I grew up in Eastern Europe. I live in France now. At some point between those two places, I stopped expecting the world to make complete sense and started writing about it instead.

I have spent years working closely with people. Not the curated version of people but the real ones, with their contradictions, their blind spots, and their remarkable ability to be both right and completely wrong at the same time. That kind of proximity teaches you things no book ever could.

I write in French, in English, and occasionally in Romanian when neither of the other two feels precise enough. The language depends on the story. The sarcasm is consistent across all three.

Some of my books are satirical because the world is generous with material. Others are about grief, friendship, and the quieter damage people do to each other without meaning to. I am interested in both, often in the same book.

My husband has learned to live with a person who has four unfinished manuscripts, strong opinions, and a response time that occasionally skips diplomacy entirely. Our two golden retrievers remain unbothered by all of it. They have never once questioned whether today will be a good day. It always is. Every walk is the best walk. Every meal is a miracle. Every person who enters the house is obviously there specifically for them. Spoiled, delusional, and completely correct about everything. I respect that.

I write because a crowded mind needs somewhere to go. And because some things are better said in a book than at a dinner table.

Scripta Mordent.