Writing is a slow, quiet metamorphosis. It begins in the margins of your life, in the quiet spaces between obligations, and eventually, it becomes the very air you breathe. When people ask what it’s like to be an author, I find myself struggling to explain that it isn’t just a career choice—it’s a way of seeing. It’s the constant, internal translation of the world into words, the way a sunset isn’t just a change in light but a metaphor for a character’s fading hope, or how a stranger’s laughter in a crowded room becomes the rhythm for a scene you haven't written yet. ​Growing as a writer is a journey of shedding old skins. In the early days, you are enchanted by the sheer magic of creation, but as you go deeper, you realize that writing is as much about architecture as it is about art. You learn to embrace the "ugly first draft," understanding that you cannot polish a blank page. There is a profound, humbling growth that happens when you realize your first instinct isn't always your best one.

Am I posing? Or am I just holding a filxhan (phil-jun)? Is it espresso? American? Or the one that leaves black sludge in the bottom? You may think it’s a prop. Or think I’m acting. You may even think this is a pose. It’s not. It’s just another Wednesday morning. Light hits your face and honks hit your ears. Living room becomes a green room, becomes a studio, then a room again. It’s a familiar morning aroma, that feels like home.

I love this city. I know a lot of people do. For me, it’s a different kind of love. I first moved here in 2012. Before the Freedom Tower was erected, but after 9-11. I lived downtown in the Financial District and attended a training program in television advertising. The energy on the streets was much needed after a rough recession that hit my home of Detroit with the fallout of the auto industry which shook the Motor City. I loved this city so much. In the 11 years that passed since my return, all I could think about was coming back. I have lived in 14 cities, five states, and three New York City neighborhoods from the time I turned 18. None can compare to this city.

We live in a time when photographs are everywhere. Our phones hold thousands of images - faces caught mid-laugh, posed group shots, carefully angled selfies. And yet, for all this visual abundance, truly meaningful portraits are increasingly rare. The kind of image that doesn’t just show what you look like, but quietly conveys who you are. A well-made portrait does something subtle and powerful. It captures essence rather than performance. It reflects a person, a couple, or a family in a way that feels honest and recognizable. When done well, it becomes more than documentation of a moment in time - it becomes a mirror. This is what distinguishes a portrait taken by a trained photographer from a snapshot. The goal isn’t perfection. It’s truth.

My life and career have unfolded at the intersections: my Cuban American heritage and New York upbringing, global cultural traditions and American artistic forms, simultaneously inhabiting the creative and the strategic. I’ve always been drawn to collaboration — the quiet work of listening deeply, helping artists articulate what they want to make, and then building the structure, the partnerships, and the resources that allow those ideas to flourish.