anxiety

Finding My Voice Amidst Rejection in the Writing World

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
close up of fountain pen writing on paper
Photo by seymasungr on Pexels.com

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.

More Works by Nancy Ann Creed

https://nancyanncreed.com/2026/04/18/etched-upon-my-heart/
https://nancyanncreed.com/2026/04/18/why-i-deleted-my-goodreads-challenge/

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

Courage in Chaos: Overcoming Anxiety Daily

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
Worn vintage suitcase with travel stickers placed on wooden floor in hallway

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.

More Works by Nancy Ann Creed

https://books2read.com/u/3LMnON

The Cost of Keeping Peace

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment

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.

More works by Nancy Ann Creed

MAEVE https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd
MATTHEW https://books2read.com/u/bzNZYj
JUSTIN https://books2read.com/u/mBKzLZ
MAURELLE https://books2read.com/u/bzN19D
ANNBELLE https://books2read.com/u/bWqEkx
Carillon https://books2read.com/u/38anZV


Navigating Emotional Pain in Relationships

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment

Navigating Emotional Pain in Relationships

I built a bridge of patient, weary years,
A silent span of quiet, chosen words,
The mortar set with dried and vanished tears,
A testament to battles, not rewards.
My hands I offered, strong and open wide,
To hold the weight of your erratic sphere,
To stabilize the chaos you supplied,
Yet only met a storm, a boundless fear.
My effort was but dust upon the breeze,
Against the wind of your profound unease.

When your world tilts and loses all its grace,
The guttural cry of “holy hell” defines
The atmosphere of this abandoned place,
No longer haven, but a field of mines.
A sudden, unexpected fire starts,
Consuming fragile things that stood its test,
Leaving behind a jagged, broken heart.
With cruelty, you push me to the crest,
The edge of sanity, my failing might,
Expecting me to hold while you ignite.

I tried, desperately, to be the ground,
The immovable foundation in the shake.
I absorbed the shocks where steady peace was found,
Withstood the tremors for your troubled sake.
But now the space between us is a void,
A profound, echoing, desolate expanse,
Where kindness’s tender seed has been destroyed,
And understanding lost its saving chance.
Now only the choked vine of unyielding rage,
And your consuming need across this stage.

I’ve studied your map of pain for far too long,
Memorized the texture of each emotional scar,
Anticipating where the wound would throng,
An unwilling cartographer of your war.
But in that process, I forgot my name,
Eclipsed by roles I was compelled to fill:
Your punching bag, the target of your flame,
Your safe harbor, your shore against the chill.
But that era’s ended, clarity now bright,
I won’t be your refuse, your emotional blight.

The door to this shared history is heavy now,
Weighted by expectation and old despair,
But it is closed, with a final, solemn vow.
The work I poured is starkly laid out there—
Not as a failure of a loving mind,
But as an investment that was misguided, deep.
I failed no duty, I was not unkind,
I simply chose myself, the promises to keep
To me. I recognized the point of no return,
And in that closure, finally, I learn.

More Works by Nancy Ann Creed

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Way Back to Us

/ Nancy Ann Creed / 3 Comments
gun batimi
Photo by Burak Bahadır Büyükkılınç on Pexels.com

The Way Back to Us

The silent, turning tide of life
Has stretched the maps we knew,
The seasons shifted, ground gave way,
The ties between us drew

Slowly apart, a creeping drift.
Demands attention, energy,
Like water through the sand,
Leaching the solid ground of time.

There was a time, not long ago,
We were each other’s stay,
The anchors holding fast and sure
In storm of early day.
We held the secrets, deep and bright,
The wisdom time had wrought,
Our days marked by the shared, full laugh,
The tapestry we caught—

Before the world turned bright to cold.
I feel the sharp ache of the miss,
The ease we used to share,
Where we could simply be, no need
For any word or care.
That ease is gone; the quiet now,
The profound, long silence cast,
Has tragically become the sound
Our relationship held fast.
When air grows thin with struggle’s breath,
I seek those mirrored faces still.

I’m reaching back through the gray blur
The passing years have made,
Refusing that demanding life
Will keep the things that fade.
The miles that stand between us now
Are lines on charts that lie,
Meaningless compared to the depth
Our history lifts high.
Our memories, no fading echoes—
But brilliant, fixed stars in the night.

With will and concentrated hand,
I clear the tangled brush,
Desperate to find the path again
Beyond the isolating hush.
A clear, resounding call I send

Into the lonely void.
My friends, I want you now to know:
I’m here, steadfast, unalloyed.
I want us back—the kind of bond
That bends but will not break,
No matter what the wind may bring.
It is the time our circle wakes.

More Works by Nancy Ann Creed

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Quiet Outside

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
person sitting on bench under tree
Photo by Jeswin Thomas on Pexels.com

The Quiet Outside

The empty space of connection, the gathering,
Pulses with a vibrant energy I only observe.
It hums with plans already made,
A detailed itinerary, a map of places where I do not go.
My position is fixed: outside. I don’t move;
I only watch the colors of the evening fade
From my window, a slow drain of warmth and light.
My world is contained, defined by sitting in the light of what I know.

The knowledge I possess is isolating, sharp:
That laughter sounds much louder through a wall—
Magnified by the barrier that separates their joy,
A painful noise. And conversely,
Silence is a heavy thing to wear,
A cloak woven from unsaid words.
It presses down, making breathing difficult.
So, I maintain a silent vigil. I wait for pings, for any word at all,
A simple notification, an anchor thrown,
To prove that, in their minds, I’m standing there.

The name of “friend,” I embraced fully;
We call them friends; I gave the name with pride,
A sacred title for those to whom I opened life.
I shared my secrets, listened to their own,
Believing in a mutual exchange, a balanced scale.
But now I wonder, standing on the side,
A silent observer of their motion,
If that foundation was solid. The crucial question takes root:
If I am liked, or simply “loosely known.”

A chilling suspicion whispers of self-doubt:
Is there a secret vote I didn’t see?
A quiet pact to leave the chair unfilled?
Or is the truth more passive, more insidious?
Or is the lack of room inside the spree
The consequence of slow emotional detachment?
It feels like The way a dying fire is slowly stilled,
The warmth receding until only ash remains.
The question I need to ask is too large, too sharp to utter;
It stays in my mind, a burning inscription in the dark:
Do I have friends, or people I just know?
Did I misjudge the reality of the bond?
Did I mistake a flicker for a spark?
The uncertainty is exhausting, forcing a decision:
Is it my cue to turn around and go?

The core of the issue is heartbreaking simplicity:
For if they wanted me, they’d find the space,
They’d actively rearrange the elements of their plan.
They’d reach across the gap to pull me through.
This is the ultimate loneliness I face:
There’s nothing lonelier than a familiar face—
A face I thought knew me—
That looks at everything—but never you.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

📝 The Echo in the Well

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
worms eyeview of well
Photo by Filipe Delgado on Pexels.com

📝 The Echo in the Well

We walked the same path, pen in hand,
Mind alight, a shared commitment’s sign.
Pilgrims in a lonely, distant land,
Chasing the same bright star, divine.
Our bond, once firm, was forged by toil,
Ink-smudged paper, the screen’s harsh glow,
A hopeful process on a hungry soil,
A private weight the outside doesn’t know.

But when the harvest comes, a sudden wrench,
The seed you sow brings fruit upon my ground.
The garden blooms, across a mutual bench,
But only your name is on the flowers found.
My careful work, the agonizing hours,
My every effort, tragically the same,
Is rendered Invisible, stripped of all its powers,
Swallowed whole by an eclipsing fame.

They gather ’round your posts, a swelling tide,
A deluge of bright approvals, warm and fast.
Endorsements flow, they cannot seem to hide
The joy they feel that you have made it last.
I am a shadow in this scene so bright,
An old contact they vaguely knew, unheard.
They click the heart, basking in your light,
But never glance upon my waiting, silent word.

Our dear ‘mutuals,’ who claimed a deep-felt tie,
Are quick to share your links, to elevate.
They laud your verse beneath the public sky,
While my own craft lies in a silent state.
So forms the question in my empty chest:
Is it the work, the art’s intrinsic worth,
Or merely the loud acclaim they love the best?
The rising star, or the quiet flame of birth?

If friendship is a mirror, clean and true,
Reflecting back the efforts we impart,
What does their universal silence do
To my ignored, distant, lonely star?
If you are seen, and I am a pale ghost,
Haunting the edge of your success and grace,
Who is the friend, and who is merely the host,
Ignoring the guest who waits within the space?|

The heart grows bitter, chilling doubt takes root.
They loved the writer, the idea of the name,
And not the soul, the person who bore the fruit,
In the quiet, solitary, unlit flame.
The bonds we trusted, once so strong and high,
Were not of iron, nor loyalty’s hard line,
But paper, flimsy, easy to pass by,
Disposable in the blinding fire of your shine.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Shattered Image

/ Nancy Ann Creed / 2 Comments
calm young woman looking at camera through broken window
Photo by Hebert Santos on Pexels.com

The Shattered Image

The depth of my disappointment is immense,
I truly thought you were a person of integrity,
Whose every action would align, with no pretense,
With the strong character you seemed to be.
“I thought you were better” is too mild to say;
I saw in you a loyalty I sought to find,
A moral standard now just dust and clay,
A shattered image of a perfect mind.

The thing you did, or failed to do, you see,
Was not a simple letdown; “it crushed me” whole.
It was a devastating blow to my reality,
A chasm swallowing my trusting soul.
I had invested trust and boundless hope,
An extraordinary quantity of “faith in you,”
To find it misplaced, I now must grope,
A personal failure, though the fault is true.

Our bond, which I so dearly held and prized,
Was based on a belief in shared pure light.
“I thought we were actually friends,” I realized,
Now every memory feels contaminated, blight.
Each moment shared, each secret I confessed,
Feels poisoned by the knowledge I now hold,
That “that’s a lie, and it’s always been a lie,” unblessed.
A friendship’s illusion, turning cold.

My estimation of you reached the stars,
“Maybe I thought more highly of you than you think of yourself.”
I held you past your self-imposed high bars,
More than you were capable of from your shelf.
I believed you held a goodness and a strength,
A beautiful essence that does not exist.
“Maybe I thought more of you than you truly are,” at length,
The gap between the ideal and the actual persists.

My admiration wasn’t born from my own plight,
For I appreciated what I thought you were.
I never claimed perfection, or to be the light:
“I don’t think I am special; I thought you were.”
I know my faults; I am not so grand:
“I don’t think I am great; I thought you were.”
My self-regard is low, I understand:
“I don’t think highly of myself, but I thought highly of you.”

The burden of this pain, in a dark way,
Rests on my shoulders for this foolish crime.
“I guess I was wrong to put that much faith in you,” I say.
The name of “friend” was sacred, but I wasted time:
“I guess I was wrong to call you a friend.”
My error was this desperate, naive dream,
That you would prove me right until the end:
“I guess I was wrong; I wanted you to be better.”

And so I cycle through this self-inflicted doubt,
Were my expectations too far out of reach?
“I guess I was wrong, maybe it’s just me,” I shout.
But the ultimate truth that the facts now preach:
“I guess I was wrong; I put too much faith in you.”
I took your potential for your very core:
“I guess I was wrong, believing in you,” it’s true.
I can’t believe in you anymore.

The desolate conclusion is the clear refrain:
“I guess I was wrong.” A simple, crushing sound.
For in your actions, truth gives way to pain:
“I guess I meant nothing to you” that I have found.
The end of my faith is the end of what we were.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

A Silent Farewell

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
person writing on black board with chalk
Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

A Silent Farewell

I hide myself away, retreating from the world’s harsh light,
To hide from those I fear, the shadows that invade the night.
The whispers and the judging eyes, they pierce me to the core,
So I draw the curtains closed, and lock the heavy door.
I hide myself away, within this solitary keep,
A silent farewell for now, while deeper secrets sleep.

The silence of this self-made cell becomes a heavy shroud,
I cried myself to sleep, a soundless weeping in the crowd.
To hide and weep, my body shaking with the strain,
To hide and weep, to wash away the bitter, throbbing pain.
Each tear a wasted moment, falling in the deep,
As promises I couldn’t keep haunt me while I sleep.

A sharp regret now cuts the air: Why did I waste so much time?
Consumed by baseless fear, an unforgivable, self-made crime.
To fear what they say, the empty words that hold no weight,
To let their careless judgments seal my solitary fate.
I should have stood defiant, met their gaze with fiery pride,
But cowardice took hold, and left me here to hide.

Again, the darkness calls me down, the cycle starts anew,
I cried myself to sleep, until the morning filtered through.
To hide and weep, a ritual of sorrow and despair,
To hide and weep, a burden that my heart can barely bear.
This isolation is a monster, feeding on my will,
A self-imposed exile upon this lonely, silent hill.

But then a whisper rises, fragile yet defined,
A voice that speaks of freedom, leaving fear behind.
Open the doors, let sunlight flood the dust and gloom,
And hide no more, escape this cold and empty room.
Open the doors, the hinges squeak with long disuse,
And hide no more, relinquish every weak excuse.
The world awaits beyond the latch, vibrant and so vast,
A future built on courage, leaving shadows in the past.

I cried myself to sleep, a memory that starts to fade,
Wasting so much time, upon a path too long delayed.
Wasting so much time, a treasure carelessly set free,
But now the lock is broken, and the key belongs to me.
The sun on my face is a promise, clear and bold,
A new story beginning, waiting to unfold.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

Acceptance is the Key

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
photo of hands
Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

The weight of a thousand eyes presses down,
A silent, ceaseless judgment that I drown
Within. I worry too much, an endless loop
Of anxious thoughts, a psychological stoop

About how others see me—the fleeting glance,
The subtle shift, the judgment they advance.
Each interaction is a stage, a test,
Where my own self-worth is put to the best
Or worst assessment by an external gauge.
I turn each minor slip into a mental cage.

I worry too much, an unrelenting fear,
About whether they like me, holding me dear,
Or casting me aside with cold indifference.
The need for approval is a fierce presence,
A hunger I can never seem to appease,
Searching for acceptance on every breeze.

I worry too much, the constant, weary drain,
About what others think, the imagined stain
They see upon my character or my name.
This scrutiny I project is a cruel game,
Where I am both the player and the prize,
Obsessed with the mirrors in other people’s eyes.

Why does it matter so much to me, this need
To fit the mold, to plant the perfect seed
Of a flawless persona in their minds?
Why do I seek the validation that binds
Me to their opinion, tethering my peace
To whether or not their judgments cease?

The mask I wear is finely wrought and bright.
I say, with forced conviction and feigned might,
It doesn’t bother me. My voice is steady, low.
I put, with practiced ease, a flawless show,
On a brave face, a fortress built of stone,
Pretending I stand confidently alone.

But the truth is, the internal tremor starts,
It does bother me, deep within the hidden parts.
The words I speak are often just a lie,
A desperate attempt to watch the worry die.
The fear of rejection is a constant, nagging ache,
A vulnerability I cannot fully forsake.

I want to move on from these consuming thoughts,
To sever the chains of ‘what-if’ and ‘what-nots’.
I want to rid myself of the debilitating idea,
That everyone has to like me, crystal clear,
A fantasy that keeps me small and tight.
I long to stand securely in my own light.

No matter what I say or do, the true release
Lies not in their affection, but in my own peace.
Acceptance is the key, the final, crucial stand.
Acceptance of who I am, etched by my own hand,
And the profound, unshakable belief that I am worthy,
Not because they say it, but because I know the worth of me.
I will claim my own value and finally be free.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd