Origins

Writing did not come as an ambition. It came as a necessity. As a way to bring order to the bittersweet chaos of life, to give voice to what is not easily said, to understand people before judging them, to record the moments before and after a photo. The things that are not seen and are often forgotten.

Travel became a natural continuation, not to escape, but to see more clearly. Roads, borders, cities, villages, countries, cultures. To observe how people change when their environment changes. How they remain the same.

My love for motorcycles was never just about adrenaline, freedom, and the thrill of the ride. It may have started that way, but it became connected with “purity.” A direct, immediate relationship with the road, the weather, the environment, the body. When everything aligns, the mind falls silent, and the brain fills with pure images. Τhen those images became words.

Life was built alongside writing: work, losses, relationships, journeys, motherhood, and everyday life. Nothing was put on hold to write a book. The books were written within all of this.

But life happens around writing, too. Children grow. Grandchildren arrive. And a cat named Sexy sits nearby, judging every word that keeps me from constantly filling her plate with treats.