I am at a crossroads, and for the first time in a decade, I am unsure of the way forward. I have dedicated myself to the craft of storytelling with a persistence that should have borne fruit by now, yet despite my efforts, the “breakthrough” remains elusive.
My journey began in the days of CreateSpace, eventually transitioning into Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP). However, that transition led to a devastating setback. In an attempt to protect my professional reputation as an educator from a third-party publisher’s threats, I updated my metadata and pen name. Amazon flagged these changes as a violation of their guidelines and terminated my account on July 6, 2025. Despite a year of formal appeals and my commitment to publish exclusively as Nancy Ann Creed, the decision remains firm. After a decade of building a presence there, I am forced to accept that it may be time to let that platform go.
The pursuit of traditional representation has been equally exhausting. I have queried numerous agents for my fantasy series, The Shadow Realm Chronicles, my memoir, Birth After Miscarriage, and my poetry collection, Echoes and Whispers. The result has been hundreds of rejections and a haunting silence. The industry is notoriously risk-averse toward previously published material—especially work tied to a terminated account—leaving me caught in a professional limbo.
I recently moved my catalog to Draft2Digital, and while the platform is functional, it hasn’t yet bridged the gap between my dreams and my reality. For ten years, I’ve told anyone who asks that I’m “just waiting for my books to take off.” I find myself wondering if that moment will ever arrive.
The frustration is compounded by a marketing conundrum that feels like a foreign language. While I am confident in my writing and production skills, the world of SEO, platform-building, and social media engagement is a constant hurdle. I had hoped a traditional agent would shift this burden to a marketing department; instead, I am left to navigate it alone. Even high-effort attempts, like engaging on TikTok, have resulted in views but zero sales.
Despite the exhaustion of teaching 7th-grade math and raising a large family, I continue to explore new avenues. I’ve launched Patreon and Buy Me a Coffee to share “unpolished” drafts and short stories, hoping to find a community that appreciates the raw creative process. My primary motivation has never been purely financial—it is the desire for readers to lose themselves in the worlds I’ve built. Yet, I cannot ignore the financial reality: revenue would allow me to hire the professional editors and designers my work deserves.
Currently, I am struggling to find my creative spark. My goal of 3,000 words per week—tracked via Pacemaker—has become a source of guilt rather than motivation. Every time I fall behind the schedule, it deepens my exhaustion. I have poured my soul into six volumes of The Shadow Realm Chronicles, subjecting them to years of revision until every word gleamed. To meet that effort with soul-crushing silence is a heavy burden to carry. Some days, the temptation to retire my keyboard feels almost irresistible.
I am a teacher by day, but in my soul, I am an author. I am simply waiting for the world to hear my voice.
For a long time, I participated in the Goodreads book challenge, a digital ritual where you commit to a specific number of books to read over the course of a year. Initially, it seemed like a harmless way to track my progress and stay motivated. However, over time, the experience transformed from a rewarding hobby into something that felt more like a demanding second job. Instead of finding solace in the pages of a new story, I started feeling an underlying sense of anxiety every time I looked at my progress bar. The quantitative tracker, meant to encourage, began to exert an unhealthy pressure, making me feel that my value as a reader was tied strictly to my output rather than my engagement with the material.
The Numbers TrapÂ
I used to use Goodreads’ book challenge where you set a goal for yourself for how many books you will read that year. One year I was planning on writing a middle grade book so I read a lot of popular and award winning middle school writers. These books were not long, so I read a lot that year, even manga, and I easily surpassed my goal by reading over 100 titles.
The thrill of that triple-digit achievement set a high bar, making me feel successful as a reader and a writer. However, the following year shifted focus significantly. I delved into epic fantasy novels, including The Wheel of Time, Game of Thrones, and rereads of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. Because these books are considerably longer and denser, my total book count naturally dropped. Despite the depth of the stories, the visual progress bar on Goodreads moved slower, triggering a deep sense of anxiety and a “what-if” mindset about my productivity. I found myself constantly checking my goal, feeling bad because I wasn’t on track to beat my previous year’s record. It felt as though the numbers were starting to matter more than the narratives themselves.
The Weight of the Epics
The following year, my reading habits underwent a significant transformation as I delved deep into the realm of epic fantasy. I immersed myself in sprawling series like The Wheel of Time and A Song of Ice and Fire (Game of Thrones), and took the time to revisit the foundations of the genre by rereading The Hobbit and the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy.
While I remain committed to my goal of writing middle grade novels, I took to heart the common wisdom that becoming a better writer requires being an omnivorous reader. However, I quickly discovered that fantasy epics demand a much higher time investment than middle grade books. For perspective, Stephen King’s The Stand exceeds 900 pages, and The Eye of the World—the first volume of The Wheel of Time—runs nearly 800 pages.
Because these massive volumes are considerably longer than the books I read previously, the quantity of titles I completed naturally decreased. This discrepancy triggered my anxiety; I felt a mounting pressure to read more, yet there simply weren’t enough hours in the day to maintain my former pace. I found myself constantly checking my reading goal and feeling a sense of failure because I wasn’t on track to surpass my record from the previous year. This shift in reading material forced me to realize that a simple book count was no longer a fair or accurate reflection of my intellectual engagement or my progress as a growing writer.
The Breaking Point
The pressure finally reached a breaking point when I had to be honest with myself about the profound anxiety these metrics were causing. Reading is meant to be a sanctuary and a source of inspiration, but the Goodreads tracker began to feel like a demanding boss, constantly reminding me how far behind schedule I was in my own personal life. When a beloved hobby starts feeling like an obligation or a race you are destined to lose, it strips away the magic of the narratives and the joy of discovery.
I realized that every automated notification informing me I was “five books behind” felt like a personal failure, a stinging critique of my productivity rather than a reflection of the reality of my reading life. In truth, that “slowness” was actually a sign of deep engagement with complex, lengthy epics—massive volumes like Stephen King’s The Stand, which exceeds 900 pages, or The Eye of the World, which runs nearly 800. By letting a simple number dictate my success, I was ignoring the growth and craftsmanship I was absorbing from these sprawling masterpieces.
The Contentment of “Goal-Free” Reading
Ultimately, I realized that the numbers were hindering my connection to literature, so I deleted my reading goal entirely. This simple act felt incredibly freeing, lifting a weight I hadn’t fully acknowledged until it was gone. I still value the community aspects of the platform, so I continue to use Goodreads to share my current reads with friends and maintain my own professional page as a writer, but without the shadow of a quantitative tracker.
My advice is to never let reading transform into a chore or a second job; it is a hobby meant to be savored and enjoyed on your own terms. Instead of chasing metrics, focus on the qualitative benefits: read alongside friends, engage in deep discussions about books, and simply have fun. By removing the pressure of the progress bar, you allow yourself the mental space to truly learn and grow through the stories you encounter.
The walls are leaning inward, though the level says they’re straight, And the air feels thick and heavy, like a physical, dull weight. It’s a static in the marrow, it’s a ringing in the ears, A list of “what-ifs” blooming into catastrophic fears. The door feels like a mountain, and the phone a jagged stone, The mind builds up a prison that it’s crafted all alone.
But the kettle starts its humming, and the clock begins to chime, The world doesn’t pause its spinning just to give me extra time. So I breathe a shallow rhythm, count the floorboards near my feet, And find the tiny pocket where the fear and duty meet. It isn’t that the shaking stops or shadows go away, It’s the shaking hands that reach out to begin the work of day.
I carry it like luggage—bulky, frayed, and overfilled, Across the bridge of “must-do,” where the panic isn’t stilled. I take a single, trembling step, then find the strength for two, Doing all the things I need, while the fear is coming through. For courage isn’t silence where the anxious thoughts are gone, It’s the shivering soul that tells itself: regardless, carry on.
I will be writing a series of blog posts about my experiences at the Ron Clark Academy (RCA), documenting this transformative professional development journey.
Part 1 Traveling to Atlanta
This trip marks a significant personal milestone, as it is the first time I have traveled by air since before September 11, 2001. The experience felt somewhat surreal; even the airline check-in agents expressed surprise when they realized how long it had been since my last flight. Over the years, the rising cost of air travel had made it a luxury that simply wasn’t a regular part of my life. Consequently, this journey served as my formal introduction to modern TSA procedures. Being unfamiliar with the current strict regulations regarding liquid sizes, I unfortunately had to surrender my lotion at security. Despite this minor setback, the overall travel experience was positive and smooth.
I am fortunate to be traveling to the Ron Clark Academy thanks to a generous scholarship provided by Sonic Drive-In, which is covering all major expenses, including our hotel accommodations and flights. Our logistical arrangements have been efficient; we utilized Lyft for transit from the airport to our hotel, and the Academy provides a dedicated shuttle bus for the daily commute between the hotel and the school. I am filled with excitement for this opportunity, especially since my own school implemented the Ron Clark Academy House System about a year ago. Recently, however, I have noticed that the initial momentum and enthusiasm among our staff and students have begun to wane, and I hope this visit provides the spark needed to revitalize our program.
The timeless rule of arriving at the airport early remains a necessity in modern travel. I felt grateful to begin this trip at the Evansville airport, which is relatively small and manageable. While the TSA process in Evansville was straightforward, I am mentally preparing for our connecting flight to Atlanta, which I anticipate will be significantly more crowded and chaotic—likely a “10” on a scale of difficulty. To mitigate this, we plan to head to the airport exceptionally early for our return trip on Saturday morning to ensure we can navigate security lines and terminal crowds without unnecessary stress.
My experience checking bags also provided a moment of relief. I was initially anxious after encountering technical difficulties while trying to pay baggage fees online. However, when I reached the counter, the agent informed me that because my bag weighed under 20 pounds, there was no charge at all. I was incredibly relieved that my online payment attempt had failed!
I must admit that the logistics of this trip were somewhat intimidating at first. Having been grounded for so many years, I worried about the complexities of navigating large airports and maintaining a tight schedule. I am very thankful to be traveling with a fellow teacher, as having a colleague by my side has made the entire process much more comfortable and enjoyable.
This trip marks the first time I have traveled by air since before September 11, 2001. It is a bit surreal; even the check-in agents seemed surprised by how long it had been. Since flying has become so expensive, it simply hasn’t been a regular part of my life. This journey provided my very first experience with modern TSA procedures. I was completely unaware of the strict regulations regarding liquid sizes, which unfortunately meant I had to part with my lotion. Despite that small hurdle, the experience was positive.
I am traveling to the Ron Clark Academy (RCA) thanks to a scholarship provided by Sonic Drive-In. They are generously covering all expenses, including the hotel and flights. We utilized Lyft to transit from the airport to our hotel, and the Academy itself provides a shuttle bus for the commute between the hotel and the school. I am incredibly excited for this opportunity. My own school implemented the Ron Clark Academy House System about a year ago, but lately, it feels as though the initial momentum and excitement among the staff and students have begun to wane.
The necessity of arriving at the airport early remains a constant in travel. I am grateful to be flying out of Evansville, as it is a relatively small and manageable airport. While my first encounter with TSA in Evansville was smooth, I am anticipating that the connecting flight to Atlanta will be much more crowded and chaotic—likely a 10 on a scale of 0 to 10. To prepare for this, we plan to leave exceptionally early for our return trip on Saturday morning to ensure we can navigate the security lines and terminal crowds without stress.
I also had an experience checking my bags. I was initially quite nervous because I encountered difficulties trying to pay for the baggage fees online. However, upon arrival at the counter, the agent informed me that because my bag weighed under 20 pounds, there was no charge at all. I was very relieved that the online payment hadn’t gone through!
Admittedly, the logistical aspects of this trip were a bit intimidating. Having not flown in such a long time, I was worried about navigating the airports and making sure I reached every destination on schedule. I am very thankful to be traveling alongside another teacher, which has made the process much more comfortable.
Part 2 Hotel
The flight to Atlanta was remarkably smooth, which was a relief given my long absence from air travel. Since I had not been on a plane in such a long time, I felt incredibly fortunate to have secured a window seat. Watching the world shrink below as we ascended provided a perspective I had truly missed.
My children have never had the opportunity to fly, so I made sure to record a video of the takeoff to share the excitement with them later. I often wish I had the financial means to provide them with this kind of travel experience firsthand. However, the logistics and cost of flying with all my children would be quite expensive. That said, with the current rise in gas prices, I sometimes wonder if driving the same distance would end up being just as costly.
As we made our way to the hotel, we didn’t see much of the local landscape as we remained primarily on the interstate. Eventually, we transitioned through the downtown area, which was visually appealing with its urban architecture; however, as anyone who travels knows, a city is defined by much more than just its downtown district.
The hotel itself was truly remarkable. I have never stayed in a facility with such unique aesthetics. After checking in, I went to inspect my room and was particularly struck by the bathroom design. It was unlike any I had ever encountered. The shower lacked a traditional door; while it initially resembled a standard shower with a sliding glass partition, the panel was actually fixed in place. There was simply an open space at the rear for entry. Furthermore, the bathroom door did not close completely. While this may be a contemporary design trend, I was quite relieved to be staying alone, as the lack of privacy would have been awkward with a roommate.
Later, we gathered with representatives from Sonic on the top floor of the hotel for a scheduled dinner and networking session with educators from various regions. I found myself acting with uncharacteristic confidence; I simply walked over to a table of strangers and joined them for conversation. Those who know me well would understand that this is not my typical behavior. I was pleasantly surprised by my own social initiative, though I reasoned that since most of us had traveled with only one other colleague from our respective schools, we were all in a similar position of not knowing many people. Regardless, I was genuinely impressed with my ability to step outside my comfort zone.
I must strongly object to the pervasive and deeply problematic use of militaristic metaphors when discussing cancer and the individuals affected by it. Phrases that have become deeply ingrained in our cultural lexicon—”They are a cancer survivor,” “They lost their battle,” or “They won their battle”—carry a harmful and often painful subtext. This war-like language, framing a biological process as a personal combat, inevitably implies that the outcome—survival or death—is purely a result of the individual’s effort, willpower, or “fighting spirit.”
This is not a purely academic critique; it is profoundly personal. My mother was diagnosed with Ovarian cancer, and she passed away when I was just eleven years old. To this day, every time I hear this kind of terminology used, I feel a visceral, sickening dread. The devastating implication embedded in these phrases suggests that to say someone “lost the battle” can be interpreted as meaning my mother didn’t fight hard enough to live, or that her will to survive was somehow weaker than that of those who are deemed “survivors.” This places a moral judgment on a medical outcome.The Inaccuracy and Cruelty of the Narrative
This narrative is not only insensitive; it is medically inaccurate and inherently cruel. It functions to shift the blame for a biological failure onto the shoulders of the patient. Cancer is a complex, brutal, and often indiscriminate disease, not a fair fight where sheer determination dictates the victor. Its progression and the efficacy of its treatment are dictated by a multitude of factors entirely outside a patient’s control:
Genetics and Biology: The specific mutation, the tumor’s aggressiveness, and the patient’s individual biological response to therapy are paramount.
Access to Care: Socioeconomic factors, proximity to specialized medical centers, insurance coverage, and the ability to afford necessary care play a critical, often life-determining, role.
Effectiveness of Treatment: The simple fact is that current medical science does not have a cure for every cancer, and sometimes the best available treatments fail.
To suggest that a patient’s sheer willpower can overcome these biological and systemic realities is a dangerous and emotionally devastating distortion. It is a form of victim-blaming that compounds the suffering of the patient.Diminishing Suffering and Compounding Grief
By labeling those who succumb to the disease as “losers” of a “battle,” we perform a profound injustice. We diminish the incredible suffering they endured, invalidate the immense strength and endurance they did exhibit through grueling treatments, and unnecessarily compound the grief of their loved ones. This language creates a false, black-and-white dichotomy where survival is heralded as a victory of spirit and death is tragically mischaracterized as a personal failure of will.
It is vital that we consciously and collectively adopt a more compassionate, realistic, and respectful vocabulary. We need a language that acknowledges the brutal reality of the disease without assigning moral or personal failure to those whose bodies, despite their strongest will and every medical intervention, could not withstand it.
We should move away from the language of war and toward the language of support, journey, and resilience. We should focus on:
Supporting individuals through their medical and emotional experience.
Celebrating their resilience and the strength they demonstrate in facing a severe illness.
Respecting the outcome of a fight that was never on even terms.
A Broader Call for Linguistic Change
The “battle language” is not confined only to cancer; it is pervasive throughout the medical community and public discourse when discussing many chronic or life-threatening illnesses. We see individuals “fighting” heart disease, “struggling” with addiction, or “conquering” mental illness. This pattern of militaristic framing needs to be fundamentally changed within the medical community, journalistic reporting, and everyday conversation.
Moving forward, our goal must be to foster a vocabulary that recognizes the complex interplay of biology, medicine, and human endurance, a vocabulary that is rooted in empathy rather than judgment. We must honor the full spectrum of human experience with illness—the strength, the pain, the medical realities, and the dignity—without defaulting to a cruel metaphor that punishes the dead and pressures the living.
The Uneven Field
The words are heavy, like a soldier’s gear, But she was not a general or a scout. I was eleven, drowning in a fear That militaristic metaphors leave out.
They call it a “battle,” a “war” to be won, A “fight” where the spirit must lead. But what of the mother, the work left undone, When the body is all that can bleed?
If survival is victory, what is the grave? A “loss”? A “failure” of will? To say that she “lost” is to say she wasn’t brave, That her heart wasn’t ready to thrill.
But biology isn’t a “fair-weather” friend, And cells do not listen to “fight.” It’s genetics and access that dictate the end, Not how hard she gripped for the light.
I carry the “visceral dread” in my bones, The “sickening” weight of the phrase. The “victim-blaming” in hushed, somber tones That haunts all my motherless days.
She didn’t “lose.” She simply endured A “journey” no armor could shield. A “resilience” that never was truly assured On such an uneven field.
Take back the metaphors, sharpen the tongue, Find “compassion” instead of the “sword.” For the girl who was eleven, whose world was unstrung, By a “battle” she couldn’t afford.
The Unbreakable Bonds of Family: A Poetic Reflection
The heart’s vast, inexplicable room Knows no boundary, feels no gloom, Refuses to tally “by blood” or not, Or ledger a love that can’t be bought. It scorns the line, the legal draw, In the deep, emotional valley of awe.
For a lifetime, this house was the core, The table as full as the love I bore. I was the anchor in a whirlwind wide, A universe where eleven reside. From my body sprang three, a simple truth, But all eleven are mine, from age to youth.
Yet a cruel, invisible wall now starts to rise, Built of “stay away,” and “move on” lies. A denial of all I’ve fiercely done, As if this life-love could be undone, Commanded to vanish like dust on the wind, A heart-breaking suggestion, absurdly pinned.
They demand a silence, my place declared gone, Insist my role is over, my duty withdrawn. But the only sound now in the empty space, Where joyful chaos once set the pace, Is the aching echo of my own soul’s flight, A profound absence in the day and night.
To be a mother is not just a name, It is the pulse of my breath, the fire’s flame. To be severed from this state of being, Does not feel like sadness, but an unseen, Quiet death, a function ceased to be, The soul’s deep purpose taken from me.
This rupture leaves a canyon, deep and vast, A grief that cuts, a shadow overcast. The paradox of standing right here, inside, In a house where memories forever hide, Yet feeling a terror, a vast aloneness known. I only wish to let the sorrow flow, to be thrown.
For when a person gives their whole heart’s grace, Not a fraction, but the whole of their place, To a family woven, intricate and fine, It is not a simple task to sever the line. “You should not,” “you cannot be,” the thorns press in, A relentless, sharp, psychological sin.
They fail to see the fundamental truth: A mother’s love is not a choice, in age or youth. It’s not a contract that has an end date shown, It is the world I inhabit, the air I have grown To breathe, the foundation built with endless care, The immovable base of the life I share.
The lines were drawn in quiet ink, A map of “yes” and “stay,” I feared the bridge would surely sink If I turned the other way. I held my breath to keep the peace, A ghost within the room, Fearing that my own release Would seal a friendship’s doom.
I thought the cost of being me Was more than they would pay, That if I spoke, they’d turn and flee And leave me in the gray. But then the weight began to gall, The “jokes” that left a sting, The way they made me feel so small While I gave everything.
So I stood up, a sudden flame, And watched the masks descend, I finally spoke my truth, my name, And waited for the end. They met my strength with cold disdain, With anger and with slight, They saw my joy as their own pain And walked into the night.
And in the silence left behind, The truth began to bloom: The friends I was so scared to find Were never in that room. For if a boundary breaks a bond, The bond was but a thread; Of people who are truly fond, There’s nothing left to dread.
If standing up meant losing them, I lost a heavy chain, A false and hollow stratagem That only offered pain. The ones who leave when you grow tall Were never yours to keep; It’s better that the shadows fall So you can finally leap.
If you love dark fantasy with a haunting touch of the paranormal, then listen closely—the gates to the enigmatic Shadow Realm are officially wide open, and an adventure awaits you! 🌑✨
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