Have you ever felt like your life is a story being told in two different languages at the same time? One is a scream, and the other is a whisper.

That’s what it’s like for me. My music is the scream. My novels are the whisper.

For a long time, I thought they were separate things. The songs were the raw, chaotic, often painful data dumps from my own internal battlefield—the place where my body feels like corrupted code and my brain feels like it’s broadcasting on a frequency no one else receives. The novels felt like something else entirely: intricate, fictional worlds I built to escape that very chaos.   

But I was wrong. They aren’t separate at all. The songs are not just a soundtrack to the books. They are the emotional source code. They are the diagnostic reports from the front lines, the unfiltered truth of what it feels like to be a Wounded Healer in a world that’s designed to break you. The novels? They are the fully rendered simulations, the worlds and the heroes built from that raw, messy, magnificent data.

This isn’t a marketing gimmick, though. This is the unified field theory of my soul, the operating system I had to forge for myself to survive. It’s a philosophy I call Radical Resilience.   

So, let's take a tour of the Moore Universe. I'm going to pull back the curtain and show you exactly how the screams in my songs become the souls of my heroes. I’ll show you how the anthems of defiance become their manifestos and how the desperate search for a tribe becomes the epic quest at the heart of it all.

Chapter 1: The Wounded Healer's Diagnostic Report (The Music as Character Sheet)

The central character in my universe is the Wounded Healer. This is the person who looks at their scars and chooses to see them not as a source of shame, but as a source of strength. To write that character with any kind of truth, you have to know what the wounds actually feel like. You can’t fake it. My lyrics are my proof of work. They are the hyper-specific, often harrowing medical charts that give my fictional characters their authentic, lived-in pain.   

Charting the Battlefield Within

When I write a song, I’m not just trying to capture a feeling; I’m trying to document a physiological state. The song “Anthem for Anxiety” isn’t just about being nervous; it’s about the visceral, somatic reality of a panic attack, the “THUMP-THUMP-THUMP my chest in a grip” that makes you feel like your own body is a cage.   

Then there’s the song “Too Much.” It’s one of the most brutally honest things I’ve ever written. The lines are a direct transcript from my own medical reality: “Eight surgeries deep / Now my heart's giving out” and the desperate question, “Can't tell if it's anxiety / or my failing heart”. I’ve lived that question. I’ve sat in ERs feeling like a case study instead of a person, just like I wrote about in my blog post, “Am I A Narcissist?”.   

That raw data becomes the blueprint for my heroes. When I write about Ivie Larsen in Love, BestieBot, a brilliant coder trapped in her apartment by a debilitating chronic illness—my old friend, POTS—that’s not just a plot device. That’s the lived-in reality of the girl who wrote “Too Much”. When Zahra in The Spaces Between Us battles the daily, grinding exhaustion of her own chronic illness, she’s fighting a war that I first mapped out in the lyrics of my own life. The pain you read on the page is real because it was screamed via lyrics first.   

Broadcasting on a Different Frequency

A huge part of my personal battle has been navigating the world with a neurodivergent brain. It’s a feeling I’ve tried to capture in my music—the sense of being a “satellite in human skin / Pretending that we fit in,” as I wrote in the song “Frequency”. It’s the feeling of speaking in “wavelengths that nobody receives,” of being told you’re “too much” or “too intense” when really, you’re just wired for a wider range. The song “Beautiful Brains” is about that journey, about the pain of being told to “just be normal” and the profound, healing relief of finding “others like me, / with their own beautiful brains” and realizing your different isn’t something you need to change.   

This lyrical theme isn’t just backstory; it’s the literal superpower of the protagonist in The Connectivity Hypothesis. The book’s hero is an autistic student whose sensory overload isn’t an obstacle to be overcome; it’s the very thing that allows her to perceive a world-saving truth that no one else can see. The feeling of being a “satellite in human skin” from “Frequency” became the entire plot. Her neurodivergence isn’t a bug; it’s the feature that allows her to save the world.   

There’s a reason for this almost obsessive specificity in my work. The act of documenting these wounds—the potential heart failure, the emancipation at 16, the daily war with POTS—serves a crucial purpose. It’s a passport. It’s the credential that grants me, and by extension, my characters, the authority to speak from the world of the Wounded Healer. It’s a way of saying to you, my reader, “I have been to this dark place. I have the stamps to prove it. You can trust the stories I tell about it.” It makes the resilience that follows feel earned, not preached. It’s the difference between a tourist talking about a warzone and a native guide who can show you the way out.

Chapter 2: The Rebel's Manifesto (The Music as Inciting Incident)

My stories don’t just happen in a vacuum. My heroes don’t just wake up one day and decide to be resilient. They are forced into it. The inciting incident for nearly every novel I write is the moment a system fails them. The rage and frustration you hear in my music against those broken systems? That’s the “once upon a time” for my fictional worlds.

The System is the Sickness

I’ve poured so much of my anger into my lyrics. The song “Keep on Tryin’” is a furious indictment of a mental healthcare system that leaves you “Drowning slow in shallow water / while they're watching from the shore,” citing a “rehab's got a waitlist six months deep” and insurance that “won't approve it”. My blog post, “The Financial Cost of Chronic Illness,” documents the brutal reality that medical issues are a factor in over 60% of all personal bankruptcies in this country, a system designed to push people into ruin.   

That rage is the narrative prequel to my novels. The fury in “Keep on Tryin’” is the reason Ivie Larsen from Love, BestieBot exists. She doesn’t code an AI friend for fun; she codes one because she has been so profoundly failed by every single system that she has to literally build her own support network from scratch. The dignity-first model for change that Zahra and Adrian build with their lottery winnings in The Spaces Between Us is a direct, architectural response to the kind of systemic failure I scream about in my lyrics and document in my blog posts. The problem in the song becomes the solution in the novel.   

The Scars That Testify

The most important part of the Wounded Healer’s journey is the pivot. It’s the moment the pain is alchemized into power. My music is filled with these anthems of defiance. It’s the explosive joy in “Ridin’ Smooth,” moving “From barely holding on to holding what you made”. It’s the raw, defiant scream in “Watch Me,” a direct address to everyone who broke your wings: “Hey, fuckers, watch me fly now”.   

Every single one of my heroes has a “Watch Me” moment. It’s the point where they stop being a victim of their circumstances and become the architect of their future. It’s the climax where they look at the very thing that was supposed to destroy them and turn it into their greatest weapon. It’s the moment they realize their scars aren’t a sign of damage, but a blueprint for building a better world. That, right there, is the heart of Radical Resilience.

This connection between my life and my art has become a strange and powerful loop. My own creative process is a real-life example of this very theme. As I’ve written about, I live with disabilities like POTS and a tremor that make the traditional writing process—sitting at a keyboard for hours—a painful, sometimes impossible, endurance test. That’s a broken system for me. So, I did what my characters do: I hacked it. I built my own operating system using technology—voice notes, mind-mapping software, and AI editing tools—to bypass my body’s limitations.   

I am a Wounded Healer, a disabled writer, who, when faced with a broken system, wants to try to build a better one. This is the exact plot of Love, BestieBot, where a coder with POTS, failed by every system, builds an AI to save herself. My real life has become a meta-narrative for my fiction. The very process I use to create my art is an act of Radical Resilience that is identical to the plots I create. It’s a loop of art imitating life imitating art, and I’m living right in the middle of it.   

Chapter 3: The Found Family's Anthem (The Music as Emotional Blueprint)

So what’s the point of all this healing and defiance? It’s to find your people. The ultimate goal of every journey in the Moore Universe is the forging of a Found Family. This isn’t a social luxury; it’s a biological necessity, the antidote to the profound loneliness of modern life. My lyrics chart the full, messy, painful, and triumphant spectrum of that search, providing the emotional blueprint for the relationships in my novels.   

Love as a Crucible

Before you can find the people who will love you for who you are, you often have to walk through the fire of the relationships that taught you what love isn’t. My music is full of that fire. It’s the quiet heartbreak of unresolved history in “Never Quite Lovers”. It’s the deep, foundational wound of familial trauma in “Lonely Mother,” the pain of a love lost. It’s a pain I know intimately.

That journey through the crucible is the necessary backstory for my characters. They have to know the disease before they can appreciate the cure. The pain in “Broken Daughter” is the ghost that haunts them, the reason why the secure, accepting, unconditional love they eventually find in their tribe feels so goddamn revolutionary. The healing sanctuary of a song like “You Are The Cure,” where love is a “divine manifestation,” only feels that powerful because we’ve seen the wreckage left by the relationships that came before it.   

The 'Nat 20' of Friendship

My song “Rollin’ With My Party” isn’t just a song; it’s the mission statement for almost every book I write. It literally frames a group of friends as a Dungeons & Dragons party, a collection of “broken-hearted bards” who gather together to face down life’s monsters as a collaborative unit. From the “Misfit Survivors” who become a “weird, dysfunctional, slightly broken family” in Brace For It, to the entire D&D-campaign-turned-epic-fantasy of The Trilogy of Thalvannar, the story is always the same: a group of outsiders and weirdos who find each other and realize their collective strength is their greatest weapon.   

That core message from the song, “Nat 20 when together, nothing we can't beat,” is the thesis of the entire Moore Universe.   

This use of geek culture isn’t just a personal quirk. It’s a highly effective way to build a community. Plus, I'm a huge nerd. The language of TTRPGs acts as a cultural filter and a magnet. It bypasses generic platitudes about friendship and forges an immediate, deep connection with a specific tribe that is already built around the core values of collaboration, shared storytelling, and celebrating the very “otherness” I write about. It’s a targeted strategy for turning the fictional concept of a Found Family into a real-world community of readers and dreamers. It’s how I find my people.

Conclusion: One Story, Many Wavelengths

So, there it is. The music is the raw nerve, the exposed wiring of a life lived on the front lines of physical, mental, and systemic battles. The novels are the resilient, complex, and beautiful machines built from that wiring. They are different expressions—different frequencies—of the same core story of Radical Resilience.

This universe—the music, the mythos, this blog—it’s not just my story. It’s a lighthouse for other Wounded Healers. It’s a tavern for broken-hearted bards. It’s a signal boost for everyone who feels like they’re broadcasting on a frequency no one else receives.

The world doesn't need another curated persona. It needs you. It needs me. It needs us.