Christ, what haven’t I been working on? The camera’s been glued to my hand like a holy relic, and somewhere between the shutter clicks and the smell of damp Oregon earth, I decided to start writing it all down. The book, the madness, the miles, the ghosts that still hitchhike in my rearview mirror.

It’s not just a memoir. It’s a damn expedition through memory and asphalt , a fever dream of trail dust, roadside diners, fog-soaked coastlines, and all the strange beauty that’s tried to kill me or keep me sane. The photos are the evidence. The words are the confession.

Every trip bleeds into the next: mountains whispering through the lens, rivers muttering about time, and those long nights out in the woods where the stars feel close enough to burn you clean. I’m stitching it together, not neatly, not politely. But in the way truth demands: raw, cracked, and honest.

So yeah, I’ve been working on that. Turning the chaos into something worth reading, something that feels like the roar of a Nikon shutter in the middle of nowhere. Loud, imperfect, and absolutely alive.