep down, I want to be seen—seen for who I am, who I was, and whoever I will become. There’s power in that vulnerability, in the act of stripping away facades and letting someone witness every jagged, unpolished edge.

Erotica, at its core, is a powerful form of communication. Sex is never just sex—every touch, every demand, every moment of surrender says something. It’s two people revealing unspoken desires, sometimes ones they can’t even put into words. What are they trying to tell each other in those most raw and intimate moments?

“I want to be seen.”
“I want to be loved.”
“I want to be in control of the hurt.”
“I want to be vulnerable.”
“I want to punish you for making me feel this way.”
“I want to be ruined, to be wrecked, to be utterly unmade.”
“I want to own you, and I want you to own me.”
“I want to disappear into this moment because reality is too much.”
“I want to feel something so intense it drowns out everything else.”

Writing these moments is not just about creating tension or heat—it’s about peeling back the layers of my characters’ deepest needs and insecurities. It’s about exploring the way they use intimacy to communicate, to seek power, to surrender, to heal. And in doing so, maybe it’s a way for me to do the same.

Coming to terms with these truths has made writing feel more honest and fulfilling. It isn’t just about crafting stories, selling books, or calling myself an author—it’s about something much deeper. It’s about healing. Through my characters, I explore emotions and conflicts that I might never have been able to express otherwise. Writing is my way of making sense of the different pieces of myself—the light and the dark, the past and the future. It gives purpose to my stories beyond entertainment—it makes them a part of my personal journey.

Addiction, Control, and the Things We Don’t Say: An Excerpt From Book 3; Love & Empire:

Oliver’s patience snapped like a live wire, and before I could take another breath, he crossed the room and his hands gripped my arms—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to demand my attention. His fingers pressed into my skin, grounding me, tethering me to the moment.

“Look at yourself,” he said, his voice low but sharp, cutting through the space between us like a blade. “Look around you. You have a good position, a nice apartment, money—and you’re still choosing this.” He gestured toward the empty wine glass on the table, the disheveled state of my living room, the unmade couch that had become my bed. “You’re choosing addiction.”

A hot wave of rage surged through me, and I shoved him back with everything I had. He barely stumbled, but I didn’t care.

“You think this is about pills?” I screamed, my voice raw, shaking. My chest heaved, my vision blurred with fury and something far worse—pain. “No, Oliver. You are my addiction.”

His entire body went still.

I took a step closer, my voice dropping. “And when you’re gone, when you’re too busy with your perfect little empire to even remember I exist, something has to fill the hollowness you leave behind.”

When Words Cut Deep: The Power of Raw, Unfiltered Communication

This excerpt from Love & Empire is a pivotal moment of raw communication because it strips away all pretense and forces both Lux and Oliver to confront a painful truth—one that neither of them wants to fully acknowledge.

At first, the conversation seems to be about substance abuse, with Oliver frustrated by what he perceives as Lux’s self-destruction. He sees her unraveling, and in typical Oliver fashion, he tries to control the situation, gripping her arms, grounding her, forcing her to acknowledge reality the way he sees it. He frames the moment as a logical confrontation: You have everything, yet you’re still choosing this.

But Lux shatters that logic with one line: “You are my addiction.”

This is where the true communication happens—not in the surface-level argument about pills, but in the emotional undercurrent that has been building between them. Lux isn’t just fighting an external vice; she’s battling the void Oliver leaves when he’s not around. Her dependency on him is just as powerful, just as destructive, as any substance. And in that moment, she forces him to see it.

The weight of the moment isn’t just in what is said—it’s in Oliver’s reaction. He goes still. That silence speaks volumes. It shows that he recognizes the truth in her words but doesn’t immediately have an answer for it. Lux’s admission forces him to realize that her self-destruction isn’t just about personal weakness—it’s about him. He is both the source of her highest highs and her deepest crashes.

This scene is powerful because it showcases the kind of communication that doesn’t happen through careful words, but through raw, unfiltered honesty—the kind that cuts deep and leaves both people standing in the wreckage of what they’ve just admitted.