The ocean is the metaphor for what I do, for the part of me that always held on, always called to me. It's one thing that's always been mine — something I never forgot I loved, even when I forgot who I was. Returning to the ocean was returning to myself.

That's what I want to help you do: Find the words for the things that have always been yours, that resonate deepest in you. Perhaps it's a grandmother's recipe. A regional tradition. The craft that's been in the family for generations or that arose so strongly in you that it may as well have been a part of you forever. The mission born from lived experience. The thing your hands know even when your words fail.

But, the ocean wave on my logo isn't just my story. Perhaps it's yours, too.

It's been a long, dark night with waves steadily crashing. The sun's rays are just beginning to brighten the horizon. And, in the midst of that pre-morning sky, something bright is glittering — the thing that feels like it's always been you.

Let's bring a voice to that shining spark so your customers can connect with the real you — and return because the spark they connect with in you is precious, in some way, to them, too.

Food & beverage brands are my heart. Breweries, distilleries, wineries, restaurants, artisan food makers, farmers markets and craft producers. If you create something people taste, drink, or experience with their senses — if your work ties back to heritage, terroir, tradition or craft — I get you.

Food and wine events, festivals, and their promoters. Whether you're running a beer festival, a wine tasting series, a culinary event, or are promoting farm-to-table experiences, you need someone who understands the sensory world you're creating and can translate that into words that fill seats and create anticipation. I can do that.

I also work with artists and artisans whose work comes from the soul — painters, sculptors, potters, fiber artists, jewelers, woodworkers, anyone whose hands know things their words can't always say.

And nonprofits whose missions are born from lived experience, the ones who didn't choose this work but had this work choose them.

If your identity is tied to your craft, if you have that one fundamental piece you must not discard, if you need someone who can sit with you in the complexity and help you find the words — I'd love to work with you.

I spent a decade embedded in the food and beverage scene during the years when that part of the industry stopped apologizing and started leading. But my connection to this world goes back further — to “helping” in my dad’s diner when I was only 3; to playing in barns and fields on my family’s farms and helping my mother bake bread from scratch with wheat ground in my grandmother's countertop stone mill. Eventually, my love for the craft of well-made meals led me to work in chef-driven, farm-to-table restaurants when “chef-driven” and "farm-to-table" sat on the cusp of becoming buzzwords.

I was a server, a bar-back, a counter-service worker, a bartender, a barista because I loved this world and the gorgeous, delightful, nourishing things that came out of the kitchens where I worked. I was a server because I found I was exceptionally skilled at talking to people about the foods created in exceptionally good kitchens, and it took little more than my dripping descriptions with baked-in enthusiasm to win the chance to serve dish-after-dish to my willing patrons.

I could list a bunch of places where I worked — both in Ontario, Canada and around Atlanta, Georgia — but does it really matter that I worked in the restaurant created by the chef who brought Slow Food to Ontario, where the baker sourced heritage Red Fife wheat and found a local farmer to grow and mill it for her? Is it to my credit that I learned wine and food pairings after being befriended by a sommelier from Tawse Winery, an organic, biodynamic winery in Niagara-on-the-Lake?

I would gladly heap the credit for my expansive education in food and wine, craft beers and cocktails upon the many chefs, bakers, sommeliers, mixologists, brewers and distillers I've met and worked with over the past twenty years.

I will say that I'm proud to have seen the value of volunteering for The Giving Kitchen years before it would win the James Beard Humanitarian Award in 2019 for its work supporting food service workers in times of crisis. And I'm proud to have advocated for Slow Food — both in Ontario and in Atlanta — when most people didn't even know what “Slow Food” was. (Many still don't. I continue to educate people about what it is.)

And I'm glad I understood what truly good food is before discovering and exploring the fantastic fare available in Greece and in England.

It's been years since I worked in a restaurant or bar, but I still feel a profound connection to the people involved in creating what exists only in restaurants, where necessity is transformed into art.

I walk into restaurants and watch the bartenders, the servers, the kitchen (if I can get a peek) — the spontaneous choreography of it all — and I ache, I miss it so much. That world makes sense to me in a way few other things do: The rhythm of service; the perfection (or imperfection) of a deliberately plated dish; the elements used to create a meal steeped in sensory lavishness. The way you could connect with a person over something as simple as the way they ordered their drink.

So you see, it's not my intention to take advantage of some “clever niche” positioning, in wishing to work with F&B brands. It's the closest I can come to being home — with my people, the people I love. It's my way of diving back into the world where I was successful, whole, alive.

This is my way of being a part of your stories, once again — but this time, with more than luscious descriptions spilling from my lips to a few hungry people's ears.

This time, I'm lending my writer's craft, too.

Yes, as close as possible.

Something I learned through the years of putting myself aside to serve others was exactly that: In putting myself aside, I could listen to others’ needs, perceive their depths, and could anticipate what they might want next before they ever asked.

I’ll ask you questions so I can get to know you, but part of the process is just getting you talking so I can know what you sound like when you’re relaxed.

And, if you want to learn how to write about yourself, I have one-on-one coaching classes and group classes to help you learn to write more evocatively, more honestly, and to stop being embarrassed by showing who you fully are. 

Because I'm listening for what you're NOT saying. I need to hear your rhythm, your pauses, and the way your voice changes when you talk about the things that matter most.

I listen to the recordings later to hear what I didn't fully absorb when I was face-to-face with you — the questions that arise, the threads I need to pull — and to ensure I got all the facts of your story correct.

Recording is non-negotiable. If you won't let me record you, I unfortunately cannot work with you. Not because I'm fussy about it, but because it's necessary for my process.

(If you're concerned about the recordings and want to know more, please check out my Recording Policy.)

Honestly, there's no one who's "terrible at interviews." There are people who don't think they have anything "good" to say in interviews, and there are interviewers who don't know how to track down the "good stuff" — or to create a comfortable, welcoming environment where the person interviewed wants to talk.

And then, there are people who are "good at interviews" and perform a rehearsed, polished version of themselves.

That's not what I'm after.

I grew up observing my dad's genuine way of talking to people, of gently disarming them with unexpected honesty and dry humor. From him, I learned how to talk with people, to ask the questions that make people open up and tell the stories they didn't intend to share. Add to that my years of employment in restaurants and bars, where my honesty and openness became reflexive and my observant nature turned towards making people comfortable enough to forget they're speaking to someone fairly unknown.

Here's how I work: I'll send you a list of questions ahead of time — not so you can rehearse answers, but so you're not walking in blind. You show up. I ask. You talk. I listen for the gold — those moments when you forget you're supposed to sound a certain way and you just... tell me what makes you who you are.

The best interviews are the ones where you stop performing and start remembering, where you describe the thing with your hands before you find the words —where you pause because you're trying to get it right, not just get it said.

You don't have to be good at this. I'm good at this. You just have to show up, talk — and trust me to hear what matters.

Most writers mask the strength of their words with humor, with quirk, with self-deprecation. (Not that there's anything wrong with that; I appreciate a well-turned phrase.)

But that's not my strength. Mine is in honesty, in evocative language used to communicate depth, and restrained when that's best for the same ends.

Other writers interview you once and fill in the blanks. I record everything and listen for the patterns, for metaphors you use unthinkingly, without realizing are perfect — that are important because they're what you keep returning to.

Other writers want to make you sound professional. I want to make you sound TRUE.

No — because I don't compete with my tools.

Look, AI is incredibly powerful. With the right prompts and enough context, AI can analyze patterns, suggest structures, tighten language, even mimic voice. It's getting better every day. And yes, I use it — the same way a chef uses a sous vide or a woodworker uses a lathe. It's a tool that helps me refine and polish, not something I'm using to fake my way through a craft that took a lifetime to learn.

But here's what AI can't bring to your project:

A lifetime of writing experience. 20 years embedded in the food and beverage world. A photographic memory for flavors, scents, textures. The ability to sit with you for 90 minutes and make you comfortable enough to say the thing you've been trying to say for years — or to share that story you never would have thought to share with anyone (even AI.) The empathy born from my own dark history that lets me sit with people in their complexity. The appraisal that comes from day-after-day of lived experience — yielding an understanding of which details resonate most with your audience and which won't.

I was once told that to write, one must live — so I lived, and I wrote — and now, I write better.

I bring the raw material — the interviews, the listening, the synthesis, the sensory knowledge, the assessment of value for a specific purpose. With precious few editors in the world anymore, and so much writing left unedited, unstructured and unimproved — I'm grateful for an assistant as good as AI to help me shape mine.

"Content Writers" who just feed prompts into AI, then copy-paste the results? Yeah, they should be worried.

Me? I'm not competing with my tools. I'm using them to do better work — and more of it.

(Want to know more about my relationship with AI? Check out this article and subscribe for more writing about AI and the other tools I use in my Substack newsletter, Charting The Blue!)

Nope — to both.

As much fun as it is for me to play with on my own time, I'm a Writer, not a Brand Strategist — and they can help figure out your logo/colors/vibe MUCH faster than I can. If you need help with your visual brand identity and/or brand strategy, I know some excellent people and resources I'd be happy to recommend.

But once you know who you are?

Come on back. I'd love to help you put who you are into words.

It depends on what you need.

If you want ongoing content — articles, blog posts, regular storytelling that keeps your voice consistently you — you’ll want to sign up for my Subscription Services. I offer tiers for businesses from startups through to businesses who need a marketing team, but don’t have one.

If you need your full brand story told — the deep dive that becomes your About page, founder's story, brand narrative — you’ll want my Brand Storytelling Services. 

If your website needs to sound more like you, check out my Website Services. I offer a complete overhaul services and 3 tiers of Website Maintenance, depending on how often your website needs updating.

And, if you’re a nonprofit, artist or young business, you definitely want to check out my Emerging Voice Scholarships — created just for you!

Not a nonprofit, artist or young business but still want in on my sweet-n-savory discounts?  Get inspired by stories of successful business owners who have made it while being themselves (Rippling Currents), or follow along as I share business tips and tools (Charting The Blue) in my weekly Substack newsletters.

Paid Substack subscribers get 5-15% off services depending on membership level.

Subscribe below and learn more about membership benefits HERE.

Stay connected. I write two newsletters:

Charting The Blue — Charting a course through the day-to-day of running a business: Practical Insights, Tool Reviews, and Lessons Learned.

Rippling Currents — Origin stories of how successful businesses grew through genuine connection.

Both are free. Both have paid tiers if you want member benefits and discounts on services.

I'll also be launching writing courses soon — short, focused courses on finding your voice, conducting interviews, and writing stories that connect. If that interests you, join either newsletter and you'll hear about them when they launch.

And if you just want to explore whether we're a fit, send me an email. I'm happy to have a 20-minute conversation about what you're working on and where you want to be. Just CLICK HERE to go to my booking page.

I live in Florida's Space Coast, about 20 minutes (or one bridge across the Intracoastal Waterway) from the ocean. Eventually, I'll live close enough to hear the waves from my window — hopefully on a catamaran, though maybe on a coastal home where I can feel the sea spray from my back porch. But for now, 20 minutes is close enough to get there when I need the sand between my toes and the waves within sight and earshot. 

I usually write from my poolside patio or in my home office with the window open so I can bask in the gorgeous, East Coast Florida air. I've been writing in one way or another for my whole life — as a child, to improve my handwriting through letters to penpals and to my favorite grandmother; then, because it was such a joy to express how my mind and heart interpreted the world; and finally, because I found, through Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, that I could literally change my life by identifying and examining the depths within me. (Buy it, seriously. It will change your life.)

I have a photographic memory that my father discovered when I taught myself to read at 3 years old, but that I only discovered in my 30s, after realizing I had exact recollection of events, flavors, scents and experiences unlike anyone else I knew.

I have a complicated relationship with Oxford commas: I both love to use them and hate being critiqued for using them — so I don’t. (Usually.)

I believe people are mostly good, and that most want to be good (even if and when they’re terribly, categorically bad.) I believe the best relationships are built between real people who aren’t afraid to be themselves — or who are afraid, but are real, anyway.

And, despite my persistent perfectionism, I believe the best stories aren't the perfectly-polished ones — they're the ones where you can feel and connect with the imperfect person behind them.

I love wine like it was the elixir of life, but I'd prefer if I could both have the mouthfeel from the alcoholic viscosity and not get drunk on it so quickly. (Yes, I know, the trick is to drink MORE - but I'd rather not become an alcoholic.)

I can detect and name, with incredible precision, faint nuances in wines, beers, spirits and cocktails. I can pick out the perfect beverage to complement your meal - and that beverage doesn't even have to be alcoholic. I can make a drink that'll make you want to fall in love with cocktails, if you're still a novice, and that can make you remember why you ever wanted to try cocktails in the first place.

Oh, and my husband and I collect tiki mugs, tiki books, and pretty much anything related to tiki.

"What's tiki?" you ask?

Think: the Mai Tai, the Zombie, the Hurricane, the Painkiller — all of those boozy, rum-laden, often extremely potent cocktails created in the 1940s and '50s, usually served in fancy-cool ceramic mugs with flowers and mint sprigs as garnishes. You're sure to find them in paradise-like bars (e.g., the Mai-Kai in Fort Lauderdale) bedecked with shrunken heads and Polynesian tribal masks and plenty of hula-girls (and boys), all of which sweeps you away as soon as you step inside, where you're suddenly transported to another world that's done away with all of the "normal people" rules. THAT'S tiki.

As you can see, this isn't just a hobby. It's part of how I experience life and connect with the world — in the same way I understand and connect to your voice, your story, your craft and translate it into written words so others can connect to you, too.

(Want the recipes for these paradise-inspired cocktails? I'm creating The Mermaid's Ocean - a Substack guide to classic tiki cocktails, wine, spirits, and craft beverages with original recipes, history, and tasting notes. Join the list for FREE ACCESS to Volume I when it's ready in February.)