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Humorous, honest writing about shame, identity, and the search for belonging. |
| Floorbound is a raw, darkly funny memoir about shame, identity, and the strange ways we learn to belong. It follows a narrator who grows up feeling out of place in his own skin and in the world around him, carrying secrets he doesn’t yet have language for. Through humor, reflection, and a willingness to sit in uncomfortable truths, the story traces how he unravels old patterns, confronts the weight of silence, and slowly builds a life that feels like his own. It’s a book about survival, self‑discovery, and the quiet courage of finally telling the truth. |
| I’m officially a soon‑to‑be‑published author. My debut memoir, Floorbound, is now available for preorder. It’s hard to put into words what this moment feels like. This book has lived in my head and on my hard drive for years — writing, rewriting, second‑guessing, and finally deciding to let it out into the world. It’s a story about identity, surrender, humor, and the strange ways we find connection. It’s messy, honest, and sometimes ridiculous in the best possible way. Floorbound launches on May 15, 2026. If you’d like to support the book early, you can preorder the ebook now. The paperback will be available soon as well. Over the next few weeks, I’ll be sharing more about the writing process, the themes behind the book, and what it’s been like to bring this project into the light. For now, I’m just grateful to finally say the words: it’s real, and it’s coming. Thank you for reading, supporting, and being part of this strange, vulnerable, exciting moment. Floorbound is available for preorder here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GRZ95W6M |
| I recently posted on Reddit about whether I should publish my memoir, I expected… well, I wasn’t sure what I expected. The internet is unpredictable. Sometimes you get thoughtful feedback, sometimes you get chaos, and sometimes you get a stranger telling you to “just Google it.” But the responses I received were surprisingly grounded. No one told me not to publish. No one tried to shame me. Most people simply reminded me of something I already knew: memoirs by non‑famous people rarely make money. And honestly? That was reassuring. I’ve never approached Floorbound with the fantasy of becoming a bestseller. I’m not delusional. I’m not expecting a movie deal or a book tour. If I become a hundredaire from this book, that’s enough. I’ll frame the royalty statement. My niche audience already exists — I see them on my author Instagram. They’re a small, loyal group who connect with the fetish‑adjacent parts of my story, the strange little corners of childhood that shaped me. And that’s totally fine. A niche is still an audience. A niche is still a community. A niche is still someone saying, “I see myself in this.” But the truth is, the memoir isn’t for the niche. Not entirely. It’s for the kid I was, the one who didn’t have language for his quirks, who didn’t know what acceptance looked like until his father — gruff, awkward, and utterly unequipped for emotional conversations — gave it to him anyway. It’s for the adult I became, who spent years carrying shame that never belonged to him. And it’s for anyone who has ever felt strange, or out of place, or convinced that their story wasn’t worth telling. My biggest hesitation has never been about sales. It’s about permanence. Once a book is out in the world, there’s no taking it back. You can’t unpublish a truth. You can’t unring a bell. That’s the part that gives me pause — not fear, exactly, but respect for the weight of it. Still, the more I sit with it, the more I realize that “permanence” is also the point. Shame thrives in silence. Stories lose their power when they stay locked away. And if my book reaches even one person who needs it — someone who grew up feeling odd or misunderstood, someone who’s still trying to untangle the knots of their childhood — then it wasn’t written in vain. I don’t need a wide audience. I don’t need fame. I don’t need to sell thousands of copies. I just need the story to land where it’s meant to land. If that makes me a hundred-aire, I’ll take it. |
| I didn’t set out to write a book. I didn’t even set out to write anything coherent. My therapist had given me what felt like the easiest assignment in the world: “Write down whatever you want.” No structure. No prompts. No rules. Just… write. So I did. I wrote about everything. Getting older. My body doing strange, inconvenient things. Politics that made my blood pressure spike. Sports that made it spike for different reasons. Random memories. Petty grievances. Big questions. It was a grab‑bag of whatever crossed my mind on a given day. But as the pages piled up, something uncomfortable kept resurfacing. No matter where I started, I always seemed to end up in the same place: the two fetishes I discovered when I was ten years old, and the shame that attached itself to them like a shadow I couldn’t outrun. I didn’t plan to write about that. In fact, I’d spent most of my life trying not to. Those early discoveries had made me feel like an outsider before I even had the language for what I was feeling. I grew up believing that desire was something to hide, something that made me strange, something that needed to be managed or minimized or scrubbed out entirely. Shame became a second skin, and I wore it for decades. But journaling has a way of ignoring the stories you think you’re supposed to tell and dragging you toward the ones you actually need to face. Every time I tried to write about something else, the shame came back, tapping me on the shoulder. “We’re not done,” it seemed to say. “Try again.” Eventually, I stopped fighting it. I let myself write the stories I’d avoided for years — the awkwardness, the secrecy, the confusion, the desire, the fear of being found out. I wrote about the ways those early experiences shaped me, distorted me, protected me, and haunted me. I wrote about the long, uneven road toward accepting myself, not just in theory but in practice. Somewhere in that process, the writing shifted. It stopped feeling like journaling and started feeling like something with a spine. A shape. A pulse. I didn’t know it was a book yet, but I knew it was more than private scribbling. My therapist knew it too. One day, after I’d read a passage aloud, he said, “You know… this could help people. You should think about sharing it.” I laughed, because the idea of publishing something so personal felt absurd. But the seed was planted. And as I kept writing, the shame that had once kept me silent started to loosen its grip. The more I told the truth on the page, the more I realized I wasn’t writing about shame — I was writing through it. That’s how my memoir ‘Floorbound’ began: not as a grand plan, but as a quiet, stubborn act of honesty. A notebook. A therapist. A lifetime of secrets finally given space to breathe. And the realization that maybe the story I’d spent years hiding was the one I was meant to tell all along. |
| When I was a kid, my dad did something unconventional. It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t inappropriate. But it shaped the entire architecture of my adult identity. It was the moment where comfort, confusion, and connection collided — and I didn’t have the language to understand it until years later. Every major decision I made as an adult traces back to that imprint. Including the moment I realized I’d finally gone too far. 'Floorbound' is the story of how a strange childhood quirk became a lifelong compass — one that led me into desire, shame, secrecy, and eventually, a kind of self‑acceptance I never thought possible. It’s not a trauma memoir. It’s not a coming‑out story. It’s something messier — a reckoning with the quiet moments that shape us, the ones we don’t talk about because they’re too weird, too tender, or too hard to explain. This blog is the first step in telling that story. And maybe, in finally letting it be seen. 'Floorbound' Arriving Pride Month 2026. Another piece of the story next week. Updates coming as Pride Month gets closer. |
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