I once thought I was your confidante, That you told me everything, But now I see that I was wrong, That I was just another fool.
You tell others things you’ve never told me, Secrets that you keep close, And I am left in the dark, To wonder what I did wrong.
Am I not important to you? Am I not worthy of your trust? Or is there someone else you’ve chosen, To take my place in your heart?
I don’t know the answers to these questions, But I do know that I’m hurt, And that I’m no longer sure, If I want to be a part of your life.
The silence between us grows louder each day, A wall built of secrets and whispers untold, I watch from the sidelines as you drift away, Leaving memories turning fragile and cold.
So I will step back from the shadows you cast, And guard the small pieces of heart that remain, No longer a prisoner to what’s in the past, Learning to walk through the quiet and pain.
A struggle to belong, to find my place, Stumbling through life, mistakes I embrace. Blunders and missteps, a shadow they cast, Day after day, the die seems to be cast.
Disliked, an outsider, I feel it so deep, Friendly smiles, a facade I can’t keep. Loneliness lingers, a constant despair, Do they truly care, is anyone there?
Grappling with doubt, uncertainty’s sting, What am I doing wrong, what sorrow I bring? Isolation suffocates, a heavy embrace, Is solitude’s path the one I must chase?
Different, I may be, a truth hard to face, Do I belong here, in this crowded space? Perhaps it’s time to accept what’s in sight, A solitary journey, into the quiet night.
To reach out to you would be so easy, A simple text, a phone call, a letter even. “How are you?”, but I know that wouldn’t do. It’s been too long, too much water under the bridge.
So I’ll just sit here and miss you instead, Relive the memories we made, the good times we shed, The laughs we shared, the tears we cried. I’ll hold onto those moments forever, inside.
I know that you’re out there somewhere, Living your life, making new memories, But I can’t help but wonder if you ever think of me. Do you ever miss me the way I miss you?
I’ll never know the answer to that question, But I’ll continue to hold onto the hope that one day, We’ll find our way back to each other, And pick up where we left off, like no time has passed.
Until then, I’ll just keep missing you, And hope that you’re doing well.
Today, an overwhelming and profound wave of melancholy has utterly washed over me, an oppressive heaviness in my spirit that I find myself utterly unable to pinpoint to a single event. It’s a feeling that wasn’t a companion when I first woke—the morning offered a brief, fragile peace—but it has crept in stealthily, intensifying hour by hour, settling into a deep, pervasive gloom. I have been meticulous in adhering to my self-care regimen, ensuring I took my necessary medication precisely on schedule, as a fortress against such emotional sieges. Yet, despite this discipline, my entire emotional landscape feels profoundly unbalanced, listing dangerously under an invisible, unbearable weight.
I suspect, with a certainty that settles like a cold, hard stone deep in the pit of my gut, that this debilitating feeling is intimately and agonizingly tied to the agonizing, unyielding reality of my life’s work: my books. For ten long, solitary years, I have poured the very essence of my soul, my passion, my time, and my sanity into the writing craft. I hold an unwavering, deep-seated conviction in the quality of these narratives; I genuinely believe the stories I’ve woven are good, the characters I’ve breathed life into are complex and utterly compelling, and the worlds I have spent years mapping are fully realized, rich, and immersive. I have subjected them to a relentless process of revision, editing, and polishing, going through countless drafts—so many that the files are a testament to tireless dedication—until every single word, phrase, and paragraph gleams with the light of its final, best form. And yet, the result is the same soul-crushing, deafening silence: the sales figures remain utterly stagnant, a flatline of disappointment, and despite every pitch at conferences, every networking attempt, every perfectly crafted query letter I send into the void, I cannot secure a literary agent to champion my work. The industry feels less like a gate and more like an insurmountable, monolithic barrier of granite.
In a desperate bid to break this cycle of obscurity, I tried a new, modern approach just yesterday. I dedicated hours to conceptualizing, filming, editing, and promoting two separate, high-effort videos on TikTok. The immediate, initial response was encouraging; the videos accumulated a respectable number of views—a decent, tangible sign of engagement, even—but that fleeting digital attention never, not once, translated into a single, concrete book sale. My deepest, most fervent dream is not merely to write in my spare moments, but to be a full-time, self-sustaining author. I yearn, with a fierce, almost painful intensity, to devote my entire life and every waking thought entirely to the craft: to weave grand, ambitious tales without the pressure of a day job, to harness my imagination without reserve, and, most profoundly, to guide readers not just to see the worlds I’ve painstakingly built, but to inspire them to fall utterly, hopelessly in love with those worlds. I want my creations to transcend the page and become real, resonant, unforgettable places for them, a sanctuary they return to.
Some days, the sheer, unrelenting weight of this struggle becomes too much for my spirit to bear, and the temptation to simply surrender to the overwhelming discouragement, to pack away my keyboards and retire my ambitions, is almost irresistible. Today, truly, is one of those agonizing, critical days where the desire to quit is a powerful, beckoning siren.
In these moments of profound doubt, I reflexively seek validation in the people I know and love. Friends and family have generously read my manuscripts, and they offer deeply kind and reassuring praise, assuring me over and over that the books are genuinely good, compelling works. But I am painfully, acutely aware that their judgment is inevitably clouded by their affection for me; they are not objective critics in the unforgiving literary marketplace. What I truly, desperately need is validation from the outside world—from agents who see commercial potential, from objective critics who recognize literary merit, and, most importantly, from complete strangers who are moved to buy the book, read it, and then feel compelled to enthusiastically tell others about the worlds I have built.
At this precise, debilitating moment, staring at the blank screen and at the evidence of a decade of intensive, solitary work that feels completely invisible, I am at a complete, agonizing loss. I honestly and truly do not know where to turn next or what practical, effective action to take to break through this impenetrable, maddening wall of obscurity and unread silence.
The sheer volume of my output only compounds the sense of despair: I have completed a six-book fantasy or science fiction series, a standalone science fiction novel, a deeply personal, heartbreaking book documenting my miscarriage, countless poems, and I am currently in the process of reworking and perfecting a children’s book. I am staring at this monumental body of work and feeling the crushing question: how much more is the universe asking me to do before I am deemed worthy of an audience?
Here is the first chapter of The Shadow Realm Chronicles: Maeve, which I hope will speak for itself.
Chapter 1 The Great War
Many years ago, darkness tore apart the worlds. They called it the Great War, for it was massive and involved all the realms of each world. Enemies on either side grew their armies for battle with heavy casualties. New allies formed out of this bloodshed while old ones crumbled.
The world of the Faye changed forever as their king descended into madness. His name was Julian. He once was a loving ruler, but those times were long gone. The pages written of him now are full of rage, blood, and hatred. Hatred for his children who grew to love others and revolt against him and his rule. Hatred for his wife, who fled with his children and hatred for all the realms that were not under his rule. Julian needed his children because they were powerful. Each one controlled one of the four elements: wind, water, earth, and fire. Even though his children hated what he had become, they remembered the good in him and were perhaps the only ones besides their mother who did.
Marius, the leader of the vampires and Jonathan, the ruler of The Shadow Realm, fought alongside Julian, but they did not trust him. Each of these three men was scheming against each other as they all wanted to come out the victor.
Jonathan had many plans and plots forming in his head, but they all revolved around Maeve. Maeve was a fairy, but she lived in a quiet world. The one world that was protected from the Great War. Jonathan didn’t care what Julian or Marius did as long as it didn’t interfere with his plan but interfere was what they did best. Jonathan had great plans for Maeve and her family, but he knew little of her connections to Julian’s family.
The Great War might have been over, but another one was looming in the distance, and it all began with a lonely mother named Maeve.
Chapter 2 The Lonely Mother
Maybe the stress of having a baby was getting to Hunter. He never had much attention from his own family, and when he met Maeve, she gave him so much love and attention. My life was better without Alex. He is stealing Maeve from me. Maybe he thought having a baby wouldn’t change things, but it did. Maeve was always taking care of Alex. Feeding him, bathing him, changing him, and burping him. When she wasn’t caring for him, she was telling Hunter the things Alexander did. I hate this. I lost my wife to a baby.
He lied to Maeve and told her he had to work on a case. Sometimes he said he was meeting colleagues, other times clients. It didn’t matter because he wasn’t meeting anyone.
Hunter went to a bar. He sat looking at the mirror across from him as he drank. There must be more. My life should be better than this.
That night Maeve was making dinner as normal waiting on Hunter. She sighed as she stirred the pot of soup. Where could he be? She always wondered where he was. She never believed his lies. Another meeting. He must think I’m stupid. Her heart sank as she thought of what he was doing. Maybe he found another woman. Could he be cheating on me? The thought killed Maeve. She bit the inside her lip to stop herself from crying. Where did I go wrong? Is it my fault?
Alex started crying. Maeve turned the stove off and removed the soup from the heat before tending to Alex. “Is someone hungry?” she asked, as she prepared a bottle.
She heard a sound coming from her front yard. It was as if the wind was carrying her name. She couldn’t turn away.
Maeve walked to the door and opened it as Alexander continued to cry. The wind carried her name through the trees, and it was getting closer and closer. Then it stopped. Maeve woke from this trance standing in her doorway. She wondered why she was standing there. She shook her head, feeling confused and bewildered.
Alexander’s cries continued to grow louder. Maeve realized he must have been crying for a while by then and wondered why she didn’t attend to him sooner. She closed the door and locked it. Then turned to Alex. “Shh, Mommy’s here.” She picked him up and rocked him for a moment before sitting on the couch to feed him.
Alex cooed in her arms as she fed him. Maeve couldn’t help but smiled as he yawned in her arms, but Maeve was far from happy.
“Oh, Alex, what did I do wrong?” She woke up every two hours to care for Alex. During the day, she tried to clean and cook. She went through life in a trance. Is this my life cleaning, cooking, and caring for Alex? Is this my life? Does Hunter still love me? Maeve cried as she held Alex. As much as she tried to fight the tears, she couldn’t. She knew she was losing Hunter. He was slipping away from her.
The voice came back again. I must be crazy. The voice was so soft and sweet. It beckoned to her to come.
“Maeve. Maeve. Come, my love,” the voice called to her.
Maeve picked up Alex and set him back in the bassinet. She then walked to the door and opened it. The night air hit her face, but it didn’t wake her from her trance. The voice was closer now, and it continued to come closer as it traveled through the air. The closer the voice got, the colder the air became.
A milky mist formed along the tree line. Maeve watched as the mist began to form what resembled a man. He moved toward her. Run, Maeve. Close the door, lock it. Scream, run, Maeve. But she didn’t do any of those things. Instead, she had the strange urge to please this man. The closer he got to her, the more she wanted to please him. A smile came across her face. He’ll make everything better. He will make me happy. I can make him happy. Why am I thinking about these things? Run, Maeve!
“Hello, Maeve,” he said, with a sinister smile.
Chapter 3 Marius
After a while, Maeve could speak. “How do you know me?”
Marius took her hands in his. “They wrote your name long ago, my dear. You will be a great power. One people will fear.”
Maeve flinched as he held her hands; they were freezing. She could see her breath but not his. Was he breathing? He smiled, and to Maeve, his smile was captivating. She smiled back.
“Come, Maeve. You are an especially important woman.”
Maeve didn’t think she was important, so the words made her proud. She wondered how she could be important, but it didn’t matter. She loved the attention and care he was giving her, but it was more than that. Maeve had no control. Alex cried, and she needed to care for him. Her heart knew what she needed to do, but her body didn’t move. Inside she was crying for her son, but there she was standing with this man. I need to get to Alex, but why can’t I move?
Her hands trembled in his. “Please, my son.”
Marius smiled. “You won’t care for him much longer.”
He moved her hair away from her neck and kissed it. No! I love my son.
Maeve moaned as he kissed her. It had been so long since Hunter was affectionate to her. He never touched her anymore. She wanted to pull this man close. She couldn’t understand the connection she felt to him.
He whispered, “Shh, save your heart. There is another who longs for you.”
Maeve didn’t understand, but she woke from her trance. “Alex!” She knew she needed to turn and run from this man.
As Maeve turned, Marius grabbed her arms and pulled her towards him, causing bruising on her arms. This time he didn’t kiss her neck. Instead, he bit her. He sank his teeth into her neck and feasted on her blood.
Maeve screamed and tried to fight. As the pain of the bite wore off, her body filled with warmth. She moaned as her body ached for more. The pain was erotic and sensual. She didn’t understand how, but she craved more of it. He continued to drain her as she held onto him.
Marius laid her on the ground as he drained her. He stood over her and admired his work as he wiped her blood from his lips. Maeve laid on the ground, motionless. Her eyes were wide open as she stared off into the woods. Her skin was white and striking compared to her bright red hair.
He knelt next to her. “I will call upon you again to finish our business, my dear.” With that, he left her and walked into the woods.
Maeve could see and hear everything that was going on, but she couldn’t move. She watched as Marius turned into mist, and then the mist floated into the woods.
I wrote this about 12 years ago but it still rings true.
For a month now, a deep, persistent fire has been burning in my gut. It’s more than just an uneasy feeling; it’s a profound, urgent need to share my story, particularly as a cautionary tale for other women. Yet, this internal wrestling match with my own complex emotions—fear, relief, anxiety—has held the words captive. I’m finally ready to speak.
Here is the crux of my message, something we’ve all heard countless times, but whose weight I now understand: Listen to your body. In a world where doctors are busy and systems are overwhelmed, you are the final authority on what is happening within you. A doctor might dismiss your concerns or tell you to wait and see, but you know when something is fundamentally wrong. It is, after all, your body, and you are its only constant advocate.—–My journey into hyper-vigilance started after my son’s birth. I expected the postpartum bleeding—it’s a natural, inevitable part of recovery. It initially stopped, which I took as a sign of normal healing. However, a short time later, the bleeding started again. This second bout was confusing. Was this a resurgence of normal postpartum lochia, or was it something else entirely? I decided that when it came to my health, I would always err on the side of caution.
My primary care doctor was the first person to truly listen. I explained that the bleeding had stopped once and that the renewed flow didn’t feel like a typical menstrual period. Crucially, I noted that the bleeding only seemed to occur during bowel movements. Recognizing that this pattern wasn’t typical for postpartum recovery, my doctor immediately shifted focus and referred me to a gastroenterologist for a specialized evaluation.
The gastroenterologist recommended a colonoscopy. The procedure, though daunting, proved to be an invaluable diagnostic tool. It revealed a number of polyps in my colon. They were removed and sent for testing, and the results were sobering: some of the polyps showed precancerous signs. This meant they harbored the potential to develop into full-blown cancer over time. The diagnosis necessitated a commitment to regular, vigilant colonoscopies to monitor my health and catch any future growths early.
This initial health scare hammered home the valuable lesson I now preach: trust your intuition. If a feeling persists that something is “off,” do not hesitate to speak to your doctor. And here is the essential second part: if your doctor minimizes your concerns or fails to investigate them seriously, you have the right and the responsibility to find a new doctor—one who will be your partner and advocate in your health journey.—–A few years later, my body sent a new signal. I noticed my menstrual periods had become significantly heavier than usual. Concerned, I made an appointment with my gynecologist. I laid out my medical history, and my doctor explained that while having had three C-sections can sometimes lead to a thickening of the uterine lining, this wasn’t necessarily the direct cause of the unusually heavy bleeding.
To investigate further and rule out any abnormalities, my gynecologist recommended an endometrial biopsy. This procedure, while not as comfortable as a Pap smear (which can involve some stinging), was manageable. It involves taking a small tissue sample from the lining of the uterus to be analyzed for any cellular changes or growths. Fortunately, the results came back normal, which was an immense relief, allowing us to focus on monitoring the situation.
Adding a layer of complexity to my case was my family history. My mother tragically passed away from ovarian cancer when I was just 11 years old. Given this profound and devastating history, I underwent genetic testing to see if I carried the gene mutation associated with the disease. Thankfully, those initial test results were negative, indicating I did not carry the mutation.
However, after a few years and a move to a new area, I needed to establish care with a new gynecologist. When I explained my medical narrative—the history of heavier periods, my age and the approach of menopause, and my strong family history—she introduced the idea of an oophorectomy (surgical removal of the ovaries). She candidly discussed the generally positive benefits of the procedure for high-risk patients. Crucially, she acknowledged that negative genetic tests, while reassuring, are not foolproof. A positive test confirms the presence of the gene, but a negative result does not always guarantee its absence, especially when combined with a strong family history and other physical symptoms.
My new gynecologist ordered repeat genetic testing. The results were again negative for the specific gene mutation, but this time, the report included a higher risk score. This score indicated that my overall risk of developing ovarian or related cancers was slightly elevated compared to the average population. This score, while not confirming a genetic mutation, served a critical purpose: it allowed my doctor to professionally justify the prophylactic oophorectomy to my insurance company, thereby securing coverage for the ovary removal. While the necessity of having to justify a proactive, life-saving medical procedure to a detached insurance entity is a source of frustration, that is a broader systemic discussion for another time.—–My journey has recently taken its most serious turn. During a routine ultrasound, a mass was discovered in my uterus. I have an upcoming surgery scheduled for June to address this. The doctors are transparent: they won’t know the exact nature of the mass—whether it’s benign, a fibroid, or something more serious—until it is surgically removed and analyzed.
Initially, my doctor recommended a targeted approach: removing both my ovaries (the oophorectomy) and the mass itself. We also had a crucial discussion about a more comprehensive procedure: a full hysterectomy, which involves the removal of the uterus, cervix, and fallopian tubes, in addition to the ovaries. This option would offer the ultimate peace of mind, eliminating any future concerns about the current uterine mass or the potential for other growths. After careful, deliberate consideration of my history, my risk profile, and the desire for finality, I decided to proceed with the full hysterectomy.
This decision is deeply personal and fraught with emotion. I don’t speak with anyone who knew my mother well, for reasons that are theirs, not mine. I was too young to truly understand what she went through, both the visible signs of her illness and the unseen emotional turmoil. I don’t know what she truly felt or if she, too, had ignored an internal warning. I know, with absolute certainty, that I am making the right, proactive decision for my health and future. Yet, the finality of the surgery still fills me with a profound sense of fear. The recovery is expected to be lengthy, approximately two months. As a teacher, I deliberately scheduled the surgery for the summer break, a practical necessity, but the reality of the impending ordeal remains unsettling.
Right now, I am living in a space of suspended emotion—nervous about the surgery and the recovery, but overwhelmingly relieved that my constant vigilance and willingness to listen to my body have allowed me to find this out now, rather than discovering it when it might have been too late. The fight continues, and I hope my story empowers at least one other woman to champion her own health. ‘
Steel Butterflies
Steel butterflies flutter in my chest, Wings cold and sharp, an unwelcome guest. A relentless, metallic tremor starts its dance, Anxiety’s form, granting no second chance. It’s more than simple jitters, a bone-felt dread, A necessary crisis swirling in my head.
The calendar page is marked, an ominous decree, June looms closer, a date known sharp and free. Surgery’s shadow stretches long across the floor, A definitive threshold I must step across the door. An inevitable appointment, ever near its due, A silent promise of change, tinged with fear anew.
A mass unknown, a cellular mystery undefined, A whispered fright that occupies the forefront of my mind. My body’s map, familiar, now holds a foreign blight, A rebellion microscopic, far from the reach of light. The doctors speak in measured terms of scope and possibility, But the ultimate decision rests on me, fueled by fragility.
Ovaries, uterus, the devastating choice unfolds before my gaze, To surrender what defines my feminine past in surgical maze. A path of profound loss, a severance from history’s keep, A painful story yet untold, cloaked in misery deep. My mother’s journey, a fragmented memory veiled in mist, An unspoken, generational echo I find I cannot resist.
Did she face this same dark labyrinth, this medical might? Was she afraid, truly afraid, in the lonely hours of the night? Did physical tremors shake her hands, betraying her soul, When faced with choices monumental, to make herself whole? I search her silence for a clue, a comforting past’s sound, But find only inherited courage, holding firm to the ground.
The operating theatre waits, cold and sterile in its air, The scalpel’s glint, a swift flash, a silent, binding prayer. A sterile gleam reflecting a future I must forfeit and quit, A stolen dream of what might have been, a sorrowful, waking hit. The recovery’s road ahead promises a demanding, weary climb, An arduous journey back to strength, measured in fleeting time.
There will be pain, of course, and scars that tell an enduring tale, But hope remains, persistent, a flickering rhyme in the gale. For health’s embrace, for the promise of a future free from this dark curse, A necessary, heavy price I’ll pay, though my spirit constantly traverse. Though fear still whispers its insidious doubts in the silent, gray unknown, I listen for the stronger voice of resilience that guides me, fully grown.
This body, subjected to the test, wounded but not defeated, will mend, Finding a deeper strength in broken places, a journey without end. The steel butterflies will eventually fly away from my heart’s sound, Replaced by the steady rhythm of healing, firmly on the ground.
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 Trap
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.
E-books 
