I am a writer and a lifelong entrepreneur of the written word

I’m passionate about transforming great ideas into inspiring stories, campaigns, and experiences.

I’ve written about religion and the environment (and sometimes, when I’m feeling multi-tasky, religion and the environment). My writing has appeared in SiriusXM/Stitcher, Rolling Stone, The Believer, Narratively, NPR's The Salt, and Buzzfeed, as well as the climate anthology, All We Can Save. As a proud Utahn and recovering ex-Mormon, I’ve delved into stories about the strange world of Mormon survivalist food, LDS dance propaganda films, and fundamentalist towns in transition.

I also lend my storytelling skills to brands and emerging writers. I've worked with some of the biggest names in the business to connect, convert, and inspire, and helped emerging writers craft successful book proposals and podcast pitches — building on my experience in developing stories from my MFA in Creative Writing at NYU.

Let’s put it this way: if it involves words, I'm involved in it.

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What's up next

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What's up next ✏️

🎙️🛶 Mirage: a podcast about water, the disappearing Colorado River, and the human tendency to lie to ourselves. Read more.

📖 The Doomsday Book: a mix of memoir and reported essays about my transformation from a God-fearing, doomsday prepping Mormon to a climate organizer. Or, an emotional exploration of facing the end of the world. Read more.

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I want you to read this 👀

A River’s Return

An excerpt from Atmos Magazine. Buy a print copy here.

Climate writing labors under a mandate to supply hope. Devastated but unable to look at the devastation, we want people who will assure us that things will be fine. Hope, we hope, will let us off the hook. After talking to DeHoff and Weisheit, though, I wonder if hope could look like something else.

Imagine you love a river. Imagine that the river starts dying—and then imagine that you stay. Imagine not looking away, imagine noticing. Imagine staying in the lean times, in the hard times, in the times where you think all is lost. Now imagine the cottonwood shoots, the first beaver dam. Imagine a rapid heaving up from the depths, foam in the air.