Meet Maurelle: Mother, Protector, and Force of Nature. 🌿✨
Maurelle is the kind of presence that feels like a soft exhale after a long day—until you notice the iron in her gaze. She carries the quiet grace of someone who has raised a village, balancing the practical heart of a mother with the ancient, ethereal power of a fairy.
Her wings aren’t just for show; they are built for weathering storms. Whether she’s mending a stray hem or weaving a protection ward around her home, she is the bridge between the domestic and the divine. 🧚✨
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I’ve been dealing with someone in the writing community who seems to enjoy making others feel like they’re not as good as they are. In fact, they make them feel like they’re not good at all. Sigh, the writing community can be so competitive.
What do you do when someone’s so Pretentious they make you want to groan? They drop names and quotes like they’re gold And they act like they’re the only one who knows.
You could try to match their wit But it’s a losing battle, I admit. They’ll always have more to say And they’ll never let you get a word in edgewise.
So what’s the answer? There’s only one thing you can do: Just smile and nod And let them have their fun.
They’ll eventually run out of steam And then you can go back to being yourself. Because after all, There’s no need to be pretentious to be cool.
Just be yourself And let your true colors shine through. That’s all anyone really wants to see.
