The threshold of the door is wide and bright, A circle gathers, laughing in the glow, And I am here, caught somewhere in the light, Desiring more than just the names I know. I see the surface, beautiful and clear, The pleasant currents where we dive and play, But oh, I want the ocean deep from here— I want to wash the quiet guard away.
I want the late-night, sitting-on-the-floor, Unvarnished truths, the fears we never speak, To open wide the heavy, bolted door, And show the places where the walls are weak. I long for ties that weather through the storm, The kind of tether time cannot undo, Where sitting in the silence keeps us warm, And being known means being valued, too.
But heavy armor isn’t easily shed, And stepping closer feels like stepping blind. The words I mean to say stay in my head, While careful, safer phrases wait behind. It is so hard to pull the veil aside, To offer up the soft, unshielded part, To trust the spaces where I usually hide And lay the raw geography of heart.
So here I stand, a newcomer at bay, With arms that ache to open and extend. I take a breath, and try to find a way To cross the bridge from stranger into friend.
Every now and then, people look at the analytics of a small blog and I read the report and it says, “4” next to blog. But to me? That doesn’t matter at all.
The point isn’t about massive, viral numbers. The point is that someone out there is genuinely interested in my work. When I look at those numbers, I don’t see a small statistic—I see real individuals who chose to take a few minutes out of their busy days to step into my world. Whether you came for the poetry or the stories, you took the time to read it. And from the bottom of my heart, I pray that you truly enjoyed it and that you want to read more.
The Reality of the Writing Dream
We’ve all heard the complaints in the writing community: “I’m just not making a lot of money doing this.” And sure, of course I want to sell books! Writing is an investment. Between hiring professional editors and handling all the behind-the-scenes production, putting your work out there isn’t free.
But money isn’t the driving force. If I had the chance, I would love nothing more than to write full-time.
By day, I am a middle school math teacher. It’s not physical labor, but let me tell you, it is an intense mental workout! A big part of my job involves working with specialized students and writing IEPs. Ironically, despite being a creative writer, that kind of rigid, academic writing and precise verbal wording is something I really have to push myself to do perfectly.
I often think about how wonderful it would have been if I could have been a stay-at-home, full-time writing mom when my kids were little, drafting chapters while they napped. But life had a different timeline. Now, my youngest is about to turn 13 and is much more independent. Writing full-time now would mean having the freedom to never miss a single doctor’s appointment, school play, music concert, or art show. It would mean being completely present for every milestone.
Looking Into My World (And the Ultimate Compliment)
Ultimately, those 4 to 24 people who click on my blog are doing something incredibly special: you are looking into a little piece of my world. I saw 4-24, and that is because my lowest view is 4 and my highest is 24.
My biggest goal right now is simply to market more and help more people find my work—not for ego, but because I want to share these places and characters with the universe. I want someone to be genuinely excited about the stories I create.
In fact, you want to know what the ultimate praise would be for me?
Some authors don’t like it, but if someone ever loved my characters enough to start writing fanfiction or role-playing in the universe I built… man, that would be the highest honor. To know that my world sparked a flame in someone else’s creativity? That is why I do this.
So, to my dedicated handful of readers: thank you for stepping into my world. I hope you love it here, and I can’t wait to share what’s coming next.
Across the sea, a jungle green, A young man fought, a sight unseen. My father, there, in Vietnam’s hold, A story etched, a heart of gold.
The weight of war, a heavy pack, He carried burdens on his back. The sounds of fire, the cries of pain, Aching memories, etched like rain.
But courage bloomed where shadows fell, He faced his fears and fought them well. For comrades’ sake, for duty’s call, He stood his ground, he gave his all.
And when he came back home at last, The war’s grim toll, a shadowed past. Unspoken battles, burdens deep, Yet in his eyes, a love to keep.
He built a life, a world anew, The strength he bore, shone clear and true. My father, soldier, quiet, strong, In him, I see where I belong.
This ode to him, a whispered pride, For all he faced, for all he tried. A son’s respect, a heart’s embrace, For the hero’s journey, etched on his face.
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.
The quest to secure a literary agent often feels akin to a mythological challenge: a near-impossible task of trying to bottle lightning while simultaneously navigating a densely packed, competitive marketplace. My personal journey with The Shadow Realm Chronicles has been a crucible forged in a potent mix of unwavering persistence and the quiet, persistent sting of hundreds of rejections. I have dedicated countless, solitary hours to meticulously researching agencies, poring over their submission guidelines, and refining my pitch to ensure my unique paranormal world aligns perfectly with their stated interests and visions. Despite this exhaustive preparation, the process remains an arduous, frustratingly slow uphill battle. This difficulty is compounded by the fact that I am attempting to find a champion for a story—a complete series, in fact—that has already been available to readers, a scenario most debut authors never have to face.The Unique Hurdles of an Already-Published Work
One of the most significant and perplexing hurdles has been the sheer complexity of querying an already-published work. Navigating the aftermath of my Amazon KDP account termination, an event that abruptly halted the series’ indie momentum, has added a substantial, often debilitating layer of difficulty. It’s no longer just about the undeniable quality of the prose, the imaginative world-building, or the emotional depth of the protagonist Maeve’s journey; it is fundamentally about proving the series’ inherent marketability and demonstrating its enduring commercial appeal to a skeptical, risk-averse industry. This requirement demands candidly admitting that strategic, large-scale book marketing is not, and has never been, my natural or strongest suit.
I find myself trapped in a difficult, cyclical paradox: I desperately want to achieve meaningful sales goals and secure a publishing contract so that I can finally transition to focusing wholeheartedly on being a stay-at-home mother and grandmother. Yet, that very goal is obstructed by my simultaneous, overwhelming feeling of being a complete fish out of water in the essential world of platform-building, complex social media engagement, and advanced search engine optimization (SEO).The Unseen Balancing Act
Despite the mounting frustration fueled by silence, boilerplate non-responses, and the hyper-specific, grueling search for an agent who possesses a genuine understanding of both the dark urban fantasy and the niche Christian publishing markets, I refuse to yield. I continue to push forward, driven by the core belief in the story.
This pursuit is balanced precariously against the demanding realities of my primary life: balancing the full-time demands of teaching 7th-grade math—a job that requires energy, focus, and patience—and the even greater demands of raising a large, active family. This means that my writing time, the precious moments dedicated to creativity and the business of being an author, is not merely time; it is sacred, hard-won, and fiercely protected. Each query letter that I meticulously craft and send out is more than just a document; it represents a profound hope for a true partner. I am seeking an advocate who can look past the complicated logistics of the book’s history, who can ignore the immediate commercial obstacles, and who will ultimately fall deeply, unequivocally in love with the story itself. This agent would be the essential bridge, helping me to span the intimidating gap between simply being a writer who creates imaginative worlds and an author who is effectively, widely, and successfully read.The Marketing Conundrum
My initial strategic decision was to prioritize and intensively focus on mastering the art of marketing, as I have confidence in my abilities regarding most of the other essential elements of indie authorship—the writing, editing, and production processes. I firmly believed that finding a dedicated agent, someone who would passionately champion this complex project and series for me, would be the necessary catalyst for success. The logic was simple and compelling: if the book were to be successfully acquired by a traditional publisher, their dedicated and experienced marketing department would take over the burden of promotion. This belief stems from the undeniable fact that marketing remains, by far, the most challenging, elusive, and disheartening aspect of the entire writing career for me. Even after years in the trenches, I am still overwhelmingly at a loss with the majority of its mechanics and strategies.
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.
