Much of my fiction begins with something ordinary: a house, a journey, a classroom, a face remembered from a village road. What interests me is the moment the ordinary stops being sufficient.
The supernatural, for me, is most compelling when it is not decoration. It is a pressure placed upon certainty. The best uncanny writing asks whether the world is stranger than we admit, but it also asks why human beings need stories about the unseen in the first place.
That is the territory I keep returning to—where imagination, memory, fear, philosophy and social life overlap.