WOUNDED TACO

For the past two years, I’ve been writing a book in the margins of my Lone Star life—early mornings, late nights, the in-between hours that don’t belong to anything else. It’s called WOUNDED TACO. It isn’t a traditional novel, and I didn’t set out to write one. I’ve spent most of my career writing clearly, directly, inside systems where the goal is to be understood the first time through. Journalism. Corporate communications. Media relations. This book came from stepping outside of that. Instead of a single storyline, WOUNDED TACO is built from fragments—short transmissions that repeat, shift, and echo each other. You can open the book anywhere. There’s no required starting point. Meaning doesn’t move forward so much as it gathers. There are recurring images: cowboys, television screens, surveillance feeds, fragments of Texas, pieces of memory that don’t quite settle. Some pages feel like signals breaking up. Others feel strangely familiar, like something you almost remember but can’t quite place. If it has a subject, it’s the way we live now—inside media, inside repetition, inside systems that shape how we see and understand the world. I wrote it in Coppell, Texas. In its own way, it’s a Texas book—not in the usual sense of landscape or story, but in its scale, its contradictions, and its willingness to hold together things that don’t naturally fit. It’s not a book that tells you what it means. It’s a book you spend time inside.