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.
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 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.
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I am utterly exhausted by this relentless play, The heavy curtain of performance drawn too long. I cannot hold the hollow smile another day, To mask the deep, the aching emptiness that’s wrong.
The burden of a self that isn’t mine to wear, To fit the mold you fashioned, cruel and tight, An agonizing stretch away from who I care To be—my own identity, eclipsed by your light. You see a project, a design that must be met, But tell me, why must the authentic me be cast aside?
I am finished fabricating reasons I have set, For every thought and every reaction I can’t hide. I’ve justified my nature to a vacant crowd, To people who, I now accept, simply don’t care.
The painful truth: my hope was spoken out loud, A unilateral effort lost on thin, cold air. I poured my heart to mend what broke between, But found no shared commitment, no reciprocal tide, A solitary swimmer in an apathetic scene.
The loneliness, a constant, heavy friend, A silent weight that settles on my weary chest. It is an awful life, but if this is the end— The price of being whole, of being finally blessed To be myself—then I will pay the cost, Choosing difficult solitude to rescue what was lost.
A burning, sharp anger now begins to rise, A desperate need to shatter this profound pain. But I know with bleak certainty in my own eyes, That fury would be wasted, dissipating like the rain.
This crushing truth has settled, stark and clear: Nothing I say, nothing I do or fail to be, Holds any weight for them, for those who stand so near. My voice is mute, my actions they refuse to see.
They are truly, utterly indifferent to my strife, They do not pause to question what my heart endures. My suffering, my struggle, the very pulse of life, Is an irrelevance that their coldness secures.
I feel the urge to weep the entire day away, To curl beneath the covers, let the sadness claim, But reason whispers of a temporary stay, No lasting remedy to solve this bitter game.
The torrent of resentment pleads to be set free, A physical demand I check with weary hand, Because the simple, crushing truth remains with me: It will not change a thing across this barren land.
A complete despair now chills me to the bone, In this cold context, in this life they have defined, The heartbreaking finality I stand upon alone, The truth that leaves no solace for the mind:
A flicker in the digital sea, A ripple in the ocean vast, Announced a message, unanticipated, free, A bridge to years and moments past. No expectation, no alarm, A serendipitous, sudden light, A warmth against the day’s long harm, Dispelling shadows of the night.
The sender’s name, a long-lost friend, Appeared upon the silent screen, A cherished sight without end, Recalling what had been. A powerful, unexpected force, Across the void of silent years, Washing away the quiet remorse, And vanquishing old, silent fears.
A wave of joy, a deep embrace, Surged through the heart, dissolving time, As memories rushed, swift in their chase, Like a rushing, vibrant tide sublime. Laughter shared, a youthful sound, Secrets told in hushed reply, A core of trust that could be found, A sturdy thread beneath the sky.
Across the miles that held them fast, The vital connection instantly made, The digital form, a vessel cast, Where friendship’s enduring flame was played. Passionately kindled, burning bright, Unafraid of intervening years, A testament to affection’s might, Dispelling all the rising tears.
The quick exchange of grateful hearts, A quiet acknowledgement of grace, The inner vision of eyes that starts, Smiling across time and space. This sudden reunion, taking flight, A potent reminder, clear and true, Some bonds are not defined by sight, But by a spirit time can’t undo.
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.
I lost the ones I thought would be An immutable part of my life’s tapestry, Woven forever. Their sudden fraying left A hollow space, of laughter now bereft. A loss not just of presence, but of promised time, Of futures guaranteed, of permanence sublime.
I lost the endless, open channel’s flow, The casual intimate, the profound talk’s low. The message history remains, a silent tomb, But the living dialogue has met its doom. I lost the shared language, the inside joke’s release, The easy flow of thought that came with sustained peace.
I lost. And yet, a nagging question stays: How to reclaim it all through monumental days? More honest now, a deeper query rings: Do I want the fragments back, the broken things, Or is this void an opportunity instead, For a different, stronger rebuilding from the dead?
I am Socially Impaired, a deep deficiency, No compass for connection’s subtle geography. I cannot decode the rules that ever shift, To make a friend, or keep one from the drift. No knowledge of the delicate dance to start, Nor sustained effort to hold a drifting heart.
The world outside, a dizzying, digital torrent, Of career demands, and social lives hyper-currant. My mind, a labyrinth of static and confusion, Makes reaching out a Herculean illusion. The busy world’s quick rhythm, my slow, internal pace, Exacerbate the disconnect in this human space.
I am Socially Impaired, an alien I feel, A non-native in a world that seems unreal. Effortless for others, each social interaction Requires exhausting, conscious translation. Lost in this world of confusion, inescapable, vast, The mechanics of connection hold me fast.
What proper alchemy transforms the passing name, An acquaintance pleasant, into a trusted flame? What ritual’s required to solidify the friend, To confidant and pillar, on whom one can depend? How to tend this garden so it thrives, not withers thin? The vital lessons of these bonds were never written in.
In this struggle, I lost my authentic self’s deep call, My unique longings muffled by the noise of it all. Lost beneath the effort to be what others sought, My own desires indistinct, in the battles fought.
I lost the subtle nuances, the unspoken art, The reading of the body, the comforting hand’s part. The effortless mirroring of mood, the perfect timing’s grace, The tools that equip others to master social space. Without them, I operated blind in the dense fog, Lost in isolation’s self-doubt, like a log.
But then a tectonic shift occurred within the night, The fog dispersed, pierced by an internal light. The finding was no external, sudden grace, But a revelation born from that empty space.
I Found a core of unshakeable strength inside, No longer contingent on where others reside. A self-sustaining power, a bedrock I possess, To hold and to rely upon in times of stress.
I Found new forms of connection, soul-deep and true, With people who truly see me, and see me anew. Bonds built on mutual resilience, not proximity’s plea, These are the conversations that will not end for me.
I Found a powerful, relentless love, not on condition, A self-acceptance, a profound self-compassion. No longer scanning horizons for where worth has fled, I carry the source within, in the words I have said. It is a love that will not quit, a permanent estate, A fortress built from inside, sealed by my own gate.
The shadow falls, a failure in my sight, Disappointment’s echo, haunting day and night. Regret’s cold hand upon my waking thought, A hollow dream, the battle that we fought.
A profound, persistent ache resides within, A deep, visceral wound where grief begins. Each time the news arrives, a soul has gone, The numbers climb, yet tragedy lives on.
For those now lost within the heavy fog, This deep despair, no fleeting shadow slog, It raises questions that torment the soul: How could we shield them, how regain control?
What could I, personally, have done to reach, To pull them back, beyond the final beach? Why do such vibrant lives, with potential vast, End in this final, devastating, broken blast?
The pain, a sickening, immediate jolt, A punch that leaves me breathless and unbolt. Another one lost, a cycle we can’t cease, The repetition numbs, yet sharp remains the piece.
A desperate cry: What can be truly done, When the tide of loss engulfs the rising sun? We must find answers, a pathway to prevent, A strategy of hope, with all our power lent.
What can we do, right now, with urgent plea, To stop this cycle of futility? They were too young, their promise yet untold, A song cut short, a story left untold.
Reduced to cold, impersonal distress, A public crisis we cannot suppress. The lives they were, a silence left behind, Deafening echoes of the best of humankind.
When darkness falls upon a soul you know, And misconduct is the seed that they sow, When actions pierce the better self you see, And they depart from how they ought to be, A higher call demands your swift response, Beyond the simple bitterness of offense.
Specifically, when they project their strife, Inflicting turmoil on another life, When pain and discontent are thrust outside, And unkindness is the path where they ride— And when their negativity is aimed at you, The target of the anger they accrue— The time for action is not a fight, But deep engagement in the spirit’s light. The clear command is given from above: You should pray. Your prayer is bound by love.
This is a prayer with purpose dual-faced, For strength to face the hurt that is embraced. Pray earnestly to guard your inner soul, For wisdom, grace, and to achieve your goal: To stand against injustice, firm and true, Lest roots of bitterness take hold of you. And simultaneously, with fervent heart, Pray unceasingly to heal their broken part.
Petition for their spirit’s restoration, For sight, repentance, and illumination. Pray for their clarity, that the dark fog That clouds their judgment might begin to jog. May truth reveal the nature of their deed, The bitter pain that plants the hurtful seed.
Your prayer’s an act of purity and might, A divine request for what is good and right. Pray that the toxic urge to hold offense, All hatred, vengeance, and poor recompense, Be fully purged from where your feelings lie. Pray that true peace, the peace that reaches high, That surpasses knowledge, may reside within, A shield against the chaos and the sin. And pray for grace to grant them full release, To find compassion for their lack of peace, Recognizing that the hurt they impart Is but a symptom of their wounded heart.
You know the truth; denial finds no space, A certainty of wrong you have to face. They operate outside their healthy sphere, Not as the self they ought to hold so dear. You know they act as wounded, lost, and frail, Beyond a doubt, they stumble and they fail. Given this truth, this knowledge you possess, Your duty is to fully intercess. You need to pray.
This sacred work requires commitment strong, Independent of who says that you are wrong. You need to pray, though you are ostracized, Misunderstood, or wholly unadvised. You need to pray, though they who cause the woe Discourage faith and bid your efforts slow. Resolve within, in the core of your deep soul, That you will never yield to their control. Let your prayer be a sanctuary, ever near, A tireless beacon, banishing all fear, For your own soul, and for the troubled one Whose inner struggle means the harm is done.
