Writer. Wordsmith. Storyteller.

Some people fall into storytelling.
I rose into it—slowly, deliberately—like smoke curling from a fire that refused to go out.

I was the kid who read cookbooks and encyclopedias for fun. The girl who memorized the dictionary while most kids played tag. (Note: Yes, I’ve played tag.) Words were never just tools—they were refuge. Rebellion. Armor. A way to carve clarity out of chaos.

I learned early that a well-placed sentence could land harder than a slap—and that truth, when spoken with elegance, could shake the air around you.

I became a pharmacist. A mother. A protector of people’s stories, even when they didn’t know how to tell them.
And yet—I kept coming back to the blank page.
The midnight hours.
The characters who burned through the quiet, asking to be written.

T.L. Johnson was never just a pen name.
She’s the distilled version of me—the sharpest edge of my voice, the part that refuses to flinch.

I write for the ones who’ve lived through the storm and still reach for the rose.

For readers who crave tension, justice, intimacy—and prose that doesn’t apologize for being both smart and sexy.

My stories are atmospheric. Emotionally rich. Sometimes moody, always human.
I don’t believe in tidy endings or hollow tropes.
I believe in earned love, flawed heroes, and heroines who’ve clawed their way out of other people’s expectations.

I write because silence never suited me.
I publish because some storms deserve to be seen.

T.L. Johnson