My Approach

I write, but I don’t think “writer” fully captures what I do.

The kind of writing I practice—research-based nonfiction rooted in science, nature, and the human body—requires more than arranging words on a page. It asks for attention and patience. For the willingness to stay with complex material long enough for it to show its structure, the way a plant reveals itself slowly, over time.

Much of my work lives in technical terrain: plant monographs, clinical narratives, evidence-driven inquiry. Studies, mechanisms, systems. Dense material. But information on its own is inert. Without context, it doesn’t orient the reader—it just accumulates.

This is where my approach begins.

When I write, I move through the research the way one moves through a thicket—carefully, deliberately, noticing what catches, what opens, what leads somewhere worth following. Facts don’t arrive in neat rows. They intertwine. Patterns emerge only after enough time has been spent among them.

Even in data-heavy work, there’s an undercurrent that resists automation: intuition, synthesis, proportion. Knowing when to linger. Knowing when to prune. Knowing when something has grown as far as it needs to.

I don’t approach this work from above. I enter it as an engaged learner—reading closely, following threads across disciplines, translating what I find into language that can be met without flattening its complexity. My aim isn’t to overwhelm, but to make the terrain navigable.

This is what I work toward: writing that widens perspective and restores a sense of connection—between science and lived experience, between the human body and the larger natural world it belongs to. Writing that reminds us we are not separate from what we study.

Writing like this is slow work. It requires care, revision, and restraint.

And when it comes together—when structure emerges and meaning takes root—it feels, unmistakably, like magic.

That’s the space I write from. And that’s the space I bring to every project I take on.