I am incredibly excited to announce that my entire book catalog is now officially available directly through my new shop on Payhip!
Whether you’ve been waiting to dive into a new world or you’re ready to complete your collection, you can now get all of my ebooks straight from the source.
What’s waiting for you in the shop?
The Shadow Realm Chronicles – Step into a dark, atmospheric world of ancient magic, paranormal forces, and morally grey characters. The entire 6-book series—all the way to the finale, Carillon—is ready for your next massive binge-read.
The Creed of the Chrononauts – Ready for a shift into high-stakes science fiction? Strap in for a mind-bending, speculative sci-fi adventure through time and space.
Why buy direct?
When you buy straight from my store, you aren’t just getting a fantastic escape—you are directly supporting an indie author. There are no massive retail middlemen here; it’s just me, my words, and you.
Grab your digital copies today, download them instantly to your favorite e-reader, and let the adventure begin!
You can use the downloads for all reading apps such as Nook, Kobo, Kindle, and more. You can even get a PDF!
To start, I want to express what a wonderful experience this has been. It has truly revitalized my passion for education and reignited a fire in my heart.
GO REVEUR (That is my house and the best house!)
First Impressions: Energy and Environment
Upon entering the school, we were greeted by an incredible sight: students lined the hallways, waving warmly and offering a heartfelt welcome. Their remarkable poise was immediately evident; they looked us directly in the eye with firm handshakes, contributing to an atmosphere electrified by the staff’s palpable energy. It is clearly an environment where emotional support for both students and staff is a top priority—a transformative experience that I believe every educator should have the opportunity to witness firsthand.
We eventually made our way into the “heart” of the school: a grand rotunda where a student band performed at the front. The physical appearance of the facility—a former warehouse in downtown Atlanta—is simply breathtaking. At the top of the rotunda, an innovative LED display featured dragons flying overhead, culminating in one massive dragon that seemed to watch over us. While I often found myself standing in awe of the school’s aesthetic, that beauty becomes secondary once you enter the classrooms. The high-quality instruction taking place within those walls is more than enough to impress on its own.
Unity Through the House System
A cornerstone of this environment is the House System, which serves as a powerful tool for building unity and a deep sense of belonging. At RCA, this system is themed around multicultural connections and core values:
Rêveur (Dreamers)
Amistad (Friendship)
Isibindi (Courage)
Altruismo (Giving)
Students wear uniforms that proudly incorporate their specific house colors into their polo shirts, a practice that fosters camaraderie and combats isolation. Implementing a similar system at our school would be a wonderful way to inject energy, excitement, and a renewed sense of purpose into our daily campus life.
The Pedagogy of Sacrifice
The most profound takeaway was witnessing their pedagogical brilliance firsthand; they are easily the most exceptional educators I have ever encountered. While the depth of their individual relationships with students is something that matures over time, the testimonies from the staff demonstrate a selfless level of dedication and time invested in every child.
Reflecting on a sentiment shared by Ron Clark, he noted that his success as a friend, son, and husband is intrinsically linked to his relentless pursuit of excellence as a teacher. This admission struck a deeply personal chord, prompting a period of intense introspection. I found myself questioning if I am prepared to potentially sacrifice aspects of my life as a mother and wife in the pursuit of becoming a “better” teacher, or if it is truly possible to achieve a sustainable balance.
While I am deeply inspired and have no desire to leave the classroom for an administrative role, Ron Clark’s reflections on the time sacrificed to reach this level of impact give me pause. This experience has given me a renewed vision for how I want my school to be, while also forcing me to consider the emotional toll such a commitment requires.
Strategic Discipline: The Board
Even the disciplinary practices at RCA are executed with strategic intent. For example, the practice of placing a student’s name on the board is designed to minimize disruption. The board is positioned at the very back of the room, often using a black whiteboard with subtle ink. This ensures the board is accessible to the teacher but remains discreet, preventing the public shaming often associated with traditional displays.
A key component is the “no-look” rule. If other students turn around to see whose name is being written, they must also put their own names on the board. Because the board is located behind the students, they would have to physically turn away from the lesson to see it. This strict requirement ensures the focus remains entirely on the instruction at the front of the room. By keeping the discipline “offline” and away from the primary line of sight, the teacher manages behavior effectively without allowing it to become a spectacle.
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.
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 ink is a pulse, a rhythmic beat, Where worlds are born and shadows meet. For ten long years, the stories have grown, In quiet rooms and the great unknown— From the dark of the woods to the stars above, Built with a decade of labor and love.
There is a lightning strike in the chest When a character finally stands the test, When a sentence clicks like a skeleton key And the soul of the book is finally free. I know these bones, I know they are strong, I’ve carried these voices for far too long.
But the silence is heavy, a vast, open sea, Between the heart of the book and the eyes that should see. I’ve woven the magic, I’ve mapped out the stars, I’ve bled on the pages and counted the scars. I stand at the window, my hands on the glass, Watching the world and the witnesses pass.
“Look here,” I whisper, “the bridge is now built, Full of wonder and terror, of glory and guilt.” I know it is good—I have felt the fire burn, I’ve earned every chapter and every sharp turn. The thrill is the making, the joy is the craft, But the hope is the reader on this lonely raft.
So I’ll keep on shouting into the dark, Fanning the ember and chasing the spark. For the stories are ready, the gates are ajar, Waiting for someone to see who we are.
The silence stretches, wide and deep, a space Where my small ‘hello’ falls without a trace. I check my phone, a habit worn and true, A faint, false hope that maybe it’s from you.
The thread of connection, I’m the one who weaves, The constant opener, the one who believes That if I pause, if I just let it be, The silence would grow to infinity.
I map the distance, gauge the growing gap, And I’m the one who always has to ta Upon the glass, the careful, gentle nudge, To prove our bond isn’t built on a grudge.
I know your news, the triumphs and the strife, Because I ask about your life. I hold the mirror, catching all the light, And listen late into the lonely night.
But oh, dear friend, a quiet, simple plea Sometimes I wonder, do you think of me? When the dark shadows start to close me in, And my own battle is where I begin…
I wish just once, without a prompting word, The unexpected check-in would be heard. To see a message, a small, unsolicited sign, “Are you okay? How are things on your line?”
To feel the warmth of being sought and seen, And know I’m valued, not just a machine For comfort given, always on the call. I long to know I matter after all.
The black phone rests, a silence made of glass, A direct line across the choking air. My fingers yearn to seize its cool, smooth mass, To dial the number etched beyond compare. A fleeting urge to break the constant drone, To trade my heart’s loud drumming for a voice unknown.
Or I could message, try to weave a careful plea, A sequence of small signs, an emoji’s face. To message more, to bridge the digital sea, But leaden weight holds me within this space. I am a prisoner in my own inertia’s thrall, Unable to bridge the gap from thought to call.
My restless hands climb to my weary head, To twirl a strand of blonde around a finger’s tip. A pull, a slow release, a mark of tender red, Until the coil is tight upon my lip. A meaningless ritual, a physical display, Of all the mental turmoil that will not fade away
Inside, the engine roars, though I appear so still, My heart a frantic drummer beating out alarm. The air is thin, a breath against my panicked will, A visceral, exhausting, full-body harm. Yet, still life carries on, the sun’s indifferent track,
Oblivious to the silent crisis holding back. And so, I do not call. The paralysis has won, Against the simple, human wish to just connect. I hate the phone for what it has become, A terrifying chance of being now rejected
The pressure of potential, the awkwardness that lies, Reflected in the fear within my anxious eyes. I lift my hand again, to message in the night, But corrosive thoughts poison the touch before it lands: I am a bother, a shadow, an intrusive blight, A need that only inconveniences hands.
A self-imposed boundary, a powerful, deep chill, That freezes my desire and holds my actions still. This cease-less fight, the heart that pounds and strains, The hand that freezes on the tool for grace— The manufactured boundary of “being a pain”— This is the cage, the isolating space.
Anxiety’s invisible lock, a final, cruel decree, To watch the phone lie unused, and never to be free.
Dive into a world of magic, darkness, and vampires with “The Shadow Realm Chronicles: Maeve” by Nancy Ann Creed.
What if you were turned into a vampire against your will?
Maeve, once a loving wife and mother, is now a pawn in a dangerous game. Torn from her family and forced to serve the Shadow King, she must fight to reclaim her soul and reunite with her son.
This captivating tale will:
Transport you to a realm where darkness reigns
Introduce you to unforgettable characters and magical creatures
Keep you on the edge of your seat with thrilling twists and turns
I don’t know how we got here. It feels like it happened overnight, but I know that’s not true. Time is irrelevant now. To think that I used to worry about going to school with wet hair and if my clothes were the right style. Now, all I care about is staying alive and helping others stay alive. I am a survivor. I’ve seen things that no one should ever have to see. I’ve lost people I loved. I’ve been through more pain than I ever thought possible. But I’m still here. I’m still fighting. And I’m not going to give up. None of us are. We are the resistance. We are one of the only holdouts of the human world. I know there are more of us out there, but communications were cut down when the virus took over. We are scattered and alone, but we are not defeated. We will find each other. We will rebuild. We will reclaim our world. We are the survivors. We are the resistance. My name is Griselda, but people call me Selda. I am a survivor.
The Shadow Realm Chronicles – Step into a dark, atmospheric world of ancient magic, paranormal forces, and morally grey characters. The entire 6-book series—all the way to the finale, Carillon—is ready for your next massive binge-read.
The Creed of the Chrononauts – Ready for a shift into high-stakes science fiction? Strap in for a mind-bending, speculative sci-fi adventure through time and space.
