The Beginning:

For me, 2001 was the defining moment. Following a severe injury in the line of duty—detached retinas that left me temporarily blind—my world went black. 

I was a San Jose Police Detective accustomed to solving crimes with my eyes wide open. Suddenly, I had to learn to see the world with them closed.

While my body learned to move in new ways, my voice found a new medium. During my recovery, I opened a small, candlelit sanctuary on Monterey's historic Cannery Row. It was called "The Masked Pen."

By day, I was still "Badge #3079," investigating the hardest realities of life. But by night, surrounded by feather quills, magnifying glasses, and parchment, I became a ghostwriter for the heart.

My toughest clients were my own colleagues—hardened police officers who could command a crime scene but couldn't find the words to tell their wives they loved them. They would come to me, and I would become their voice. 

The Monterey Herald dubbed me "A Cannery Row Cyrano," a detective offering answers in love.

That period of darkness was the spark for everything that followed. It taught me that "Your penned correspondence will linger long after the last word has been read."

Today, as I celebrate 25 years in media, I am no longer the "Masked" pen. But the detective's magnifying glass and the dancer's rhythm remain. They are the tools I use to direct, to write, and to tell stories that look beyond the surface—because I know what it means to truly see.

An avid runner, I was devastated when the injury took away the pavement. I couldn't run, but I refused to sit still. In the safety of my home, I stepped onto a treadmill. 

Unable to see the belt moving beneath my feet, I relied on touch, rhythm, and trust.

I didn't just walk; I learned to dance. I spun and moved in the dark, developing a "sixth sense" of proprioception that I use to this day when choreographing films like "The Lounge: After Dark."